Page 30 of Bratva Menace

I snapped my gaze to her. “What the fuck are you laughing at? We’re on the same team, you idiot.”

Her laughter stopped, the smile dropping from her face. “Fuck. You’re right. With me injured and you hurt, that only leaves Autumn at full strength.” She groaned, burying her face in her hands. “We’re gonna lose. Again.”

“Calm down. I’m not hurt. It’s a little cut. We can still take ’em. We just have to be smart.”

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “I told you when we drew our names out of the bowl for teams that I wouldn’t let you use me against Arturo.”

“Blah, blah, blah,” I mouthed as she spoke. “Do you want to win or not?”

“Not at the expense of causing distress to my husband.”

“You used to be fun.”

The crowd groaned in sympathetic pain when Autumn flung Drea over her shoulder, body slamming her to the ground.

“Yes! Go, Autumn, go!” I yelled, cheering.

While it was clear, based on her fighting style, that Autumn had professional training, they were both quite evenly matched. Drea was a street brawler. Honed her skills from what I assumed was a lifetime of fighting on the streets. She was tough as shit, never stayed down for long, and I’d seen her in enough sparring matches to know she had no problem fighting fucking dirty.

Drea had somehow manipulated her way to the top, hammering into Autumn relentlessly. The crowd was going wild, everyone on their feet, cheering them on, demanding more. Even Tatiana—who had Nikolai anxiously at her side, watching her every move in case something happened—was urging them on.

“Are you out?” I asked Illayana.

My sister took the ice pack off her ankle and tested it, applying a bit of weight as she slowly stood up. She winced slightly, then shook her head. “No, I’m good.”

“You better be,” I grunted. “We’re almost down to two minutes on the clock, and you know what Father does when there’s only two minutes left.”

Illayana groaned, her head dropping before she slowly made her way to the stairs that led back up to the ring.

My siblings and I had played countless tag team matches over the years. Our names would go into a bowl, and whoever we pulled out would be our partner.

And it didn’t matter who the teams were—Aleksandr would win. Every. Single. Time.

Well…this time…I was going to fucking win.

They were five, six-minute rounds, and on the last round, with only two minutes left on the clock, Father would call a free-for-all. Basically, we could all jump in the ring and beat the shit out of each other.

My eyes drifted up to the analog clock suspended above the ring.

2:09.

2:08.

2:07.

Illayana joined me at my side, not an ounce of discomfort on her face.

2:06.

2:05.

2:04.

Across the ring, Aleksandr’s eyes flicked upward. His body leaned forward in preparation.

2:03.

2:02.