Fearless III

by Amarie Avant

  “You said that,” I tell him. We all roar with laughter.

  “Yeah, I’m old,” I nudge my chin to Dima. During our last practice, I gave him a few pointers. Advice that a powerhouse doesn’t give until they’re ready to leave the game.

  I’m ready to put MMA to rest in my life, for a little while. I’ve got a wife, a daughter, son on the way. And I’ve got Simeon, my real brother. We have the Bratva. That shits in our blood.

  Epilogue

  Zariah

  A letter to my husband:

  —Vassili

  First and foremost, I could never be so happy for you, for us, than I am right now. When I was young, I was on the outside looking in when my mother had to keep invisible masking tape over her mouth. My father showed her love with the back of his hand. That was the type of love I could never desire.

  Then you found me.

  I should say, I found you. I came into a gym under the blessing of a Resnov. You found me, you held onto me when all I did was doubt. You loved me before I understood the meaning.

  Vassili, you taught me to be a fighter. You taught me how a man should love a woman. You taught me wisdom, guidance, and adoration for our children and us. Sheesh, you and Natasha are the type of father/daughter goals that I will have with my dad, Sammy.

  Now, I have to let you know, Vassili, if I’m not at my seat, baby, it’s because I’m doing something for us. I’m bringing our little king into the world. You called our Junior a king once. While I didn’t say anything, the symbolism is everything to me. Maxwell called me ‘princess.’ (Forgive me for mentioning him right now, in a letter that should be totally, and utterly beautiful—like you.)

  No matter how many times Maxwell said it, I never felt like a princess. Never wanted it, if it encompassed Maxwell’s version of the word. We have a princess, we have Natasha, and you’ve never treated her any other way. We have a prince, a king. If I’m not seated at the event tonight, it’s because I’m fighting to bring our king into the world.

  With every fiber of my being,

  Your wife

  The letter to my husband roams through my mind. I’d snuck it into his duffle bag before he left yesterday morning. Although his match is local, we chartered a chopper to take us to the hospital tonight—if necessary. I’ve done everything I could to make our Junior come a little early, but we’re covering all the bases the best we can.

  I suspect Vassili’s just now seeing the letter in the compartment that is solely for his lucky socks. He wears the darn things all day before a match, then stows them away for me to wash later. Shaking my head, I let the bright grin on my face fade into a pleasant smile.

  Family surrounds me. Taryn is at my side. Yuri is on the opposite. She’s appealed to him; said she’d never be used to love. With time, I guess we can see where that goes. Yuri is such a good man. I’ll never forget how he tried to stop Simeon and Vassili when the two of them were setting the perfect scenario at my expense. Mikhail is here, with dark-rimmed eyes from a hard double in the ER. My mom and Dad are seated right behind us. Everything is as it should be.

  “Killer Karo!” my mom screams, her voice loud enough to pop my eardrums. “Killer Karo!”

  “Momma,” I whip my neck around, my “super preggo” braids slapping me in the face as I turn. “You just eloped with an affluential black man. Don’t mess up his rep with all that down south shouting and clapping. This is not a brothel,” I joke.

  She pulls me into a hug, my very swollen belly making it awkward. Samuel adjusts Natasha on his shoulders so that she can see over all of us, then leans forward a little. “Your mom is all the sauce in my life.”

  “The sauce?” I chuckle as my almost-two-year-old daughter attempts to jostle over his shoulders and into my arms.

  “Cutie Pie, you’re too heavy for momma.” I smack a kiss on each of her cheeks before Samuel wrestles her back onto his shoulders. “Dad,” I begin, feeling so refreshed to give him that title. “You sure you’re ready for the boy version of Natasha?”

  My dad chuckles. “The day I met Miss Mora; I was ready for anything.”

  During the pre-match festivities, commentators mention how a ‘well-rested’ Kong and his wife will be watching the match this evening at home. He’d awoken from a coma a few weeks after we returned from Russia.

  A woman in a bikini, holds my husband’s belt high above her head, strutting around the cage. My eyes peer about twenty yards away, coming from the side of the cage is Simeon. He’s the GQ version of my husband. Yet today, he’s wearing a Killer Karo t-shirt that’s straining across his bulging chest. Tattoos that I hadn’t noticed, since I’ve only seen him in button-downs, are inked down his throat. His deadly gaze fades into liquid thoughtfulness as he stares at something. At first, I believe he’s salivating over the chick in the bikini, but as she continues along, his eyes are steady. His lips tense before his eyes connect on me, and he starts over.

  “Hey,” I wave a small hand at him. “You okay?”

  His lips hardly move, “Khorosho.”

  “You sure?” I can’t help but ask. Although I doubt I’ll ever consider him on the same level as Yuri or Mikhail, I play nice because he could murder me. Very easily.

  “Dah.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I saw someone—assumed that I did. It’s nothing.”

  “Someone on your list?”

  “Not in the same terms as you’re thinking,” he mutters, taking the space next to me.

  What does that mean? Grim Reaper terms? I don’t know. I move over a little, letting him near Taryn. I inch over to Yuri. “Is your cousin, okay?”

  Yuri shrugs. “Who? Vassili? He better be. I have the shoe division of Nike ready to—”

  I chuckle. “Yuri, I know, boo. You haven’t been playing any games since scheduling this fight. Our little King Karo and Natasha will be set for life at the rate you’re going.” I edge closer to the man who was once a teddy bear. “I mean Simeon. He seemed a little depressed, walking over here.”

  “Sim? Sad, ha. He’s too evil genius for that, Zar.” Yuri puts an arm around me and whispers. “You start having labor pains, hold his hand this time.”

  “You mean squeeze,” I reply, tilting my head.

  “Dah,” he chuckles.

  “I can hear everything the two of you are saying,” Simeon clears his throat. “Zariah, Vassili says that he has a gift for the King. His belt. If you need to squeeze my fucking hand off at any time during this fight, that’s fine with me. Squeeze until you can’t take it. Hopefully, Vassili can grab that belt first.”

  “Alright,” I chuckle. Leave it to Vassili Karo Resnov Junior to enter this world when his father is hustling for his belt. Shoulders squared; I breathe in deeply. I need to be fearless, right now.

  VASSILI

  Like I said, the first round is for my fans. I’m humble enough to know that I wouldn’t be here without their support. My heart drums in my chest, sweat drips down my skin. I glare at Rhy as he sits across from me. On the first round, we tossed bricks at each other. I blocked some, took others. While he gave it the best he had, I came with all quickness and half the power in me. The little bitch didn’t know he was being taunted. He will soon.

  Vadim is in my ear, telling me things I already know. I chug down the water Nestor hands over and flick the water cup. My eyes are still on Rhy. His blue ones are confident. Confident that if we continue at this rate, the mudak will tire me out. Fat fucking chance. I sneer at him.

  We all know the drill. TKO’s are pretty, but submission is king. My wife is bringing a new king into this world, possibly this evening or sometime soon. So, I could only match that love she has for me.

  This is my last fight. I’m going out with the MMA industry, calling my name. The Gogoplata choke requires a flawless technique. It’s such a difficult, rare submission that the entire arena will be left talking. Fuck yeah, I let my fighting speak for me. The bell rings.

  I bounce onto my toes. Rhy and I come at each other like bulls re
ady to lock horns. A look of murder is in my eyes, but behind Rhy, I notice Zariah’s seat.

  Fuck!

  It’s.

  Empty.

  Damn, I told Simeon to sit with her. He was supposed to text Nestor if she got up. Yeah, I’m supposed to keep fighting. I told Yuri the same thing. The dude doesn’t listen. If Zariah told him not to text me, regardless of what I told him, then he’d listen to her.

  I have anticipated setting up the Gogoplata about a minute in, give my fans a little more before the takedown.

  But there’s no time for that. I have to get to my wife. My left hook swings out, connecting with Rhy’s jaw. There’s fucking ammunition in my bicep this time because he clobbers back on his heels. Dah. The ESPN commentator on my side was right. No way in fucking hell Rhy is accustomed to a hit like that. His right arm begins to swing. I spin to my side, bringing my knee out and kick him in the ribs. The force is enough to batter his liver.

  Punching my hand at my chest, I give Rhy a chance to catch some air. That’s the confidence he needs to bring us down to the clinch. He falls on top of me, fists flying. Commentators are in our ears, mentioning how the tide has turned—

  A second later, my forearm hooks over his before he can assault my face. I brace my calf around his waist, then twist until my legs are locked around Rhy’s body. The armbar submission is too fucking easy for this wannabe. Next, I’m on top now. I press my shin against his throat, choking him in a perfect Gogoplata. The crowd screams so loud my eardrums rock. From my peripheral, Rhy taps his trembling hand against the canvas. I jump up to my feet, straddling the cage. My gaze latches onto Zariah. She’s walking around. She stops, presses her fingertips to her lips, then blows me kisses.

  “Stay,” she mouths.

  With a nod, I clamber back down the fence. The referee has Rhy at one side. I move to the other. My belt, the first love I’ve ever known, is shiny and calling out to me. The belt is placed around my waist.

  This one is for my son. One day, I’ll be back under all the lights of the octagon. I’ll be the man Vadim and Malich taught me to be. The new King Karo learns that all the aggression he’s ever needed to take out is right here. Right in the motherfucking cage. For now, I’ll love and worship my wife as we continue to raise our children. As we continue to be fearless for each other.

  THE END

  Thank you for reading!

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  Author’s Note

  Hey, you made it! You finished Vassili and Zariah's roller-coaster love story. Your thoughts mean a lot to me. Your response tells me if a particular character was exciting, and should I continue with another character's story. For the past three books, Vassili and Zariah were as real as flesh and blood to me. And being the person I am (all over the place. Yup, I've read that a few times via reviews), I enjoyed creating a puzzle of a story in an attempt to lead them back to each other. For now, I believe they're strong enough in their relationship for me to set my sights on someone else.

  I know, I know, Yuri has been mentioned in so many reviews. He and Taryn still might make a good story. But that's not where my heart is, LOL.

  Simeon Resnov is ev-er-y-thing. Yeah, I had to stretch out that word. I gravitated toward him. I had so much fun with Vassili mentioning how "dog's ass" ugly he was throughout the series. Then to find out they resemble each other, ha! Who doesn't know people in their family that they resemble and clash with? Well, so Simeon. . . Do you want more of him? Please include so in your review.

  In the meantime, I've got you covered. Met Sim the guy Zariah dubbed as a serial killer. Even more than that, he's now the King of the Bratva, and he murdered his father. That sounds bad, but hey, I doubt too many people had a problem with Vassili killing their dad ;)

  Turn the page for Sim and Asya.

  But before you do, just a quick disclaimer. #Lawless is a lot darker than Fearless. Sim had a much harder life than Vassili.

  Asya had a harder life than Sim.

  But he saved her.

  Contact Me

  Before we get to the sample of LAWLESS, I wanted to cover a few things.

  The best way to chat with me is in my Facebook Group. I’m a bit on the shy side, but I’ll open up there the most. The readers give me so much good insight. Often, I’ll get ideas about what to write next from my group. They get to see all the sexy ideas I come up with first! And I’ll be sharing some new Fearless news with them first . . .

  But check out the various buttons below, and feel free to connect with me on whatever platform you prefer.

  Give a few of my buttons a click and say hi! Then, turn the page to meet Asya and Sim!

  Blessings,

  Amarie Nicole

  Anastasiya (Asya)

  Merriam-Webster explains invisible (noun) as someone or something that cannot be seen or perceived. Based on that definition, I'm not sure most children would ever pick that as something to daydream about having. Other children’s innocent fantasies revolve around becoming a superhero or a pretty, little princess.

  Not me, though. I wasn't your ordinary child; I’d take invisibility any day over anything in this dark, dead world. Though no matter how much wishing on a star I did, my beauty refused to fade. My body, curves, full lips blossomed instead of withering . . . Invisible.

  I resided in a gilded cage in a mansion in Moscow. On display for the world to see, for my future owner’s delights.

  At least I wasn’t alone. The place operated as an orphanage. Every young girl could take a grown man’s breath away. We, the trinkets that adorned the walls, came in shades from obsidian to porcelain doll.

  My mocha-colored skin was curtesy of a faceless set of benefactors, which included a model who was away from South Sudan. I suspect she’s dead now. Mothers never last in this business.

  This business, my life.

  I had a father, who was Russian, had to be handsome too. Perhaps dead, fuck it, maybe living his best life.

  Parents posed no definition in my brain, had no place in my heart. The rainbow of non-blood siblings I had was moya sem’ya--my family. We understood each other, the need to survive tethered us.

  Nanny’s raised us. Their gazes not quite meeting ours because they knew our impending demise.

  We were chattel of the Resnov Bratva.

  Those all-powerful Bratva scum ruled the world.

  They made us the most beautiful part of sex trafficking, if you could be bold, or fucking heartless enough to say so. Before we were touched, we had a structured life. It included exceptional etiquette, a prestigious education, and we adhered to all caveats on golden-leaf paper. Those papers were our bibles. The writers of said bibles were the men who owned us even in the womb. Our owners came to the mansion and staked claim to us when we had an ample pair of breasts, hips, or an ass. In other cases, the sadistic fucks claimed us, sullied us younger. Whatever those rich men fancied, well, that constituted when we left the mansion, for our last time. That was when our innocence bled out.

  Only, I left the intricate marble walls too soon.

  And the Resnov’s never made the standard 15 Mil off me.

  Some girls go for more.

  But I became a trophy, a Resnov possession.

  So, if you’re curious as to which of us girls were worth the most.

  Unfortunately for me . . . It was me.

  Simeon (Sim)

  My heart lurches in my fucking chest. Palms accustom to squeezing the life out of mudaks is sopping with sweat. Me, the king of the Bratva. King of Russia. Next stop, the world.

  All because we found her.

  Has to be her.

  No other woman in the world compares to her. Light skin. Innocent honey eyes mask all the sin that she’s lived in. A hypnotic body meant to ride cock. Only my cock. Damn that pretty mouth of hers. Those lips know how to
take.

  While I steal lives, her lips steal hearts with hard kisses and angry words. Her mouth stole my fucking heart. The inside of my chest has been empty for four years since I last set my sights on her. Held her tight like a treasure nobody should see, touch, nobody but me.

  She has to be here.

  If not, I have one real fear. Not dying, that shit is in the cards. I have my hopes too--that my demise is far the fuck away from now. But what I fear? That I would be molded into the image of my father at the thought of her not being here. I fear that I’ll put two slugs between the eyes of Luka. The bastard said he’d gotten the word about her . . . Here. Luka is loyal. Nothing trumps loyal in my book when life and death follow you each day. Luka is also blood. Unlike my father, I rather not spill the same life force running through my veins.

  So she’s here.

  This fucking shit hole of all places.

  A dented in, steel door swings open. The base bumps against my chest. A bouncer eyes us. Six of my soldiers are at my sides. We look like money, donning the best Russian suits. We look like death follows in our wake, and we are the sole survivors. And he’s dead if he doesn’t let us in.

  The bouncer licks his in lips in trepidation, knowing that we’re all Resnovs. Remembering he has a job to do, he sets terror aside and sneers. “Packing heat?”

  “Dah,” I nod. “Nyet, we don’t leave our guns in the car.”

  I sniff. The goon to my left opens a duffle bag and moves around the bricks of cash. There’s nothing else there — the solider hands one over to the bouncer.