by Holly Bargo
“And if he decides not to come back?”
“Then you let the man fight or buy his freedom.”
“Da.”
No man under Maksim’s authority was so foolish as to mock their boss for his acquiescence to pretty little Olivia. The last man who had done so had gone swimming. In pieces. Maksim might behave the doting husband and papa, but underneath beat the cold heart and brutish cruelty of a hardened criminal. Maksim hadn’t risen to his current position in the Bratva by being either stupid or soft.
“You have one month to settle this, Pyotr.”
“Spasibo.”
“And you will owe me.”
“Da. Spasibo.”
“Tell Gennady to put ten thousand on you tonight. Don’t you dare lose my money.”
Pyotr wondered how Maksim already knew he was fighting, but did not question the man and promised him he wouldn’t lose his money: “Ya ne budu teryat' svoi den'gi.”
The call ended. Pyotr rolled his shoulders and went to the bedroom to pack his gear. There wasn’t much. A light silk robe the same icy blue as his eyes. A mouthpiece to protect his teeth. Water bottle. Towel. Soap. Tape for his knuckles. Vitaly would bring his medical kit. Finally, he packed a pair of shorts of the same blue as the robe.
He ate a protein bar, drank some water, took a piss.
He was ready to go.
Murmurs of recognition greeted him when he walked into the building: “Is that the Ice Bear?” “The Ice Bear’s back!” “Will he fight?”
He stopped by the registration desk and scanned the list of fighters who had already signed up. His left eyebrow rose when he recognized a handful of the names scrawled on the paper.
“Who’re you?” the skinny dude sitting at that table asked, his voice dripping with contempt.
“Pyotr Idaklyka.”
The young man’s eyebrows rose to meet his receding hairline. “You’re the famous Ice Bear?”
“Da.” And, just because he could, he leaned forward and loomed over the nasty little man. He let his accent thicken and said, “And you will treat me with respect, little worm.”
“Er, yes, of course, sir.” Suddenly the skinny man scooted his chair back and muttered, “I gotta go.”
Pyotr watched his rapidly retreating form. It was good to know he hadn’t lost his edge. He signed his name, then printed it neatly on the roster. He handed his entry fee to the gaping boy sitting in the other seat at the registration table.
“Mark my entry fee as paid.”
The boy’s pimply head bobbed in an obedient nod and as he quickly scrawled a receipt and handed it to Pyotr.
“Are the dressing rooms still back and to the right?”
The boy nodded.
“Spasibo.”
Pyotr’s expensive Italian leather dress shoes slapped softly against the concrete floor as he walked back. He deliberately and methodically emptied his mind of everything but the long night ahead. Old laurels and notoriety would get him nowhere in the cage. The young punks he’d fight tonight would be fast and vicious. Having been out of the game for a few years, he’d be starting anew, having to fight every round before graduating to the money rounds, the prize fights.
He was of the age when fighters retired from the ring, not went back into it. If he didn’t defeat every opponent tonight, then...no, he would not entertain the notion of defeat. Thinking of it would become a self-fulfilling prophecy. He was going out there to win. Only winning would bring enough cash to buy his freedom.
When he entered the makeshift dressing room, Vitaly was already there, waiting for him. Other fighters and their helpers looked up at his entrance, then went back to minding their own business. With the low murmur of private conversations and the rustle of clothing, the dressing room was a surprisingly quiet place.
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” the former interrogator said in their native tongue.
“So do I. Is Gia here?”
“God, no.”
“Good. She’s too nice for this.”
“You do remember who her grandfather is?”
“Yes, and I also remember that her father got out and is a literature professor. Her mother’s a professor, too.” Pyotr claimed an empty bench and unknotted his red silk tie.
Vitaly shook his head. “I met them a month after Gia and I were married. They didn’t approve of me.”
“Did you expect them to?”
Vitaly huffed a bitter laugh. “No, not really. They weren’t very good at hiding their disappointment in their daughter.”
“That would have been hard on her.”
Vitaly smiled. “My Giancarla is strong, tougher than she realizes. She’s more like Giuseppe than her pansy-ass father.”
“I’ll bet Giuseppe realizes that, too.”
“He’s a sharp one, misses nothing. Giovanni’s just like him, only taller.”
Pyotr barked a burst of laughter. “Some interesting in-laws you’ve got.”
“My Giancarla comes with family and I would not part with her for anything.”
Pyotr envied him for having found and secured the love of his life. The two men exchanged silent, knowing glances. Vitaly knew, as did Pyotr, that Giancarla’s entrance into his life had saved what little was left of his soul. Pyotr’s own soul felt cold and hollow without Cecily’s warmth and heavenly cooking to fill it.
“So, when’s the baby due?” he asked.
“You know she’s pregnant?”
“Man, we all know she’s pregnant. What we don’t know is why you haven’t announced it yet.”
Vitaly’s wide shoulders sagged. “She wants to tell her parents and grandfather before anyone else. We’re having a family dinner next week.”
“At your house?”
Vitaly shrugged. “It’s neutral ground, more or less. Maksim and Olivia will be there, too.”
“As your family?”
“We are Bratva.”
And Bratva was family with ties thicker than blood.
Pyotr finished stripping and hung his clothes carefully. That suit was expensive and he had learned early to take care of what was his. He pulled on the shorts; they were a little tighter than they used to be.
“The ring rats will like that look,” Vitaly joked.
Pyotr threw him a sour look. His abdominal muscles were still hard, his thighs still bulged with muscle.
“You’ve gained bulk, not fat,” Vitaly observed with a critical eye. He rose from the bench. “You ready?”
“Da.”
“Then let’s go beat some pansy-ass thugs.”
Pyotr nodded and thumped his chest with a fist. He and Vitaly walked to the doorway that opened into an aisle that led to the cage. The newest of newcomers fought first. Those rounds went quickly with the best of them soon defeating their opponents. When Pyotr’s name was called, the announcer added a bit of extra commentary:
“Some of you may remember an undefeated champion, a six-time heavyweight champion who mowed over every opponent unfortunate enough to cross his path. He’s back, folks! The Ice Bear has returned to reclaim his championship status!”
Gasps, cheers, and boos rose to the rafters as Vitaly and Pyotr walked toward the metal cage. Inside the cage and sweating from his last fight was the current champion. Pyotr’s keen gaze watched him, noted the tightening of the skin around his eyes, the flare of his nostrils. This youngster had heard of him, perhaps had even seen him fight, had an inkling of what he’d be going up against. If Pyotr defeated him—and he would, no doubt about it—then Pyotr would stay in the cage fighting all challengers until someone fresh beat him to a pulp.
Pyotr was determined that would not happen.
Vitaly had the same thought. “Don’t play him. Conserve your energy.”
“Da.”
The cage door opened. Pyotr removed his blue robe and walked in, remembering the feel of the mats beneath his bare feet.
“You’re fatter than you used to be, old man,” the youngster jeered.
“Shake hands,” the referee ordered.
Opponents met in the center of the ring and lightly bumped fists. Pyotr noted that bruises already blooming on the other man’s pale skin. The placement of those bruises meant that he too often left that area unguarded. The fighters took a step back and waited eternal seconds until the bell rang. Pyotr’s fist shot out and drilled his opponent. The man squealed like a stuck pig and dropped to the mat, clutching his side.
“Fight! Fight!” the crowd shouted.
The referee waved Pyotr back. He retreated calmly, coldly to his corner to wait.
“Slayer’s ribs are broken!” the announcer shouted with glee. “The Ice Bear felled him with one blow! Who will topple the Ice Bear?”
Two men with a stretcher removed Slayer from the cage. The Russian waited calmly while the announcer identified his next opponent, who called himself The Dragon of Cleveland. A more seasoned opponent, he landed one blow on the Ice Bear before being pummeled to the floor with brutal efficiency and admitting defeat. Again, Pyotr retreated to his corner. He took a sip of water while The Dragon of Cleveland hobbled from the cage. By the time his fifth opponent staggered from the cage, Pyotr was tired. His skin gleamed with sweat. His left eye was swollen nearly shut. His knuckles oozed blood. A deep bruise darkened his right thigh and another flowered on his left side. The frenzied crowd couldn’t quite make up their collective minds whether to cheer for him or for each new opponent who fell to the power and speed of his fists.
“Who will fight the Ice Bear?” the announcer shouted into his microphone. “Opponents are scratching right and left, running scared! Who will take up the old man’s challenge?”
A roar from the dressing room rose above the general din.
“I will! I will fight the Russian fascist!”
Vitaly shook his head and muttered, “Fucking idiot.”
Pyotr’s face, which he had carefully maintained in an expression of boredom, went sharp and cold. “Fascist?” he whispered.
“I will fight and defeat the communist pig!”
“Really? That’s the best he’s got?” Vitaly murmured.
“And then I’ll fuck his fat girlfriend and show her what a real man feels like!”
“Oh, shit.”
The loudmouthed challenger marched into the cage. Fully as big as Pyotr, he looked like nothing other than a veritable mountain of muscle. But the Russian watched him closely, analyzed his every movement. The challenger met his glance with his upper lip curled in a sneer.
“You’re gonna be nothing more than greasy puddle on the floor when I’m done with you, old man.”
Pyotr glided to the center of the ring. The other man lumbered. Both men rolled their shoulders to loosen up.
“Shake hands,” the referee said
The men bumped fists. The challenger’s fists shot out with heavy force. Pyotr jerked his bruised hands back to avoid the brunt of that impact.
“Scared, pig?”
“Nyet.”
The bell rang and the men circled one another, measuring each other. Pyotr quickly realized that, for all the man’s crude bluster, he was a veteran of the ring. But he’d grown sloppy and overconfident. He moved like a boxer. The Russian smile thinly in assured triumph. He knew the man’s weak point and he would exploit that as quickly as possible. With smooth speed, he attacked using his mastery of Krav Maga and Systema as though the beefy man had attacked him. In a few short, targeted blows, his opponent heaved deep breaths of overheated air redolent of the odors of sweat, blood, and cheap perfume. The challenger, driven back by the sudden onslaught, rallied and rained rapid blows on Pyotr. The fight devolved into a dirty brawl within a split second.
The bell rang and the referee and four other men pulled the two fighters apart.
“Thirty seconds!” the announcer shouted and directed each man to take a break. The crowd screamed for more fighting, more blood.
“He’s called the Gladiator,” Vitaly said as he squirted water into Pyotr’s mouth and held up a cup for him to spit in. He dabbed a sponge soaked in cold water on Pyotr’s eye. “Are you all right to go on?
“Yes.”
“You’re dropping your right shoulder and he knows that. He’s favoring his right leg. Use it against him.”
Pyotr nodded as the announcer called for the fighters to resume. He groaned as he rose from the stool. Really, he was getting too damned old for this. But he’d made his decision and he’d stick by it. He rolled his head on his neck, rolled his shoulders, and shook out each leg.
“We gonna do the Hokey Pokey now?” the Gladiator sneered.
“Ten seconds,” Pyotr replied.
“Huh?”
The bell rang and the clock ticked. Pyotr’s fists shot out with a vicious one-two uppercut punch that knocked the man’s head back. His leg swept out, knocking his opponent’s legs out from under him. Another blow caught the man as he fell. When he hit the mat, Pyotr dropped to his knees squarely over the man’s kidneys and landed a few more rapid punches.
The Gladiator tapped the mat in defeat.
Pyotr rose to his feet, feeling a piercing ache in every joint, every muscle. Even his hair hurt. His vision blurred. But he was upright when his opponent was not.
“Undefeated again! The Ice Bear!” the announcer cried out. He made as if to grab the big Russian’s arm, but a warning glower deterred him. Pyotr suspected that if the ringmaster grabbed his arm, he’d topple over. “Give a hand to the return of the Russian Ice Bear!”
Gennady met Vitaly and Pyotr in the dressing room, looking as happy as Pyotr had ever seen him.
“Good show, Pyotr,” the thin, dark man complimented. “You made all of us tidy profit tonight. When do you fight next?”
“Four days,” Pyotr replied and worked his jaw. Damn, but someone had gotten in a hefty punch there.
“Just enough time for those bruises to bloom in glorious color,” Gennady said with approval. “Looking like someone beat the hell out of you will increase the odds against you. We’re going to make a killing.”
“Find Cecily for me and I’ll give you half of my winnings from the next fight.”
“You got it, man.”
Chapter 5
Cecily spent the next few days submitting her application to restaurant after restaurant, even the ones that indicated they weren’t hiring. Those who deigned to even look at her resume expressed no admiration for a culinary arts degree that wasn’t prefaced by either the Culinary Arts Institute or Le Cordon Bleu.
“Let me cook for you,” she begged the head chef of one establishment. “Just one meal for you to taste and judge the quality of my skill.”
Eight chefs declined the opportunity until one harried man looked her over and gestured curtly. “You got sixty minutes to amaze me,” he grunted, leading her into a dim, cramped kitchen.
Cecily nodded and asked to be shown the pantry. He pointed toward a dark alcove.
“There.”
She nodded and marched over there, ignoring her aching feet and anxiety. This wasn’t one of the better known or more popular restaurants, but it was a place that could use someone of her caliber to make it such. She knew she could put this little restaurant on San Antonio’s map.
The pantry’s depleted shelves challenged her, but Cecily had spent four years working her wizardry on a limited selection of inexpensive ingredients. Her tomato sauce was what attracted Pyotr to her in the first place: he’d wanted her in his kitchen before ever laying eyes upon her.
No, she thought and shook her head, she would not think of Pyotr. As much as she cared for him, she told herself he was a bad man. He’d made a career of beating people up, of intimidation. His work kept him in a place she did not want to be.
“I’m not stupid,” she muttered to herself as she quickly gathered ingredients. “I know you can’t just quit and I can’t ask you to do so.”
“Whatcha go
nna make?” the chef asked as she carried an armful of ingredients to the kitchen.
“Chicken surprise,” she replied flippantly, then frowned. Really, that kind of attitude wouldn’t win any favors. But the man chuckled and leaned against a wall to watch as she sliced and diced, seasoned and sautéed. Within 30 minutes she presented him with an elegantly plated meal with an aroma that made her mouth water.
“Taste,” she said, offering him the plate.
The chef looked at it, examining the appearance of the food. He raised the plate to his face, inhaling deeply. Raising a skeptical eyebrow, he took the fork she handed him and speared a bite-sized piece of chicken, a bit of vegetable, and some rice. Both eyebrows disappeared into his hairline when the flavors exploded on his tongue.
“Chicken surprise indeed, little lady. This is incredible.”
“Thank you.”
“When can you start?”
“How much can you pay?”
He took another bite, chewed, and swallowed, thinking over his answer. “This is a city of exquisite cuisine. It’s hard to stand out.” He took another bite, chewed, swallowed. “I’m a good businessman, but not creative as a cook.”
“You own this restaurant?” she asked.
“I do.” His expression turned melancholy. “It’s not been the same since my Paulina passed away. She was the magic in the kitchen.”
Moved by his sadness, Cecily laid a hand on his arm and said softly, “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” the man replied with simple dignity. "I’ve been trying to keep the restaurant going, but, without Paulina…” The words died away and his focus turned inward. He sighed, blinked, then continued. “Without Paulina, her recipes are just recipes. I don’t have her magic.”
“I’d love to see her recipes.”
The man nodded and set the plate down. Walking across the kitchen, he retrieved a box of stained and worn index cards.
“She wrote everything down here. She hoped one of our children would take an interest in the restaurant, but none of them did.”
She gave him a soft smile and said, “We all need to find our own way.”
