Snow: Chapter 15

I watch Sasha climb into the cab. She gives me a little smile and a wave as it pulls away, though I know she’s dreading going to meet Yakov.

The sound of his snide voice on the phone made my blood boil.

Where the fuck does he get off, snapping at her like that.

Plus, I’m sure he’s done a lot more than bark at her. There’s no way that slimy fuck hasn’t made a pass at a girl that pretty. Probably more than once.

Sasha doesn’t belong to me, just because I slept with her once.

So, none of this should be any of my business.

But I can’t stop thinking about it, hours after she’s gone. I’m worried about where Yakov’s taking her, and what he expects her to do.

Sasha isn’t used to world of the Bratva. She wasn’t raised to it. I’m sure it horrifies and disgusts her. And it’s dangerous, too. More so for her than for an actual gangster. She’s not Bratva. When she gets herself in trouble, no one will be there to bail her out.

None of this is my problem. I shouldn’t be thinking about it. I shouldn’t have spent time with her at all.

It’s only asking for trouble, getting to know this girl. Developing sympathy for her.

And taking her virginity! What the fuck was I thinking?

I’ve never fucked a virgin before.

Sasha doesn’t seem like the clingy type, but it creates a bond, whether you want it to or not.

There’s another problem, too.

I really, really, really enjoyed it.

Even while I’m telling myself that I shouldn’t even speak to her again if I see her at the fights, I’m simultaneously imagining what I want to do if I get her alone again. How I want to touch her and taste her in a thousand different ways . . .

Her inexperience is intriguing to me. She’s barely scratched the surface of pleasurable sex. How I’d love to be the first to explore that universe with her . . .

I can’t do it, though. She belongs to Krupin. And while I don’t think his interest in her is sexual, she’s very much his property. He won’t take kindly to me meddling with his doctor.

I shouldn’t have fucked her at all. If he knew, he’d probably expect payment, the same as he would for one of the whores in his brothels.

I can’t get attached to Sasha. I have no control over her future or fate. That’s in Krupin’s hands.

Besides, I’ve got to focus on my fights. Each one is going to be harder than the last. With barely a break between them. The gash above my eye is far from healed, and I’ll be heading into the ring again the day after tomorrow. This time I’m facing up against Black Eye.

Black Eye Bulari got his nickname because he gets the shit beat out of him every fight, but he doesn’t go down. He’s lost half his teeth and has a wicked case of cauliflower ear on the right side. Every time I see him, he’s sporting a new scar or his trademark black eye. Yet he has a solid 20-6 record. He’s a blood and guts warrior.

I’m not sure how our fight will go. Out of all the contenders, he’s watched me box more than anyone, except maybe the Rabbi. So he’s familiar with my style. He trained with Meyer himself, a couple years back. Plus, there’s something demoralizing about a boxer who just won’t go down. You either have to pound them into bloody submission, worrying that you’re going to kill them this time, or you risk having them pop back up and knock you out when you least expect it, when you think they’re beat.

Black Eye’s done it more than once, to other idiots.

I try to buckle down and train. I get up early the next morning, arriving at the gym while Meyer’s still in his bathrobe. He’s not impressed. He can tell I’m distracted.

I’m worrying about the job that Yakov called Sasha to do. Why did he say she was going to get dirty? I wish I could text her, just to make sure she got back alright.

“Hey!” Meyer shouts, giving me a sharp smack on the side of the head with the pad he’s holding. “Pay attention, tupoy. If I was Black Eye, I woulda rung your fucking bell.”

“Black Eye’s not as quick as Merciless Meyer,” I tease him.

“Oh, fuck your flattery,” Meyer snorts. “I know I’m old and slow. And you’ve got your head in the clouds. What’s your problem? You stay up too late?”

I shake my head, hitting the pads over and over while Meyer holds them out in different combinations. I’m trying to stay locked in, trying not to think about anything but anticipating his next move.

But before I know it, I’m remembering the silvery glow of Sasha’s hair in the dim light of the ship, the mischievous glint in her blue eyes when she said, “There’s no one around. You could just take the picture home . . .”

I didn’t take the picture. I took her home, instead. Then I unwrapped her like a Christmas present, revealing her beautiful, creamy skin, her soft, full breasts, her slim waist, and her tight little pussy that had never been touched before I dove my tongue inside of it . . .

SMACK!

Meyer hits me again, even harder this time.

“What the fuck is going on with you?” he growls.

“I need a drink,” I say, stripping off my gloves.

I grab my water bottle and chug it down, pouring the last remaining inch of water over my burning face.

I’m going to get slaughtered in the ring if I can’t pull it together.

“You better tell me what’s going on,” Meyer says furiously. “You been drinking? Smoking sornyak?”

“No,” I say, shaking my head.

“What is it then?”

There’s no way in hell I’m telling Meyer that some girl turned my head. Especially not a girl who works for Krupin.

“Just tired,” I tell him. “It’s a lot of fights in a row.”

He’s still staring at me suspiciously.

“Let’s go again,” I say. “I’m ready now.”

I pull my gloves on once more, trying to drive every thought of Sasha from my mind.

That night while I’m lying in bed, absolutely not thinking about her, I hear that plaintive crying sound again. It’s coming from outside my window. At first, I think it’s just the wind, because it’s a cold night. The brief springtime warmth has broken, returning to the late winter chill that’s been dragging on so long.

I’m tossing and turning in bed, my sheets twisted and knotted around my body. I’m supposed to be sleeping, but I keep getting hard, remembering what I did with Sasha in this bed.

Even jerking off doesn’t help. I stroke my cock, remembering the ridiculously silky texture of her skin, the way her hair smelled clean and elegant, like something far too exquisite for a brute like me to touch. My cock is rock hard, but it doesn’t want my hand. It wants to be buried inside of her again. I want to hear her gasps of pleasure, as I take control of her body, showing her how it ought to be used . . .

I can’t get over the edge.

I lay there hot and annoyed, aching for something I can’t have.

I get up to fill a glass of water at the sink, gulping it down. When I shuffle back to the bed, I hear that squeaking sound, louder than ever.

Because I’m hot, and because I want to know what the hell that is, I unlock my window and lift the shutter up.

The frigid wind blows in. It actually feels good against my bare chest.

I look out on the fire escape, to see if the noise is just the rusty bolts creaking.

Instead, I find a skinny little cat curled up against the brick wall.

It’s not a kitten, I don’t think, even though it’s so small—it’s just a runt, scrawny and undernourished. It’s pale gray in color, with stripes only on its face and tail.

I should close the window and leave it out there. I don’t want a pet, especially not some ragged stray. If I wanted an animal, I’d get a dog.

But before I can do anything, the little cat raises its head and mews at me.

It’s a pathetic sound.

Loud, too.

If I leave it out here, it’ll cry all night, keeping me awake.

I could take it inside, then bring it to a shelter tomorrow. It might get adopted—Russians love cats, especially Slavs. If not, euthanasia is better than freezing. Either way, it’s not my business.

I scoop up the little cat and bring it in the apartment. I open a tin of tuna and pour a little water in a bowl. The cat attacks the food, eating so quickly I’m afraid it’s going to be sick. I watch it for a minute, amused by its enthusiasm. Then I go back to the bed.

About ten minutes later, I feel a bump as the cat jumps up onto the bed. It prowls around my feet for a minute, on top of the blankets, then it settles down between my ankles.

I ought to push it down to the floor—it’s probably filthy. But I gotta admit, its warmth and weight are comforting. It starts to purr, steady and quiet.

It’s not afraid of me at all. It must be used to people. Maybe it even had an owner, though apparently not one that bothered to give it a collar or tags.

Maybe they’ll come find it if I take it to the shelter tomorrow.

For now, the purring is soothing. The shot of cold air from outside has cooled me down at last. The cat and I are both ready to go to sleep.

The moment I’m back in the warehouse for night three of the tournament, I’m looking around for Sasha. I told myself I wasn’t even going to talk to her. Yet I’m craning my neck, trying to catch sight of that white-blonde hair.

“Looking for Black Eye?” Boom Boom asks. “He’s over there.”

He points to the bar, where Black Eye is swilling down a whiskey on the rocks, looking like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

“Oh yeah,” I say.

I don’t give a fuck about Black Eye. I haven’t given one thought to him, or my upcoming match.

I want to see Sasha. Just for a minute.

I’m not going to do anything. I just want a look at her face, to see if she’s really as pretty as the picture I have in my mind.

Infuriatingly, she’s nowhere to be found. I see Krupin standing next to Yakov. Stepanov is on his other side, along with his entourage of men. This includes the Beast, who looks bored, and Afansi, who stands on the outskirts of the group, still sporting his bruises from his defeat in the ring. I’m sure Stepanov wasn’t too pleased with his performance. Afansi’s lucky he’s not fired.

Krupin has ordered a bottle of top-shelf liquor for the group—obviously still wooing Stepanov. Stepanov must be getting off on making Krupin squirm. That’s probably why he hasn’t closed the deal yet.

Sasha isn’t with them. She must be inside the infirmary, preparing for the fighters about to be sent her way.

I’m almost willing to take another cut to the face, just so I can visit her.

I don’t know what the fuck is happening to me. When did I ever care this much about seeing anybody?

She’s just a girl.

Just a beautiful, brave, warm-hearted girl, who lights me up like a spark on dry tinder . . .

The warehouse has been rearranged. With only eight boxers left, fighting in four matches, we’re down to a single ring set in the middle of the floor. Krupin has arranged VIP tables along one side of the ring, the largest occupied by Stepanov and himself, along with all their men. The rest of the seating is on stadium-style benches, rising up on the other three sides. This has allowed Krupin to pack in more people than ever. He’s got at least twenty waitresses running around, passing up trays of drinks to the spectators at the highest levels of the bleachers.

As the start time approaches, the spectators start stomping the bleachers in unison, chanting for the fights to begin. Krupin has hired a sword-swallower and two gymnasts to keep them entertained, but the crowd barely tolerates the gymnasts. They boo the sword-swallower right off the stage.

I head inside the locker room.

I see the Rabbi wrapping his hands. He looks nervous.

“Who are you fighting?” I ask him hesitantly.

I don’t like that the Rabbi is still in this. Almost all the competitors remaining are heavyweights. He shouldn’t have been invited to participate to begin with. Krupin probably only asked him because he’s such a crowd favorite. He must have thought the Rabbi would be knocked out after a round or two.

Now the Rabbi’s sure to be paired up with someone grossly outside his weight class.

Sure enough, he tells me he’s up against Butterball. Butterball is a fighter known for his bulging waistline as much as his skills in the ring. He started as a middleweight, but his love of junk food has kicked him up rung after rung until now he’s one of the bigger heavyweights. He still wins though, despite the reduction in his speed. His mass gives him a heavier punch and more padding to absorb body blows.

Honestly, I don’t know how the Rabbi is going to get close enough to land a shot on his head, not with that belly in the way.

“Maybe you should just get out of this thing,” I say to the Rabbi. I don’t want to insult him, but he has to know it’s madness fighting so far outside his class.

“It’s a big purse tonight,” the Rabbi says. “I think I can take Butterball. I’m gonna harry him, like a pit bull on a bear. Gonna spin him around until he’s so dizzy, he falls right over.”

“It takes more than one dog to bring down a bear,” I say.

The Rabbi tightens his lips, shrugging stubbornly.

“I’ve got a baby coming,” he says flatly. “I need the money.”

I don’t bother him anymore. He’s obviously made up his mind.

The Rabbi is the first one up. I stand in the doorway of the locker room so I can see what happens.

The Rabbi squares up against Butterball, looking ridiculously small and lean in comparison to Butterball’s mass. The bell sounds and the Rabbi starts dancing around him. Butterball sends a couple punches in his direction, but they’re too slow, much too slow. The Rabbi ducks and slips each one easily.

At first the crowd is jeering at him, telling him to quit dancing and get in there. But the more Butterball swings and misses, the more the spectators start laughing and cheering the Rabbi on. He’s not just ducking—he’s presenting himself as an open target, dropping his gloves and standing still for Butterball to hit, then jerking aside at the last second, Butterball’s ham-sized fists swinging past his nose with a millimeter to spare.

It’s giving me a heart attack how close Butterball is getting. Any one of those punches could send the Rabbi flying. But through the force of his own confidence, which is growing by the second, or through pure luck and skill, the Rabbi evades each blow.

Butterball is getting angrier by the second. His shots are wilder.

Now the Rabbi starts taking his own shots. As Butterball swings and misses, the Rabbi leaps in and gives him a shot to the jaw. Another swing and miss, and two more quick jabs to the face.

It’s insane. I’ve never seen anything like it.

Once, Butterball swings so close that the Rabbi actually falls over backward, but he rolls back over his own shoulder, leaping to his feet again, and giving Butterball a hard shot to the ribs.

It goes on for three rounds. The Rabbi never musters quite enough power or a clean enough shot to knock him out, but Butterball is bruised and bloodied, and absolutely enraged. The Rabbi hasn’t been hit once. It’s an obvious decision in his favor, the crowd’s deafening cheers confirming it.

The Rabbi advances to the fourth round.

He’s bouncing and grinning as he hops nimbly down from the ring.

I can’t help but feel proud of him. I’ve never seen a fight like it.

At the same time, his hubris scares me. Most fighters aren’t as slow as Butterball. It was a once in a lifetime fight, something you could never replicate again.

The second pair of fighters take to the ring.

I’ve got to get ready, I’m up next.

I don’t watch this fight—instead, I let Boom Boom rub out a knot in my traps while I listen to Khalid on my headphones.

Boom Boom’s looking glum, even after the spectacle of the Rabbi’s victory, which is the kind of thing Boom Boom would usually go nuts about.

I pull my earbuds out and say, “Hey, what’s up with you?”

“Leila dumped me,” he says.

It takes me a minute to remember that Leila is the hairstylist girlfriend.

“Oh,” I say. “What for?”

“I think it might be the tooth,” Boom Boom says gloomily.

It takes every ounce of my self-control not to laugh. Boom Boom really does look about eight years old with his jug ears and missing front tooth, especially when he’s pouting like this.

On the other hand, I can tell he’s really beat up about it. And I’m unusually sympathetic to romantic torment at the moment.

“Her loss,” I tell him. “Anyway, she was pretty shit at cutting hair.”

“That’s true,” Boom Boom says, perking up a little. “Maybe I’ll just buzz my head now.”

I’m not sure that would be an improvement. But if it makes him happy . . .

“Yeah,” I say. “Go for it.”

After the second fight, there’s a short intermission. I can’t help going to the doorway again, to see if Sasha’s around.

Instead, I see Krupin handing over a hefty stack of bills to Stepanov. Stepanov grins, pocketing the money, and making some taunting comment to Krupin that makes him flush red in the face.

Krupin retorts, and I see them both look up toward the chalkboard, checking the odds for the next fight. I’m favored against Black Eye by +430. Krupin and Stepanov discuss for a minute. Looks like they’re agreeing on another bet.

Interesting. It could be that Krupin is just humoring Stepanov, but I don’t think so. He looks too flushed, too agitated. He’s got the expression of a genuine gambler who just lost a hefty stack—meaning, he’s on tilt.

I don’t know if Krupin bet on me or not, and I don’t care. I’m winning this fight. I’m taking home the 150,000-ruble prize.

I’m about to turn back into the locker room when I catch sight of what I’ve been searching for all night: Sasha’s blonde braid moving through the crowd.

She approaches Krupin with a wary but resigned expression, as if she’s just been summoned.

All I can pay attention to is how utterly gorgeous she looks, even in the plain black sweater and slacks she’s wearing. I know she meant to blend in, but the black clothing only highlights her creamy skin and silvery hair. The sweater may cover every inch of her body from neck to wrist, but it can’t conceal the luscious figure beneath.

I’m not the only one noticing. Stepanov is devouring her with his eyes. He touches her arm as he says something to her, his face close to hers.

The sight of his meaty hand on her arm sparks something in me. A feeling of rage.

I try to smother it down. It means nothing to me if someone touches Sasha. She doesn’t belong to me.

But I want her to.

I ought to slap myself just for thinking that. I should turn away and get ready for my fight.

I can’t tear my eyes off Sasha. Or Stepanov.

I can tell he wants her. Lust is written all over his face.

And I can see just as clearly that Sasha wants nothing more than to get away from him. But she has to stand there, nodding and stiffly smiling at whatever he’s saying.

It’s driving me mad.

By the time Krupin finally dismisses her, I’m engulfed in fury.

When the MC calls my name for my match, I practically sprint out to the ring. I tear off my robe, hardly hearing the ref’s instructions.

The bell rings and I advance on Black Eye like an avenging god.

I hit him again and again and again.

True to his name, he won’t go down. He keeps coming back for more.

I batter him mercilessly. I’m colder and crueler than I’ve ever been before.

I don’t see Black Eye at all. I see Stepanov’s face—his leering eyes and groping hands. His haughty smirk. I want to smash it all to bits with my fists.

My feet are slipping in blood, and still I keep going.

At last Black Eye falls to the canvas, knocked out cold for only the second time in his career.

I raise my fist in victory.

Looking out at the crowd, I see Sasha’s horrified face staring back at me.