Stolen: Dante’s Vow by Natasha Knight
Dante
The dog fight is taking place about an hour-and-a-half outside of the city in some beat-down, forgotten neighborhood in an abandoned warehouse that looks like it’s been out of use for about a hundred years. There are no lights in the parking lot, but judging by the number of trucks, the event appears to be well attended. Sick fucks.
I drink a big swig of whiskey and pull on a baseball cap. Matthaeus and I walk to the building. I can already hear the voices of men and barking of dogs from here. Two men stand sentry at the entrance. They’re big and have a general don’t-fuck-with-me look to them. The one remains sitting on his stool assessing us while the other stands, gives a nod of his head as if to ask what our business here is.
“Can I help you?” he asks, giving us the once over.
“Hear there’s some fun to be had,” I say, reaching into my pocket for my wallet. “Money to be made.”
“This is a private event,” the man says.
I make sure he sees the bills I take out, fold over. Sees the money still left inside my wallet.
He drags his gaze from the wad of cash to me. “Like I said, private.”
I sigh, take out another two hundred-dollar bills.
His colleague clears his throat. The man takes my money and gestures us in.
It’s just the two of us going in although four men are waiting nearby. Bringing soldiers would only draw attention. And if St. James is right—and he’d better be fucking right—Viktor’s soldiers will look away when I take him out.
The sound is amplified inside. It bounces off the large, cavernous space. The place was an old paper factory and although some equipment remains, it’s mostly been gutted. The windows are all but gone and there’s a chill in the air. Although I don’t feel cold. I’m too amped up.
A makeshift bar stands along the edge of the crowd with kegs of beer at the ready. The space is dimly lit but brighter as we pass the bar and make our way to where most of the crowd has gathered. I’d guess there to be over two hundred people, mostly men, but a handful of women too.
A dog barks and there’s a joint cheer from a group deeper in the circle. We push our way through, passing the place where caged dogs anxiously await their turn. I admit I’m not a dog lover per se, but this is just fucking wrong.
Matthaeus and I split up looking for Viktor Petrov. As I get closer to the pit I stand back and watch two men drag a Pitbull by its hind legs. It’s a sickening sight. The dog is mangled. He’s been mauled to death. And as I move around the crowd, I see the dog that did it. A big, mean looking thing.
Made mean by men, I remind myself.
I make out Viktor’s soldiers pretty easily. They don’t look like the others in here. Too well-dressed even in casual clothes. Most of these others look like they crawled out from some hole just to attend tonight’s event.
Matthaeus is across the room. He gives a slight nudge of his head and I follow the direction to find Viktor Petrov crouching by the cage of a dog, talking to another man, the dog’s owner, I’d guess. The dog is caged and leashed but when he lunges at Viktor, Viktor still stumbles backward, falling on his ass, spilling his drink before he gets to his feet, laughing.
He’s clearly drunk. And stupid.
One of his men comes to his aid but Viktor shoves him away, turns back to the dog’s owner and nods.
I pull my baseball cap down to hide the patch, grateful for the shadows, the lack of lighting. If he caught sight of me, would he recognize me? The eyepatch may make him look twice but would he know me?
A PA system comes on, screeching before someone taps and asks if this thing is on then laughs. The next fight is announced and Matthaeus walks toward the pit as the crowd divides to let the man Viktor was talking to lead his animal through. The dog is on a tight leash, and he snaps and growls at anyone who gets too close. I wonder how many men lose fingers or whole hands at these events. The stupid ones are drunk enough.
Viktor follows behind him holding a wad of cash up in the air, fist pumping it like he’s already won.
I move into the crowd, losing sight of him momentarily as the other dog, the one that mauled the last losing dog, is brought back into the ring. Bets are placed and the man over the loudspeaker eggs them on, talking about the new fighter, about his victories. About how the current champion was just warming up for this, the biggest fight of the night.
Someone knocks into me as I weave through the crowd and beer splashes out of his plastic cup. He turns to me, expression pissed like he’s about to start a fight himself. I straighten to my full height. He’s almost as tall as me.
“You got some on me,” I say after a glance at the few drops on my sleeve.
His gaze shifts between my eye, the scar on my cheek and the patch. There’s something to be said for wearing an eyepatch. On someone like me, it can be scary.
“Sorry, man,” he says and backs away.
I turn, Matthaeus at my side now. The fight is about to begin.
Viktor is laughing, drinking sloppily out of his plastic cup. Only one of his soldiers is nearby. The others are standing outside of the crowd. I get the feeling they like this about as much as I do.
The dogfight begins and the crowd swells forward to watch. Viktor laughs. I notice how high-pitched the sound is. Like that of a crazy man. I’m close enough to see his hands now. They’re dirty. Black under his fingernails. The wad of cash crumpled like it’s passed through a thousand hands tonight alone.
I think about Mara.
Innocent Mara.
I think about his hands on her. Him forcing her. She’s not even half his size.
That same fire that coursed through my veins the night I sat opposite Ivan Petrov in that cellar burns through me now. It makes my heart beat faster, dulls the sounds around me as it pumps hard and fast in my ears.
From the holster on my belt, I take out my dagger. Feel the cool weight of it in my palm. I step closer.
The crowd cheers, Viktor with them as the dog he’s obviously bet on injures the champion. Well, the soon-to-be ex-champion. Matthaeus glances around, gives a nod. No soldiers have come forward apart from the one standing closest to him but just as I get close enough that I can almost touch Viktor, that soldier turns his head, and our eyes meet.
We remain like that for a moment.
Now is his opportunity. Now is the time to pull Viktor away. Protect him. It’s his job. And I think about what I’ll do if that happens. I think about my promise to Mara that I’d come back to her.
I won’t leave here without killing Viktor Petrov no matter the cost.
I can’t.
Even if it means breaking my promise to her.
I tighten my grip on the dagger’s hilt, feel every curve of the design.
The soldier’s eyes narrow and he turns away.
Neither Matthaeus nor I move as we wait to see if he’s calling men over. More soldiers. But he doesn’t. He just sips from his cup and keeps his back turned.
And I advance. Taking the two steps that will bring me to within stabbing distance of one of Mara’s rapist.
I don’t hesitate. And I don’t bother to look him in the eye. He’s not worth that. I just push my knife into his kidney, twist and tug it free, then repeat on the other kidney.
His body stiffens. There’s a gurgling sound, then comes the stumble backward, his head turning, the remains of the idiotic grin on his face. Like his brain hasn’t quite processed what just happened. Like his body has yet to register the pain. The meaning of it.
I catch him, keep him upright. Because I want him to know it’s me, the man who killed his father come back for him. I want him to know that Mara is being avenged. Slowly but surely.
He turns just enough to see a glimpse of me, the eyepatch side of my face. His eyes grow huge. Good. He recognizes me.
I give him a wide grin as the cup drops from his hand. I hold him to me to push the bloody blade into his stomach. Not as soft as his father’s but with just a little nudge, I manage. And, like I did with his father, I tug upward.
A choked sound escapes his lips, and his eyes roll back. Blood dribbles from the corner of his mouth. He’s dead.
And every time I think I will feel some satisfaction. With each kill I think I’ll feel a little better. But no wrongs are righted. No damage undone. I could massacre every soldier who ever had a hand in her captivity, and it wouldn’t matter. Because she still lost fifteen years of her life. And she’ll be lucky if it’s only the fifteen. If she can make a life at all.
With a grunt I push Viktor off, turning to walk away as I holster the bloody dagger. Matthaeus is at my side and we’re out of the crowd before the first scream comes. A man’s scream. No one stops us as we walk back to the entrance, to the front doors of the place. Even the soldiers standing guard outside only nod, one making the comment that it’s a short night for us.
I don’t bother to respond. We get back to the SUV and I climb into the passenger seat, pick up the bottle of whiskey on the floor.
Fuck. I need a drink. Need to wash my hands. Viktor’s blood feels too sticky and I have a sick feeling in my gut at the thought of her at that man’s mercy.
I need to get back to the house. Back to her. Need to see her. Touch her. Feel her beneath me. Hold her. Take her. Banish all the memories of those years from her mind.
And I need her to do the same for me. To forgive me for leaving her on her own for so long. Forgive me for living my life while she was out there in the hands of monsters like this.
Forgive me for ever letting any of this happen to her.