Hunter's Trial - Bonus Prologue - Faye Pierce

Hunter’s Trial – Bonus Prologue

Nikolai

What now?

The words keep rattling around in my head. I think those two words are the only things keeping me from actually going insane.

The heating in our efficiency flat got turned off over a week ago. There hadn’t been any food in the fridge in at least two weeks now so it didn’t really matter. I had managed to get enough blankets from the thrift shop two streets over to make it into the next month. I had tried to pay the rent for mom but before I had even gotten the chance, she had taken the money from me. The winnings from my fights should have been enough to feed us and keep the roof over our heads for at least one more month. It wasn’t quite enough to put the power back on, but we would have made it. We had lived through worse.

Tonight’s fight had been bad enough that I was almost tempted to go to the clinic for stitches. The gash over my right eye was going to leave a wicked scar, but now it’s the least of my problems. I’ve only been home an hour. Cans of soup from the food pantry are now left discarded by the door because she’s not going to be able to eat them. She’s not going to be able to do anything ever again.

Mother’s lips are blue.

Her skin pale and waxy. Her eyes open and fogged over, unseeing as she lies half on the busted leather couch and half hanging off of it. Rubber tubing around her arm and track marks littering too much skin. A habit that she swore a million times that she would kick. She had been clean for a month. I don’t know what happened today. I guess I’ll never have an answer to that question now. It’s done. She’s gone. My mother. The only person I had in the world to call family and she’s just… gone.

There’s nothing to keep me here.

I could call the cops. I could stay and answer uncomfortable questions and get profiled for my heavy Russian accent. Assuming that they would be willing to come to this side of town anyway.

I have seen dead bodies before. Doing what I do and living the way we do, it’s just something that happens. Usually don’t give them a second glance, but Mother? I can’t seem to tear my eyes off her, no matter what I do. My eyes are burning. I don’t think that I’ve blinked since I got home.

She’s going to rot into that couch. How long before she gets all stiff? Should I cover her up with the blanket? Where will I sleep if I do?

I can’t stay here.

I can’t sleep next to her corpse.

But I don’t have anywhere else to go.

Only, I do. It’s just not somewhere I want to go.

I’m frozen for who knows how long. I sit in silent vigil, kneeling by the couch where she lay, thinking about all of the things that she would never get to do, all of the promises that I made to her over the years. That I was going to get us out of this mess and make sure that we lived in better circumstances. Now I’m never going to get to fulfill a single one. Even if I go and make something of myself, she won’t be there to see it.

Hours pass and my legs have long since gone numb. I pull the ratty blanket up and over her before leaving the apartment exactly the way that I found it. I don’t have any personal belongings in here anyway. Nothing of value. I pull the hood of my jacket up and bury my hands deep into my pockets as I head out onto the street, which is quiet and cold tonight. I turn my father’s business card inside of my pocket as I walk.

What choice do I have?

He might be a bastard, but I owe it to my mother to do something, to make something of myself like I promised that I would, in her memory. I can’t wallow forever. I either follow her, or I have to make the best that I can out of the situation.

I’m a fighter, through and through. It has to mean something that today is the very last day of Roman’s offer to join him. I avoided the gangs up until now, but I knew that I could never run forever.

Moscow might be nice. Mother always said I should go. Whatever training I can get there has to be worth it. Whatever he wants me to do, I’ll do it. I’ll rise through the ranks from the bottom, if that’s what it takes.

Someday, I’ll take control of the damned Bratva and show the world who I really am. This could be the first real break that I’m getting and I’m not going to waste it.

Pain, anger, regret all swirl inside of me as I head to the address that Roman put on the card he left for me. I can’t even imagine what he’s going to say. Thinking about it is better than focusing on the numbness that’s creeping its way through my body.

Mother’s life of pain and her sacrifices aren’t going to be for nothing.

At least her suffering is over now.

I end up at a derelict looking warehouse missing a good half of its windows. The metal double doors are parted slightly for me, and I let myself inside. The dim lighting is sparse, but I have been to enough places like this to know how to find my way around. Head down, keep quiet and act like you belong there. Usually works like a charm.

I take the metal stairs down into the basement where I can hear people talking. Men loading things onto vehicles and packing other things into larger wooden crates. People milling about, but everybody appears to have a purpose. Not a single idle hand to be seen. I can appreciate when an organization operates like a well-oiled machine.

Is this what I have to look forward to?

I find my father by a loading dock, holding a clipboard with a cigar hanging out of the side of his mouth. I don’t say a word as I go to stand beside him. He only glances at me for the shortest of seconds.

“Was wondering when your sorry ass would show up.” Roman says more to himself than to me. He chuckles softly as he checks something on the clipboard. A second later he snaps his fingers and somebody shows up to take it from him seemingly out of nowhere.

“The offer still stands?” I ask without elaborating.

Roman turns then, taking a really good look at me, sizing me up. “Walk with me.”

It’s not a request, it’s a command.

I do as told, quietly walking alongside my father as we wind deeper into layers of this building that shouldn’t even be possible.

“I won’t pretend to know what caused your change of heart, Nikolai, nor do I care. What I care about is what you can offer me. I plan to invest quite a bit into making you my heir if, and when, you earn that title. It will not be an easy path for you to walk. You understand this?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t have any room for people who question my orders. In this Bratva, I am king. What I say goes and is done without any hesitation. Those who cannot follow that one simple rule… well, I have no tolerance for useless men.” Roman warns. The threat lingering between us is more than clear. He doesn’t want a son. Not really. What Roman truly wants is a soldier. A weapon. I’ve already proved that I can be the former.

“My generosity doesn’t come free either, Nikolai.”

We stop in front of a familiar looking ring. I’ve never been here before, of course, but I can tell a fighting ring when I see one. It’s clean now, but the metallic scent of blood never truly leaves a place. This one’s lined in sand, uneven, surrounded by arching metal bars. One entrance in, and one way out. Unlike the fighting rings that I’ve been in before, I have no doubt that this sort of fight doesn’t stop when somebody taps out or is knocked unconscious.

It’s a test.

The first of many, I would be willing to bet.

“Only way into my Bratva is through blood, Nikolai. I will not make an exception just because you are my son. You must win your fight and prove yourself. Do this, or you will be useless to me as well.” Roman says plainly. There’s a glimmer of something on his weathered face that I can’t quite place. If I’m not mistaken, it almost looked hopeful. “Make me proud.”

Like there’s any other option?

I let my leather coat and hoodie slide off my arms and I drape them over the closest railing before hopping down those four steps into the pit, just like I’m supposed to do. At least this is something that I’m good at. This is something that I can do.

Hell, it’s what I need if I’m being perfectly honest. An outlet to channel all the rage and grief that’s going to turn into toxic sludge inside of me if I don’t get it out quickly.

The man that drops into the pit in front of me is at least twice my size and ten years older, covered in tattoos and scars. It’s nowhere near a fair fight. But, if the son of the leader can’t take him, just as Roman said, I would be useless. No time for complaining. The brute comes thundering toward me, each footstep sending vibrations through the ground and up my legs. I’m big for my age in every sense of the word. I’m trained and lethal and still light on my feet. It’s a point of pride.

Most of the time.

I don’t even see the man’s ham hock of a fist coming until it collides with the side of my head. I hadn’t dropped my guard. There’s no way he broke through it – and yet I feel like he knocked my brain loose inside of my skull. My ears start to ring and my fucking teeth rattle in place. I stagger back a few steps.

I glance at Roman and he’s completely unimpressed.

If this brute hits that hard every time, I’m not going to make it out of this fight alive, if things get dragged out. I have to end this quickly. There’s no other way around it. A strange need to make Roman proud seems to come out of nowhere. Strong and undiluted as I turn my mind off and slip into that calm, quiet place that always helps me win my fights. A mental place where nothing but the opponent directly in front of me seems to exist any longer.

It’s not a fair match.

That doesn’t stop me.

Everything seems to go blurry as the assault on my body only seems to get worse. Punch after punch, no matter how much I try to get away, and no tactic that I’ve used before seems to make even the slightest bit of difference. Just when I think that I’m about to lose and surrender to the pain something inside of me snaps. The black dots at the edge of my vision seem to spread and the wheezing in my lungs gets worse. Then there’s nothing. No sights, no sounds, no more pain, just the burning in my muscles as they take over for me. Every hateful emotion that I’ve felt for the last few years of my horrible life seems to bubble to the surface in a way that I can’t stop or control. I surrender to it. I let my body become a tool of rage upon my opponent.

I’ve never killed anyone before.

Broken ribs. Sprained everything. Concussed would be putting it lightly. Blood seems to be pouring out of me when the ringing in my ears stops and the striking silence of the men outside of the fighting ring suddenly registers.

Through the eye that’s still open I turn to look at Roman, resting on his elbows against the railing with a shit eating grin plastered onto his face and his cigar clamped in his teeth.

Did I do good? I can’t ask, but I swear he understands me anyway.

Roman nods subtly, and motions for somebody to come and scoop me up.

Approval. Praise. Acceptance.

It’s enough.