“901, this is my new High Mona, 152,” Master announced. My attention remained with Master, but then Master’s thumb and forefinger gripped my chin and forced my head to turn. Turn and meet the blue eyes of the champion of the pits.
If I had thought 901 huge before, it was nothing to how he appeared now, standing before me. His chest was double my width, and his height towered above me, my head in line with his chest. Every inch of him was ripped with muscles, wide veins cording in his arms and neck. Despite myself, I noticed his face, mostly how handsome he could be if his stare wasn’t so cruel. Master was beautiful, his dark features staggering and elite. But 901 was the epitome of rough and raw; every inch of skin was marred with the scars of cruel tattoos: blood drops, decapitated heads, and what looked like images of shreds of torn flesh.
My pulse raced as he held his stare. I felt a blush creep up my cheeks and sprout, clearly, on my skin. As Master’s grip tightened, I winced at the pain. “Petal, meet 901, the Pit Bull of my arena.” Master leaned closer to 901 without letting me go, then added with obvious disdain, “My most successful pet.”
My eyes, of their own accord, examined 901’s face for a reaction. None was forthcoming, save for the slightest creases that formed at the corners of his severe eyes. And then I knew. I knew that being called Master’s pet had struck a nerve.
Master stepped closer to me, released my face, and leaned down to press a wet kiss on the side of my neck. 901 remained stoic, unmoving and completely unshaken. “What do you think, 901?” Master asked, as he pressed against me, his lips still grazing my skin. “Don’t you think my mona is simply the most beautiful creature ever created?”
Master then kissed up along my cheek. I breathed through the discomfort his touch brought.
Realizing 901 wouldn’t react, Master withdrew his hand and flicked his chin. “Get back to training. You have a match this weekend.” He leaned in closer to his fighter and added, “Remember what I said. We have high rollers attending that night. I want them to return.”
901 said nothing. Eventually Master flicked his wrist and 901 marched away. He reentered the pit, picked up two short-bladed weapons, one in each hand, and commenced sparring. Master guided me to leave by his hand upon my elbow. As he did so, I glanced back to the pit, where a now familiar face was looking my way, his hard blue stare penetrating mine.
As Master guided us around the pits, it took all that I could muster not to look back to the champion’s training area. To the large beast that dominated its domain.
The male with the cruel eyes.
The infallible killer.
The Pit Bull of the Arziani empire.
Master’s living god among men.
3
LUKA
Brooklyn, New York
“So are we talking thousands or hundreds?” I asked Valentin.
He, Zaal, and I were stationed around the table in my house.
Valentin’s eyes narrowed in thought. I watched the newest member of our Bratva as he straightened in his seat.
Cracking his wide neck from side to side, he replied, “Hundreds, one or two depending if there is a match. Master Arziani brings in more of his males if his associates come in. They fly to the pit from all over the world, many traveling days to get there.” Valentin’s fists clenched on the tabletop, large muscles bunching under his black shirt.
The veins in his forearms corded with the anger ripping through him. I glanced to Zaal, who studied his new brother-in-law. Zaal briefly met my eyes before leaning forward and saying to Valentin, “Be calm. Breathe through it.”
Valentin’s nostrils flared. I could see that Zaal’s words were having no effect on him whatsoever. Instead, Valentin rose from the table and began to pace back and forth in front of the fireplace. He was panting with rage. Given his sheer size and scarred face, and the permanent raised red scar collaring his neck, Valentin appeared every inch the monster he was renowned to be.
“Why are we wasting time with all this shit?” he snarled, pointing at the maps we’d had constructed of the Blood Pit based on his memory. I never took my eyes off him. The map lay in the center of the table, our notes scattered around the edges of the wooden top. Our intel regarding Arziani’s pit was gradually building day by day.
“We sit here, like fucking fearful morons, as that prick sits on his throne, doing fuck knows what to my sister,” he roared, then stopped dead in his tracks. His fists shook so much that his entire body seemed to convulse.
As calmly as possible, I leaned back in my chair at the head of the table and said, “Arziani is the biggest threat we’ve ever faced.” I pointed to Zaal, then to myself, and finally to Valentin. “I’m not just talking about within the Bratva or the Georgian brotherhood. I’m talking about us three, too: in the gulag, under Jakhua, and with that bitch, Mistress Arziani. The Blood Pit is like nothing we’ve ever experienced.”
Valentin’s hot glare locked on me. He slapped his fist on his broad chest. “I know this more than any of you. I was raised in that hell. I spent day after day in those pits, until I was chosen as an Ubiytsa. Do not lecture me on what I had to endure.”
I chased back the annoyance of his disrespect. “Then I don’t need to explain why detailed planning is essential, why we need to know exactly what we’ll be facing. Above all, we need to find a way in. The Blood Pit is underground, heavily fortified, and manned by many, many guards. It’s impossible, unless we can identify a secure way in—unseen.” Valentin remained motionless while I talked. Leaning forward, I rested my elbows on the table and asserted, “We are heavily outnumbered. Besides us three, the males under our command are soldiers of the street. They fight with guns. They have no idea how to overcome an organization such as this, how to fight male prisoners like us. Even if we made it into the pit, the guards are too many. Even if we overcame the guards, the conditioned male fighters would surely tear them apart. And we would all die. Each of us is unbeatable in a death match, but even we cannot defeat hundreds of enslaved fighters and Ubiytsy.”
For a second I thought that I had gotten through to Valentin. But suddenly a pained roar burst from his throat, and he struck out at the mirror hanging on the wall. The sound of shattering glass echoed around the room. But Valentin didn’t stop there. Lost in his rage, he swept his arm along the mantelpiece, destroying Kisa’s ornaments.