Page 28 of Bratva Menace

“Arghhhhh! Fucking asshole!” Illayana screamed, still refusing to give in, crawling inch by painful inch toward me. All she had to do was tap my hand, and then Aleksandr would have to let her go. She could leave the ring, and I would be able to take her place.

Our dickhead of a brother wasn’t making it easy on her, though. Not in the slightest. The corners of his lips were kicked up into a smug, playful smirk. He didn’t just know that he was holding the winning ticket in his hands, that his team would be victorious. He also knew he could actually end the fight any time he wanted. If he applied enough pressure, my sister would tap out or risk having her ankle broken.

He was just playing with her. Making her suffer.

Arturo watched on anxiously from the other side of the ring, his face contorted as if he himself were the one in pain. He might have been on the opposing side, but it was clear that standing by while Illayana was being hurt was hard for him.

Although that was an almost daily occurrence for us growing up, the uber-traditional Italian man Arturo was made it hard for him to stand back and watch the woman he loved in pain.

That competitive nature in him would be cheering for Aleksandr, but his heart would be cheering for Illayana.

“Tap. You know you can’t get out,” Aleksandr goaded, his smirk widening when Illayana moaned in agony and her head thumped to the floor.

I had to do something or we were going to lose, and we’d never hear the fucking end of it.

“Illayana!”

Her head snapped up, eyes connecting with mine. I swiped the tip of my index finger across my body from shoulder to shoulder, twirled that same finger through the air, and then thrust my elbow up swiftly. She groaned in agony, her head dropping forward on her shoulders.

A few years may have separated us, but Illayana and I were as close as twins. And, like twins, we’d created our own little language when we were kids—except instead of using words, we used hand signals.

Illayana knew exactly what I was saying to her. Knew exactly what I was telling her to do. She knew it was the only solution to her problem.

That didn’t mean she wanted to do it, though. Because it was going to hurt like fucking hell.

In the position she was in—lying flat on her stomach, Aleksandr on one knee behind her with her right ankle locked in his grasp—there was no way of getting out of that hold without enduring some pain.

Lucky for our team, my sister was the most competitive one out of all of us. Illayana would do whatever she fucking had to to win. I knew she’d have no problem enduring a little pain if it meant a possible victory.

Her head slowly lifted, determination and anger burning in her eyes. Illayana slammed her palms down on the floor and growled, teeth clenched. Then, in a move that shocked the hell out of Aleksandr, she swung her left leg back, ignoring the undoubtable pain that move would have caused, and kicked him in the face.

The blow wasn’t as powerful as I knew Illayana was capable of delivering, but it was enough to startle Aleksandr and force him to let her go, falling back.

Her gaze whipped to my hand, outstretched through the ropes. She dove forward. Her hand slapped against mine. The crowd roared as we switched places, Illayana rolling under the bottom rope and off the side of the ring, and me diving through the middle, rolling along the ground, and jumping back up to my feet all within a single move.

Aleksandr had just gotten to his feet when I popped up in front of him. His eyes widened slightly.

“THIS IS SPARTA!” I front-kicked him in the chest. He flew back, smacking into the ropes behind him. But before he could bounce back toward me, Arturo slapped a hand on his shoulder, effectively tapping Aleksandr out and tapping himself in.

Aleksandr let loose a growl filled with frustration, rubbing his sternum as he glared daggers at me.

I smiled, twinkling my fingers in a bye-bye gesture.

With a grumble, he and Arturo traded places.

The king of La Cosa Nostra stared me down, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. He began to slowly roll up the sleeves of his dress shirt. “I’ve been wanting to do this for a long, long time.”

I danced back, light as a feather on my feet. “Yeaaaah. I have that effect on people.” I smirked. I put my hands up in a boxer’s pose. “Let’s dance, motherfucker.”

Arturo charged. His first strike, I avoided, his fist flying past my face. He followed it through with punch after punch after punch, alternating his hands with each move.

I ducked, twisted, and dodged, primarily stuck on the defensive. I fucking hated it, but he was throwing shots too fast for me to do anything else but defend.

That squirrely fucker.

He hit me with a fast combo. Right punch. Left punch. Knee to the gut. That last one struck. I doubled over, my breath wheezing out of me on a painful groan. His knee came up to hit me in the face. I just managed to block it in time and charged forward, picking him up and tackling him to the ground.

The crowd roared behind us as we grappled, rolling along the floor.