The too-full crowd of men erupted, a mixture of shouts of success or groans of dismay, as wads of money rapidly exchanged hands. The fight was done. The noise in the basement intensified and the men focused on their wins and ignored the victor in the center of the cage.

But Boy didn’t look away. Couldn’t look away, his eyes were glued to the sight.

He watched as the victor, covered in his opponent’s blood and guts, dropped to his knees, all energy drained from his too-bulky body. His eyes were red, his body shaking.

Boy watched as the victor tensed with rage, tipped back his head and screamed out in pain upon witnessing his victim’s blood, his life, oozing outward.

He watched as the victor let drop his bloody knife as an all-consuming numbness washed over his body.

And Boy watched as the victor’s lifeless gaze dropped to meet his, revealing how Boy’s future would unfold.

That same rancid breath once again blew past Boy’s cheek and he heard, “From now on, you’ll be known as fighter 818, and if you want to live, you’ll learn how to fight and how to survive here, in hell.”

And 818 did.

With the passage of time, 818 became unrivaled.

818 became death.

A.

Fucking.

Stone.

Cold.

Killer.

Chapter One

Kisa

Present day…

“Fuck, Myshka, your cunt’s so fucking tight…”

Pinned to the bed, my fiancé’s strong hands held me down by my shoulders as he slammed into me, his cock pounding my pussy with incredible force, his strong hips locking me in place.

I tried to move. I pushed hard against his chest, but he wouldn’t budge, not even an inch.

It was always like this when he took me—hard, rough, raw… totally out of my control.

Alik’s blue eyes lit with fire as I fought against him, flaring at my resistance, the aggression he expected me to exude every time he took me in this bed—an aggression he loved, an aggression he craved.

He liked to fuck. Never make love. Just to fuck, hard, so long as he was in control.

His right hand moved from my shoulder and wrapped around the front of my neck, not too tight to stop my breathing, but tight enough to keep me in place as I clawed his back and shoulders with my French-manicured nails.

I bucked my hips, but his thick thighs pinned me down even more, his dick unrelenting and slamming against my G-spot, forcing me to cry out in pleasure. Alik laughed at my failed effort to throw him off, his mouth now an inch from my face.

“Just try it, Myshka. Just try to move me… I fucking own you,” he growled in my ear, and his cock jerked in my channel, making me scream and bite into the skin on his shoulder, drawing a trickle of blood. Alik’s fingers tightened on my throat, restricting my moans. His breath blew harder. His chiseled jaw tensed, eyes boring into mine.

“Come, Myshka. Come!” he ordered. Thrusting into me three more times, almost bruising my clit with his hand as he did so, I shattered, clenching his cock so tight—whether I wanted to or not.

I hated that he knew my body so well. Hated that he knew how to get me off, make me scream, make me cry out. When I came, Alik saw it as a testimony of my love for him. I just saw it as another way to be used so he could lord his power over me.

Hand moving from my shoulder and wrapping in my hair, Alik yanked hard on the long light-brown strands, his eyes squeezing shut and his mouth hanging open. Then with a deafening roar, he came, flooding my pussy. My chest heaved as my hard nipples brushed against his solid, packed chest.

“Kisa… fuck!” Alik groaned and thrust slowly into me, winding himself down, hard muscles flexing and tensing all over his large body.

Without releasing his grip on my neck and hair, he crushed his lips to mine, his tongue forcing itself inside my mouth. I submitted, as always, moaning, like he would want, as his lower torso worked against my sensitive clit.

Alik pulled back and amusement flashed across his sharp-featured face. “Myshka, always mewling like a little pussy, huh?” His mouth lowered to my ear and his tongue licked along the outer shell. “Love me fucking you hard? Love me bruising your slit?”

Alik released my neck, only to reach down and squeeze my breast, pulling on the raised nipple. I hissed and cried out, making his smile widen.

“Love fucking you too, Myshka,” he murmured. Then abruptly, Alik pulled his still-hard dick out of me, leaving me lying on his wide bed in his luxurious Brooklyn apartment, trying to catch my breath and recover. He strode across the room, his ripped, tall body all walking perfection and he ran his hand over his buzz cut dark hair.

Alik grabbed a towel from the closet and wrapped it around his defined waist. I moved myself up the bed and watched him.

Alik had changed so much since we were kids. His large-framed fighter’s body was bulky. His skin was lightly tanned. His face chiseled, aristocratic, handsome even. He was Alik Durov—the man who decided to make me his when we were just a couple of Bratva kids trying to wade through the trials and tribulations of a rough mob life. The boy I never looked at as anything more than a friend, until he forced me to look at him as something more.

We grew up together. His father and my father were two of the three “Red” Bratva Kings of New York. My father, Kirill Volkov, was the Pakhan, the top boss, the one who ruled the Russian underground here in New York. Alik’s father, Abram Durov, was the enforcer, the next in line to the highest seat, the one who would deal with the darker side to the mob, the violent things, the revenge, the kills, the intimidation. He was sadistic, unforgiving and cruel…