Page 19 of The Viper's Wife

Yevgeniy smiles that empty smile again. “Yes.”

The woman trembles in Omari’s lap as I point a finger in his direction. “Him.”

Omari scowls. At his pakhan’s order, he shoves her off and storms away.

“He will prepare himself,” Yevgeniy says.

Giovanni glowers at me, but I ignore him. He knows Father wouldn’t stop this—he loves brutal displays of power.

I step into the cage and stand under the warm lights. A crowd forms, gawking at me through the chain-link fence.

I’m too drunk for this. Omari will be surrounded by his countrymen, observed by his boss. He won’t go easy on me just because I’m Ottavio Matassa’s son.

I bounce on the balls of my feet a few times before falling still. I don’t care. He was annoying, groping at that woman so much, standing so straight in the elevator, being a good little soldier for the Bratva. He’s a worm, and when the pakhan tells him to hold off, don’t kill Matassa’s son, I’ll break his jaw.

Yevgeniy walks up to the edge and looks up at me through the fencing. The track lights shine harshly onto his face. “Before your match, a gift.”

I jump back as two men sling a third into the cage with a heavy thud.

The man groans, mutters something in Russian, and slowly, painfully pushes himself to standing.

When he lifts his head, I recognize him.

“My gift to Nicolo,” Yevgeniy calls out to the entire gathered crowd. “Roman Yezhov, thepredatel’who tried to kill your don. I leave his life in your hands.”

Roman’s eyes widen when he recognizes me—or one eye does, because the other is swollen shut. His face and body are covered in wounds. Not just fresh bruises, but cuts and burns and poorly healing scabs that look to be weeks old. His pakhan must’ve caught him right after the yacht party.

“You,” he says.

And then he runs at me.

His first swing is slow and wide and pathetically easy to dodge.

“I’m not fighting you,” I hiss.

He doesn’t hear me—or doesn’t care—as he swings at me again.

And again.

And again.

Each strike is slower than the last. I glance back at the crowd. Most of the onlookers are frowning—it’s not entertaining to watch a man avoiding a fight. They want blood.

I spot Giovanni. He’s grim. He would end this if I asked.

We both know I won’t.

“Kill him, Viper,” Yevgeniy shouts.

I turn back to Roman. He’s heaving, probably running on fumes, judging by his hollow belly. Bandages wind around his right hand. Blood seeps through them.

I understand my trap now. Roman is a scapegoat. I kill him, and the Russians can pretend he was a rat who acted outside of orders. The blame will publicly shift from Valeria’s dad to this dangerous, rogue agent. I look like a hero,avenging the attempt on my half-brother’s life and protecting my fiancée’s honor. Everyone is happy.

Roman spits blood and meets my eye. He’s exhausted. “Kill me, Viper.” It’s not a taunt. Not a plea. Somewhere in between.

If I don’t kill him, they’ll just drag him back to whatever hellhole they took him from.

At least I can make it clean.