Riot by Tillie Cole
“Arziani hated his sister. She was the bane of his existence. Abel said that when Arziani got word of her death, he laughed. He knew he was better off without her in his life.” He flashed a worried look to Valentin, but continued. “Abel said that the only thing he cared about was the female mona being held by the Mistress.” He nodded his head in Valentin’s direction and clarified: “His sister. Now he has her, he doesn’t care about the rest.”
My pulse raced at the possibility of getting the opportunity to fight again. But more important, at killing Arziani and ending this ring of slavery once and for all. At putting an end to kids being sold like slabs of meat, being tested upon like rats, forced to fight and forget they’re humans. Nothing more than killing machines.
My mind circled with the information. Looking to Valentin, I said, “If you come, we’ll have to teach you how to fight for the pit. We’ll have to get you trained with a weapon.”
“I have my picanas,” he replied.
“Guns and cattle prods aren’t allowed in the rings,” Zaal replied.
Valentin’s eyebrow raised, and he said, “But short metal spears will be. I’m used to the feel of them in my hand through using the prods. They’re a part of me. I can be just as efficient without their electrical charge as I am with it.”
Zaal turned to me and nodded. Facing them both, I announced, “If we do this, if we all go in, we may not all make it out alive.”
A shroud of silence descended around us. Valentin was the first to step forward and speak. “I’m going in. That asshole made me this … this thing I am today. And he has my sister. I’m going in. And I won’t die. I won’t die until his heart stops.”
I nodded, then looked to Zaal. Arms crossed over his chest, he confided, “I don’t want to fight again. I want my life to be with my Talia. But…” He sighed and I saw his inner demons shine through. “But Anri and I were tested upon there. Made to fight in the childhood pits.” He shook his head. “Until Arziani and this Blood Pit are destroyed, we’ll never be truly free, will we? Everything each of us has been through stemmed from this enterprise.” Zaal looked to my father and Kirill. “Arziani is bigger than even the Volkov Bratva. If we are to keep our standing here, if we are to give our females good lives, safe lives, we have to stop this male now. Before he comes for us. Let’s take the fight to him.” Zaal’s face clouded with the need to kill, and he concluded, “before he comes for us.”
Every word Zaal said hit my heart. I turned to Viktor. “When is the tournament?”
“Four weeks,” he replied, “It lasts four days. Two-man matches until four fighters reach the final. No man will be paired with a gulag-mate unless they meet in the final. Then it’s a four-man battle for the championship. Winner gets his freedom. Arziani’s tournament prize is freedom.” I raised my eyebrow at that. Freedom for males captured and forced to fight would make them fight that much harder. It would make them that much more difficult to beat.
“We all need to make it into the final battle,” I said, and looked to Valentin and Zaal. They both nodded. “We can use the next few weeks to understand the pit and plan how to attack.” I looked back to Viktor and said, “Contact your male. We need to be sure we have them as our allies, then use their influence when we’re in there with those not committed to Arziani and his cause. Promise them whatever they want. Money, a life here in New York, anything, just get us into the Blood Pit. We’ll take it from there.”
Viktor nodded and rushed out the Dungeon’s door. Zaal and Valentin came to stand beside me. Zaal laid his hand on my shoulder. When I met his eyes, he nodded his head, no words were necessary. I could see the conflict haunting his eyes—as much as I could feel my own.
We were different males now. Had different lives. Yet at the same time, until Arziani—the puppet master of our personal hells—was dead, we would always be the same captured males we had been for most of our lives. We would be forever imprisoned by our pasts. We would never truly move on.
Addressing Valentin, I said, “We need to use the four weeks to train you.” I then spoke to Zaal. “We need to train ourselves again, too. Ask Viktor to get us ready. We have no choice but to come back to our females. To do that we need to defeat every fighter that gets in our way. It’s the only way we can go—we go to win.”
Zaal held out his hand and I shook it. Valentin did the same. As we looked to one another, a surge of excitement welled up in my heart. In four weeks’ time, for four days, I would once again be Raze.
I had missed being Raze. I had missed and craved the blood I would shed. For two weeks, I could be the gulag champion again; then I would forever leave him in the past.
Turning on my heel, I jumped from the cage, and my father stepped in my path. Kirill fell in behind him, a look of serious concern on his face. But it was my papa to whom I gave my attention. The sad yet stubborn expression on his face was hard to ignore.
“I won’t allow it,” he said, and shook his head. “Your mama and Kisa won’t want this, Luka. What the hell are you thinking?”
Glancing down to the floor, I then looked back and said, “How many more kids are in gulags around the world? How many are stolen from group homes or the streets and being forced to fight?” I held on to my father’s arm and said, “How many papas are searching for their lost sons? Not knowing, never believing they could be under the control of some fucked-up psychopath who has a delusion of being a sadistic Caesar from ancient Rome?” My father paled, but I kept going. “It’s not over, Papa. Even though I’ve been back here in New York with you, Kirill, Mama, Talia, and Kisa, I’ve never been fully present.”
I searched for a way to make him understand. Kisa’s face filled my mind’s eye. I pictured my hand on her stomach, which punctured a hole in my heart when our baby had kicked. Pushing the lump from my throat, I said, “Kisa is due to have our baby soon. I can’t live in a world with my child while being haunted by the past. To be the father I want to be, the father you are, I need to end this once and for all. The Arziani empire must fall. And I must be the one to do it.” This time I looked to Kirill and said, “To be the Pakhan of our Bratva, I have to rid myself of all the pain I still carry with me. Arziani is the root of all of this evil. He’s the snake. And I’m going to rip off his fucking head.”
“Luka,” my papa rasped, and placed his hand on the nape of my neck. He brought my forehead to his and said, “I’m proud of you, son. But I cannot rest until you have taken this bastard down and returned home safe. For good this time.”
“Thank you,” I hushed back. Lifting my head, I met his worried gaze and said, “I’m Raze. I’m the champion. I don’t lose.” I thought of my beautiful wife and our child. I thought of Zaal and Talia, Valentin and Zoya, and I knew I wouldn’t fail. This was my family now. And we would all survive. We had to, there was no other choice.
Kirill walked around my father and kissed my head. He didn’t speak, but I didn’t need words to see the pride on his face. Kirill had been the Pakhan for decades. He knew that leaders sometimes had to sacrifice a part of themselves for the greater good. And killing Arziani was for the greater good.
I had four weeks to recall and embrace the savage killer I had pushed down deep.
As I made my way home, I flexed my hands, staring at the fingers that would soon be reacquainted with the bladed knuckle-dusters they knew so well.
And with every mile driven toward my home, the identity tattoo on my chest burned hotter and hotter. 818 was breaking back through, pushing Luka Tolstoi aside.
Temporarily, I had to embrace the monster within.
I’d let him take the reins.
Then when I arrived at the Blood Pit, I’d let him unleash hell.
For one very last time.
Before I laid him to rest, for good.
9
901
Two weeks later …
I stood in the center of my cell, waiting for my time to be called. Tonight was the first show fight Master had planned for his tournament
And he had told me in no uncertain terms that I was to take my time with my opponents. Draw out the kill. Obey his every command. He even offered me a bribe: If I did as he instructed, he would continue sending 152 to me every night.
This was exactly why I intended to kill my opponent in three seconds flat.
My gut clenched as I thought of the past two weeks. Then I thought of what my nights would become after tonight. She’d be gone. It was what I needed. Though I was starting to think it wasn’t what I wanted.
Since that night two weeks ago when she had pleaded with me to let her die and she had spoken to me in Russian after I had called her a whore, we had barely spoken. That night I had let myself get too close. I had asked her too much. Listened to her too much.
Felt too much.
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block out the memory—of how she had told me to get a guard instead, of how much that pissed me off, the repulsive thought of her under a Wraith. Something inside of me had broken when she’d pleaded for that version of hell.
She wasn’t a whore. I hadn’t meant what I had said. I was pissed, lashing out. I hadn’t known she was Russian. Her dark hair and features made her appear Georgian. It only made me want her more.
She was like me.
Master still sent her every night. I released inside her when the drugs made her need me, but we never spoke. She slept in the corner of the room, and I stayed on my bed. She knew I didn’t want more. She never asked for more. I gave only as much as I was willing to give.
Master’s plan to fuck with my mind wouldn’t work, I couldn’t let it. I’d defy him tonight, and he’d punish me by taking 152 away. I glanced down at my hands wrapped around my Kindjals’ handles at that thought. They shook.
My mind clogged, it stabbed with the sound of 152’s moans as I took her as mine. Her touch was sensuous as her hands scraped on my back. The look in her eyes as they cleared from the drug in the aftermath of our releases was so welcome. It was when her true self came through. The look that showed me her gratitude. The look that seared me on the spot.
Krasivaya.
Footsteps on stone outside the cell made me walk to the door. 667 was walking past. He was dripping with sweat, marked in slashes from what looked like a bladed chain. He flicked his chin as he walked by.
His mona arrived only minutes after he had. She swiftly moved into his cell. As she passed by, I studied her for the first time. She was attractive, nothing like 152, yet pretty enough. But it was the look of worry on her face as she ran after 667 that made my stomach flip over. She cared about him enough to run to his aid after he had been injured. I frowned. I couldn’t remember a time, ever in my life, when someone comforted me. Then again, the only times I had been injured were as a child figuring out the run of the cage. Learning what weapons to choose, and hardest of all—learning how to kill. I had been alone ever since.
Seeing 667’s mona run to him, her affection for him was obvious and unapologetic. For a moment, it made me regret the decision I had already made.
Another cell door opened. 140 pounded past, his expression one of a male that was minutes away from sending a soul to hell. In a flash, my regret for losing 152 tonight was gone. Because here was a male that was a shadow of his former self. He had allowed himself to want and need a mona. That had been his ruin.
The crowd outside roared. Just as I was about to move from the doors, someone stepped out of the shadows. A guard stopped before me and flicked his chin in my direction. “Master has sent a message. He said that your opponent belongs to one of the biggest investors. He has bought several shares in many gulags from Master over the years and is planning to enter many fighters in the tournament. Master has demanded that you slow the kill and not simply slaughter.” The guard stepped closer, holding his gun toward me. “Master said that if you don’t obey, there will be consequences.”
My top lip hooked in amusement. His taking 152 from me was the best punishment I would receive.
The guard backed away, shaking his head.
My legs moved from side to side as I warmed up my feet. I envisioned the kill in my head. I would duck right, then left, strike left, then plunge my Kindjal into him. The blade would pierce his heart and he would fall to the floor. I opened my eyes. Just as I did, 140 came walking through, covered in blood spatter and with the wide, staring eyes of bloodlust.
He rushed past, panting and high from the kill. My adrenaline spiked; I’d be up next. When the guard walked down the hallway, I cracked my neck from side to side. When the cell door opened, I sprinted down the tunnel to the pit. With every step I envisioned my opponent’s blood hitting my chest and the thrill I’d feel at disobeying Master. The crowd roared as I ran forward, Kindjals at the ready. Then something from the crowd caught my attention. As I fended off my opponent’s strike, his bladed pickax narrowly missing my head, I looked up at the crowd. A flash of light caught my eye again. At the very back, directly behind Master’s seat, was a guard … and in his arms was 152.
It took me a moment to realize what I was seeing. Then it made perfect sense. A guard had a knife to 152’s throat. The light was the blade glinting off the pit’s lights.
Immediately, rage ignited inside me. My eyes next dropped to Master, as I ducked under my opponent’s swing. When I saw him, he was smiling, victory in his dark gaze. His hands gripping the arms of his seat was the only indication that he harbored doubt that I would let her die.
Feeling my opponent approach, I crouched down. The wind from his ax passed, blowing through my hair. Turning, I drove the blunt end of my handle into his kidney, the huge dark-skinned man bending over at the hit. I backed away, steeling my emotions. I narrowed my eyes on my opponent, forcing myself to turn off my concerns about the mona.
Ignore her. She means nothing. Let her die, I told myself, turning my Kindjals in my hands, readying to strike. My opponent turned, his close-shaved black hair and sheer height coming into view, almost matching mine. His teeth were bared as he faced me, gripping his ax as he prepared to strike. Replaying my plan in my head, I ducked left as he charged, then made a quick right. But as I approached and the bladed tip of his ax rose high, I did not use the anticipated gap to my advantage. Instead, I let the blade’s sharp edge slash my upper arm.
The crowd roared as 419, my opponent, drew first blood. Unable to stop myself, I glanced up at 152, who was still as night in the guard’s arms. Even from this distance I could see her eyes shining in pure terror.
Just let me die, I heard in my head, 152’s soft voice from two weeks ago. I shook my head, trying to forget about her up there, with a knife at her throat. I tried not to care. But just as I couldn’t let her die on the floor of my cell before, I wouldn’t let her die now. Something inside me, feeling like a dull ache in my chest, wouldn’t let me.
Sighing deeply, I ran at my opponent, smashing the Kindjal’s blunt handle to his face. He responded with a punch to my cheek. And I put on a fucking show. I gave Master what he wanted. Hit after hit, blow after blow. 419 and I were both cut, bleeding and bruised. I had gashes on my arms, gashes on my torso, and swelling on my cheeks. But I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that I could have beaten him in seconds if Master hadn’t forced me to submit. 419 was nothing. As a contender, he was a joke. Yet I made this fight look like I’d barely hung on.
Enraged at what I’d been forced to do—at what I’d allowed myself to do—I stood and gripped my Kindjals. Enough was enough. I’d toyed with this fighter too long. It was beneath me to play with this male any longer.
It was time for him to die.
419 swayed on his feet, on the brink of passing out. His ax hung by his side, his slackening fingers barely able to hold the heavy steel. Needing to see him fall, see this male breathe his last,
The crowd jumped to their feet as 419 hit the bloodied sand beneath our feet. It was the loudest response I had ever received in the pit. And when I looked to 152 in the stands, the guard slowly removed the knife from her throat. I snarled, abruptly wrapped in a cocoon of pure hate, when I saw a faint bloodied line on her skin.
And I knew. In that moment, I knew Master hadn’t been faking this threat. If I had failed to obey, he would have slit the High Mona’s throat. He was crazed and unstable, but he was obsessed with the female. Yet to break me, to see me bow down to his feet, he would have slit her throat without a second thought.
A mixture of anger and some cavernous feeling I couldn’t describe swirled in my stomach. Because I knew, by this match, that I had given Master a hold over my mind. The realization hit home. He hadn’t sent 152 to me weeks ago to make me want her, then hurt me by taking her away. He had given me her to threaten her life. His High Mona, the female he stared at like he wanted to completely possess her soul. He had given her to me to force me to yield to his control.
And it had worked. As furious as that made me, I couldn’t deny the truth: I had played right into his hands. Even as I stood here now, seething, almost splintering apart with the most intense rage, my eyes kept drifting to 152, dressed in a sheer deep purple dress. She was frozen to the spot, but she watched me, too. Her eyes were a mixture of confusion and pain, but they were fixed on me. Solely on me.
Her attention only made me break more.
I hated myself for submitting like a mewling bitch.
And despite myself, I hated her for being the cause of this truth.
Snapping my eyes away, I ranged my gaze over the crowd. I wanted nothing more than to jump into the fray and tear them all apart. I wanted to shred their limbs and snap their bloodthirsty necks. Then my eyes found Master, still sitting in his seat, staring down at me, looking every inch the Blood Pit King.