Page 98 of Bratva's Mercy
Nik snorted quietly beside me as I drove forward again. “Well, that’s dramatic.”
“That’s Gusev for you, but there’s a reason he’s been one of the most successful brigadiers in Maxim’s business. He doesn’t target lower-income people, and the way he runs his operation promises anonymity.”
We parked beneath a covered entrance where another pair of guards waited at the checkpoint. We stepped out of the vehicle, and the guards searched us. Luckily, I’d told Nik to leave his weapons in the SUV rather than to hand them over. I didn’t trust anyone else to touch my tools of trade. The guards cleared us and waved us toward the main doors, which opened and Gusev himself emerged.
He looked as impeccably dressed as usual, wearing an ivory suit that didn’t need a designer label visible to know it was expensive. His hair was slicked neatly back, his smile warm enough to fool anyone who didn’t know better. After meeting at the club, we’d chatted casually over the phone leading up to tonight, and so far, he seemed solid. I could see us getting along easily, but I wasn’t ready to let my guard down yet.
It took a while before most people showed their true colors, which was why I stuck around Leo. Eventually, he had to let his guard down and let me see all of him. I’d already glimpsed it when he’d thought he’d hurt me with the door. I still smiled when I thought about how concerned he’d been then.
Seems like the way to the doctor’s heart is toneed his medical attention.
“Sergei.” Gusev descended the steps and held out his hand. “You actually came.”
“Well, I have to see what gives the Great Gusev the Midas touch.”
Gusev laughed and took my hand into a firm handshake that surprised me when it ended in a brief embrace. “Hey, we’re not competitors here. We run different businesses. I just happen to know what the market wants and how to target the right demographic that will pay the highest dollar to get it. And besides, tonight we’re friends, no? No more of this Gusev nonsense. Call me Pyotr.”
I nodded and introduced Nik to Gusev. Nik might have just been my shadow for the night, but I needed Gusev to understand he was way more than that to me. He was under my protection, and I expected him to be treated accordingly while we were there.
Gusev greeted him briefly, then motioned for us to follow him inside.
“You’re just in time to cast your bet for the next fight,” he said as we entered the sprawling marble foyer.
A woman in a tight red leather dress approached, her heels clicking softly against the polished marble floor. Her dark hair was slicked back into a tight ponytail that exposed the glittering diamond cuffs climbing both ears. In her hands were two matte-black tablets no larger than notebooks.
“Thank you, Isabelle.” Gusev took them from her and passed one each to Nik and me.
“You’re welcome, Mr. Gusev. Is there anything else you need?”
“The important guest in the crystal suite: ensure his every need is fulfilled.”
“Absolutely, sir.”
My gaze lingered on the back of the woman as she walked away. Who was that important guest who deserved to have his every need fulfilled?
“House rules.” Gusev handed one of the tablets to Nik and the other to me. “No personal phones. No watches with recording capability. No outside electronics whatsoever. Everything for the evening runs through the estate network for security reasons.”
I glanced toward a long, illuminated counter a few feet away, where guests were surrendering their devices into individual biometric lockboxes. Armed security stood nearby, watching every interaction carefully. Nobody argued. Nobody even looked inconvenienced by it.
Rich men hated being separated from their phones. Powerful men hated surrendering control even more. Yet here, they handed over their devices without hesitation because whatever happened in this building was valuable enough to protect at all costs and dangerous enough that nobody wanted evidence leaking out. They complied because they knew the procedures protected them from the polite society they were a part of finding out about their perverse pleasure in violence.
I tapped the screen of the tablet, and it powered on instantly beneath my thumb. The interface was sleek, black, and gold, with Gusev’s serpent insignia stamped across the top corner. Images of the two fighters appeared side by side on the screen alongside a countdown clock showing ten minutes remaining before the match began.
“Holy shit. Aistov’s fighting?” Nik cried softly.
Ah, so that’s the reason Gusev thought we’d be interested in this fight.
Aistov’s photograph looked more suited for a luxury fashion campaign than an underground fight circuit. Pale skin. Sharp cheekbones. Long dark hair flowing down his shoulders. Even shirtless in the profile image, he looked elegant. Not the kind of man you’d expect to be in the ring. Why was he even doing this? Aistov was wealthy in his own right from working as a brigadier for Maxim.
His opponent looked built from concrete and prison violence.
Below their images, betting categories scrolled endlessly down the screen. It wasn’t just betting on a winner. In fact, the winner’s bracket carried some of the lowest payouts on the board because that part was considered too predictable. The real money came from the details surrounding the violence. Patrons were wagering on the method of victory, how many rounds the fight would last, whether the matchwould end in a knockout or submission, and how many bones would break before it was over.
But the truly sinister betting pools sat farther down the screen beneath a heading labeledAcquisition Rights. That was where the real fortunes were changing hands. The winner of tonight’s fight wouldn’t just take the purse. Depending on how the contracts played out, they could claim temporary ownership rights over the loser or sell those rights to the highest bidder.
Wealthy patrons were already placing offers for exclusive purchase options. Some bids appeared tied to companionship and sexual arrangements, others to personal security acquisitions or debt transfers between criminal organizations. The defeated fighter wasn’t being treated like a person. He was an asset being evaluated in real time, his value rising and falling with every projected injury the crowd anticipated he would suffer.
“Why would Aistov do this?” I asked.
