by Amarie Avant
“Karo, do you want to continue?” The ref asks, holding a steady hand for Tiago to keep distance.
This is where Zariah and I always chatted about putting our baby girl, Natasha, first. Though the crowd is egging me on—one fucking eye and all—, Zariah’s disappointment rides along. Breaths jagged, my heart crumbles, and I feel like the ultimate asshole as I nod vigorously. It’s me or this motherfucker before me. One of us is going down tonight.
There has to be less than a precious minute left. And I can’t take a loss by decision.
“Vassili, baby, just stop. We have a good life! We have a beautiful BABY GIRL who your doctor hasn’t even cleared you to pick up without having to be in a seated position!” Zariah had said some odd months ago. That was after I lost the fucking welterweight belt. My motherfucking belt. My second professional loss.
I jump to my dominate leg, and force my left leg forward. The shot dislocates my toe as my foot slams against Tiago’s mouth. He’s brought to his knees.
Total knock out or submission. The easy route would be one swift kick to his mouth. Lodge that fucking mouth guard down his throat. Nah, lets go for overkill! Mouth tensed, I clamber behind him, onto his back. Pulling my right arm around his neck. Bicep sinking along his carotid artery and my forearm around his spine, I grip my fists together, squeezing in a ‘rear naked choke.’
“Vassili, it’s Natasha and I or the cage. You chose.”
“Zariah, really, sweetheart? Don't do that. Don't fucking do that. Natasha is my princess. You're my fucking queen so you know that the answer will always be—“
TAP. Tiago gets in one tap. His hand pauses mid-second tap. Then his body softens into a limp position in my arms.
The referee is calling the fight as the Brazilian slips to the floor and I jump up. My entire body is on fire now. The pain engulfs me as if I just leapt head forward into a fucking volcano. Every muscle screams, every tendon haggard. I climb up the side of the fence, favoring my knee, I straddle it and place my fists into the air.
“This is it! Killer Karo is back…” I can hear through the loudspeakers. The announcer’s already predicting that my fucking belt will soon return to my grasps. The welterweight belt I lost seven months ago. The feel of it is so tangible. I breathe in victor, glancing toward Zariah’s chair.
It’s empty.
The only time my wife left during the middle of a game, she’d gone into labor with Natasha. Nestor said she’d squirmed in her seat almost the entire time—waiting for my victory. Though I’d won that fight, my body felt like shit. I’d grabbed the keys to his motorcycle, wove through traffic, speeding to the hospital.
She. Left. That fucking high, that triumphant high, so much better than cocaine, crashes down. My wife is gone.
Vassili
Venice Beach, CA
Nine Years Before…
POP. A cross hook whips through the air. The force packs enough punch to knock my jaw out of place. Once in a while, my opponent gains the upper hand. It's a wake-up reminder that all the attempts of my crew to puff up my head are just that. I play into the invincibility crap on stage. That shit sells tickets just as much as knocking a mudak out or submission.
The entire room goes quiet. The small crowd have all forgotten how to speak. My opponent is one of Vadim’s Gym’s biggest shit talker. He is a major boxing fan. He always has something to say about MMA. He said boxing is a slow burn, but in the mixed martial art’s world, the dynamics are much quicker. So this morning, I demanded that he come see me. He chose the old boxing stage which is upstairs, within the clutter of dusty ass equipment and offices, over the MMA cage downstairs. No sparing gear. The glossed look in his eyes, tells me he is surprised by making contact as well. Now here we are. I readjust my jaw.
“I fucking told you, Vassili,” the wannabee boxer brags, poising his right arm for a hook.
For a split second, they all wonder: Is 185 pounds of all muscle, Killer Karo no longer untouchable? Is the dude who got one in on me the next best thing?
Fuck no.
Not a moment later, I’ve step back on my hind leg. I lead with a power jab. My glove connects with his nose. Blood projects outward as his bone snaps. The blow sends that mudak to the opposite side of the ring. Between the ropes his body goes, slamming against the floor.
Vadim’s coaching assistant, and the few people allowed up here are now hooting for me, saying how lucky the guy was three seconds ago.
His cross hook hadn’t caught me off guard. A loud bitch downstairs just got the best of me, and she doesn’t even know it. The broad has a set of lungs on her. I swear her mouth must be wide enough for me to lodge my cock all down her throat. She’s still screaming to high heavens about blowing Vadim’s Gym to the ground. Not the first broad to come in here shouting about this, that and the other. She’s the reason I reach up and click my jaw back into place.
“Tchyo za ga lima? – What the fuck?” I ask in Russian, spiting blood on the ground. I push the rope down and jump down from the ring. I step over the unconscious heap, eyes narrowed as I glare at these idiots.
“We sent Nestor the second it started,” the assistant says.
I bark, “You telling me that nobody can shut that bitch up? Does she sound familiar to any of you?”
Everyone shakes their head ‘no’ in bewilderment.
While coming up the steps, my trainer Nestor says, “Nobody down there knows who the broad is. She keeps asking for Sergy.”
I rub my chin. “What the fuck did Sergy say or do to her? Not pay his fucking child support? He's down there working the weights, getting pretty ain't he?”
“Yeah, but he wasn't claiming the bitch and she confirmed that he wasn't her Sergy.” Nestor sighs, “She's a kid… a boner, very shapely, but I swear, I think she's just a kid.”
While Nestor licks his lips in thought of the girl, I mumble under my breath, “We only have one Sergy,”
“Should I?” asks Yuri, my fat ass cousin.
“Why you asking now, kazen? You could have handled the situation before I took one to the fucking chin.” I start for the stairs.
“Where you going?” Someone asks from behind me as I stalk toward the stairs.
“I'll shut the bitch up myself.” I say. Sweat is dripping down my muscles as I shuffle down the stairs to the sound of more threats about what's in the woman's purse.
When I make it to the first floor, there are a bunch of beefheads at the weight machines around the perimeter. Sergy, the three-headed monster, is the biggest one. Could be a heavyweight, but with two left feet, nobody’s playing the fool.
I make my way through Vadim’s men who are trying to sweet talk the truth into her.
The instant my eyes land on her, I’ve lost the ability to charm her like all the others. God hasn’t invented a word to describe how beautiful she is, gorgeous won’t suffice. She’s in a tight-fitted black dress that stops mid-calf. There’s nothing particularly sexy about the dress, like she could wear it to the club, and turn more heads than the women whose tits and ass are falling out. The allure is all her. Though projecting power and elegance, the silky fabric skims more curves than should be legal. Those pointy heels that I love, grace her tiny feet. I can see myself gripping that long, thick braid slinked over her shoulder while her ass claps back against my cock.
She’s a deep dark chocolate, with pink full-lips, and I swear if I hadn’t heard her cuss, I’d have to force my gaze away to search for another culprit. Another female in Vadim’s Gym. But there are no other women, and I can’t take my gaze off her.
I gulp down the lump in my throat. Am I fucking speechless? Before I can tell myself not to bitch up, she starts another round.
“Where the fuck is—”
“Miss, excuse me,” I call out over her next threat.
Her fury turns my direction. Something in me wants to take every ounce of aggression she’s willing to throw, shit, I will throw it right back in the sack. There’s a spark of interest in her eyes as
they sweep up and down my muscles. She places a hand on her hips. Dark eyes zeroing in me, with the intention of eating me alive. “Yes, excuse you. I want to see Sergio, nowwww.”
The left side of my mouth tips. She’s stepped all over the rest of these fucks, and thinks I’m next. Nah, I won’t be bested by a female… At least, the shouting that caught me off guard doesn’t count. She isn't a cusser and I'm betting the shouting masks her fear as does her holding tight to a leather purse like she's carrying heat. Underneath the attitude, I scent her fear. Thick hips and thighs, and curvy legs sort of help with that, sort of.
I tell her, “I can help you, Miss… I’m Vassili Resnov.”
She doesn’t offer a name. But her pupils pierce out as more fear seeps in, taking away from the rapture of her chocolate gaze. I know terror when I see it. Even if her breast are jutted out, hips too. She's scared. See my last name always kills the pussy.
Running a gloved hand over my mohawk, I inquire, “You're looking for Sergy?”
The woman is taken aback just as I had been upon first sight. She finds her voice, it’s muted at first. “Sergio, Sergio,” she corrects. “And I'm going to bash his face in. See how he likes that. You all think you can go around hitting women. Well I've got something for his ass,” she taps her leather purse.
I've got something even harder for your ass too. “I see. Come with me, to my office.”
Those stilettos don’t bust a move. “Where's Sergio?”
“He ain't here today,” my statement is somewhere between the truth and a lie. “C’mon, beautiful. You're making a scene, scaring those thick neck, pussys.” I nudge my jaw toward the weight section.
The lady clasps a diamond butterfly necklace, her worry and fears increasing by the second. “Humph, I know the name Resnov. You won't help me. Hell no, you'll escort me out back, knock me off and drop me into one of these many Venice canal ways.”
“There’s never been blood on my hands.” Okay well, not the last breath kinda blood. I glance down at my hands, and then hold it up. Nestor pulls off the boxing gloves one at a time. Next, I extend my hand. “Clearly, Sergio has disrespected you. Please, allow me to rectify that.”
The girl’s gaze falls from mine as she shakes my hand. Her fingers are silky, so tiny I doubt they've never even been in a cat fight. Those sexy lips almost relax. When I let her hand go, the rage returns to her eyes.
We start up the stairs. I tell her, “The owner, Vadim, is at a funeral today, otherwise the situation would've been handled.”
She's quiet, simmering in anger as my opponents usually do. At the second floor, the guy I just TKOd is stirring awake. The girl’s steps falter.
“I offered the cage, he preferred the ring. He also signed a disclaimer,” I hold out my palms in a peace offering gesture. “And I've never hit a lady, you have nothing to fear. You’re in good hands.”
“I don't care about him,” she retorts.
“Well, that makes two of us.” I open the door to Vadim’s office and gesture for her to enter. My eyes rake over the small of her back and how it juts out so from west to east of plump meat, for an ass begging for my submission.
The heavenly view causes a pep in my step as I walk in after her. There's MMA memorabilia on the walls. Trophys so big that they stand to my 5 foot 11 stature and belts on the wall. There’s pictures and magazines of Vadim’s best fighters from the last 15 years.
“Please,” I gesture toward a seat for her, and step around to Vadim’s leather chair. For a moment, I'm mesmerized by how she licks her lips apprehensively. For such an angry one, she has an innocent aura surrounding her.
“So this Sergio, what he look like?”
“You said you knew him.”
“By nightfall I’ll know all about him.” Though I rarely smile, I offer the one that the ladies love. Fuck, evidently not this one. She’s too far gone off emotions: fear, anger, and I’m assuming disgust for the greater male race who enjoys a good fight. “I give you my word. What does he look like?”
She bites her lip for a second. “Okay, he's at least a few inches taller than you, more muscles than you,” she sneers. “So stop eye-fucking me.”
“Oh, I see it now. You have a beast of a boyfriend who likes to hit you. No matter how fat that ass is, I don’t think running after The Incredible Hulk is a good idea.”
“Ha! Not my man. I'd never let a man touch me.” She smirks. I can pretty much read through the lines. She'd never let me touch her. Super expensive digs, rich girl accent when not shouting. This black girl lives on the respectable side of Los Angeles.
I consider the confusion with the name Sergy and Sergio. “He Italian?”
“Yeah.”
“You're at the wrong gym then.” But you ain't leaving until I figure out more about you. “We’re getting somewhere, sweetheart. He got tats?”
“Uh-uhn, I’m not your ‘sweetheart.’ Yes, he does. Not nearly as many as you do.” Her gaze scans up and down my muscular arms and upperbody, there’s not a single spot left. “Ironically, that asshole only has the symbolic prayer hands on his bicep.” Her mouth tense in disgust, and then she licks those lips in consideration. “Um, what's the name of the gym you think Sergio might be a member of?”
I grunt. “Why should I tell you? You step into the gym he's at, the men aren't so kind, you know? You threaten them with what's in your purse. They're too fucking stupid to call your bluff. They…” I take my hand in the shape of a gun, and point it to her. “Bang, beautiful. That's the end of your mouth. You’re in safe hands with me, okay?”
“I'm not afraid of that piece of crap. He would already be dead, had he touched one hair on my head.”
I sink back in my chair. “Sergio didn't beat you, who did that mudak beat?”
“My friend, Ronisha.”
“Your friend? You came into my people’s gym for a friend.” I rub my chin. “Not blood?”
‘No’ she shakes her head.
Who places their life in danger over someone who isn’t family? There’s no such thing as the black mafia, trust me, I know. So no blood family, and not part of the family. “You swing both ways?”
“Listen, asshole, my friend is at the community hospital right now. Hit so hard she went into a seizure.” A dam of tears floods down high cheekbones.
Though she’s beautiful when she cries, I have no sympathy. For all I know she made up Ronisha and Sergio. Is this a setup? She’s too young to be a Federal agent. Maybe she with the DEA… ICE. I assess the girl’s digs. She’s wearing too much name brand for her friend to be at the community hospital. People have died there with only a cough, while waiting in the lobby. One measly exit wound, and a motherfucker wouldn’t make it. This chick is much too rich for Community or any association with a person who has to attend that hospital. I steeple my fingers and wait for the crying fest to end. More than tears are needed to persuade me of her story.
Between sniffles, she opens her purse and pulls out a cell phone. “Here's Ronisha, here-here’s how badly Sergio hurt her,” she stutters in disgust.
Her hand shakes violently as she gives the iPhone to me. My jaw clinches. The black girl on the photo is unrecognizable. One eye is swollen shut. The other is red from broken vessels. And that's as much as I can make from her black and blue face. It’s enough to make curdle the abdomen of even the evilest motherfucker, granted he still has a bit of soul left. By now, if there’s a damn Sergio, my mind is calculating the hours upon hours of torture he will endure.
“I'm gonna kill him,” the girl murmurs. Her tone was so low, I have to look up. Damn, I never operate on emotion. Never place myself in the position to give a fuck about another human, besides my cousins and those close to me.
That drive which caused her to step inside of Vadim’s talking shit, is back. Her gorgeous face is clouded in anger, fed by the love she has for her friend. Her anger parallels the rage that storms through me when in the cage. It’s the only place where I’m moved by emotion.
She needs an Academy Award or this isn’t a game. I’m fucking sold.
Rivers of tears stream down her flawless mahogany skin. Damn, I thought she blew me away on sight. Frowning at the cell phone screen, I hand it back over. “Let me.”
“Le…let you, what? Why?” She stammers, rubbing the back of her hand below her eye duct.
Because I need a reason to see you again. Though my fists are balled, the sole thought on my mind is crossing paths with her. I’ve seen her cry. Only I am capable of taking her tears away—yeah, that sounds cocky, but I will kill for her so, hopefully, Sergio’s death will cease her crying.
“Why, Mr. Resnov?”
And I have to see her smile, if it’s the last thing I do. I sit back in the chair, with my usual nonchalant façade. “Three reasons, doll. For one, you're all fucking talk. Two, emotion is a sign of not having your head in the game. Don't open that pretty ass mouth to deny it either. And third, if he kills you instead—which I have no doubt of— him and his entire family are dead. You understand the Resnov way, eh?”
“Touch what's mine and the funeral home becomes rich.” She says the motto. It was a joke, not really, but my grandfather said it after blowing away an entire lineage. He was drunk off vodka and hadn’t thought the saying would stick. Not sure why, but our family never just murders the motherfucker that crossed us. We wipe out a person’s entire lineage. Someone’s great grandson can become a loose end as a wee baby. Then the next family had to go, one of my uncles, drenched in blood said the same and there you have it. The Resnov way.
“I’ll take care of everything.” There’s no mistake in my voice that she’ll never have to worry about Sergio.
“Excuse me, Vassili, but no thank you. I'm not afraid of Sergio. Any man who can hit a woman isn't a man at all. But the Resnov name, I'm smart enough to apologize for stepping into your gym. Nevertheless, let's not mistake wisdom for fear. I am not afraid of you, either.”
I lean back in the chair, rubbing the scar along my jaw. “Ain't my gym, but you'd like to apologize for cussing out everyone? That was a statement of intent. Not an actual apology.”
