“It’s not like that, Serge.” I sniffled and wiped the tears from my eyes. “It’s more than just ‘seeing’ someone.”
Serge’s face paled. “Kisa! You are seeing someone else? Do you have a death wish? Mr. Durov will kill you both if he finds out. That man is unstable at the best of times, but about you? He’s beyond insane.” His gaze fell but then focused back on me. “Who is it?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. I can barely believe it myself.”
“Kisa, you’re not making sense.”
My stomach rolled with the words I was about to say, the secret I was about to confess. Serge sat farther forward, and I whispered, “You won’t believe me if I tell you.”
“Try me,” he said curtly.
“It’s… it’s… Luka…”
Serge stared and stared at me like I was a moron. “Luka?” he asked. “Luka Tolstoi?”
“Yes,” I replied in a barely audible voice and clutched the purse on my lap. It was filled with photos and mementos from our childhood. Tonight I was going to try and make him remember. Tonight I wanted him to remember me… us… everything.
I just wanted my Luka back… at least I wanted as much of him back as was left. I’d have any part of Luka at all, I’d take any tiny scrap of him that remained.
“You’re being unfaithful with Luka Tolstoi?” Serge said dryly, confusion lacing his Russian accented voice.
I nodded, and he stared at me like I’d gone insane. “Kisa, Mr. Tolstoi died years ago in an accident. His body burned to death. What’s really going on? Who are you trying to protect?”
“Raze—”
“The new fighter?” Serge interrupted. “What the hell has he got to do with Luka?”
“He is Luka, Serge. Raze is Luka.”
“Kisa, I don’t know what—”
“He got sent away to an underground prison after Rodion was killed, off the grid, and he was forced to become a fighter. A death match fighter, Serge. I know it sounds unbelievable, but it happened. He has no memory of who he is, where he’s from, or who we all are to him. He was tortured and abused. He’s like an animal, just fighting and surviving, no humanity, but the fleeting glimpses I get when he looks at me…” I swallowed hard and said, “When he’s with me…”
“Kisa, this is all—”
“His eyes are the same as Luka’s, brown with a smudge of blue in his left iris. His mannerisms are the same. He tilts his head and purses his lips, his full lips that are the exact same shape… And he has these dreams, vivid dreams. They’re memories, Serge, not just dreams. I’m sure of it. Being back in Brooklyn, he’s remembering more and more. It’s Luka. He’s come back to me.” I looked up into Serge’s shocked eyes and said, “And he needs my help. I’ve got to make him remember. I need to know what happened all those years ago. We all do. There’s just so much pain. So many unanswered questions that have been swept under the rug.”
Serge sat in silence, and I knew he didn’t believe me. I didn’t care, because I knew the truth, and it was up to me to save Raze. It was up to me to make him realize his feet had found their way home.
“Just take me to the gym, Serge. And please wait because I need you to drive us to Brighton Beach later on.”
Serge went to argue, but I turned my head and leaned against the window, ending the discussion.
*****
I entered the gym and headed to Raze’s training room. The whole place was mostly in darkness, but for a single light hanging from the ceiling. Raze sat against the far wall, his head hanging low and his torso covered with black and red. His legs were stretched out in front of him. I’d never seen someone who’d just won a match look so defeated.
“Raze?” I said in panic and rushed over to him.
Dropping to my knees, I grabbed a nearby towel and pressed it against a long fresh tally mark on his torso, twice as long, twice as deep, and twice as aggressive as his other kill tattoos.
“Raze, what have you done?” I asked and tried to look into his lowered eyes. He didn’t speak, didn’t even flinch when I applied pressure to his sliced torso. He sat gripping a broken pen and bloodied razor blade in his hands.
As I checked the rest of his ripped and scarred body, I noticed a huge stitched-up slash on his arm and stitches along the bottom of his throat.
I remembered the exact moment in the match when he’d gotten them—the moment I thought he was going to be taken from me. Having that happen only made me more desperate to teach him about who he was. He was to fight Alik tomorrow night, the two of them having progressed to the final, and tomorrow night, I would be losing one of the only two men that had ever meant something to me. But I knew who I wanted, who I’d only ever wanted, and right now, he was lying down on this hard floor like his world had just been torn apart.