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1
SASHA
Walkingdown the row of men, I surveyed each with a narrowed gaze. They were all cut from the same cloth — cold, ruthless, and, above all, lethal. Each came with a violent reputation and a skillset not suitable for the civilian world. They were just the sort of men I’d asked for and their respective bosses delivered.
“You.” I stopped in front of a blond, head cocked. He looked like he could be Roan’s body-double. Tall and lean with a youthful face. That was both useful and problematic. If anyone was looking for Roan, this one could lead them straight to him. Still, if someone had to die, I’d rather it be a stand-in than the real thing. “Over there.”
The blond stepped past me and marched to the center of the room, waiting for me to select his opponent.
I glanced at the remaining men in line. “All of you. Go.”
Pivoting on my heel, I folded my arms over my chest and watched the five men swarm forward against the blond. His blue eyes snapped to mine briefly, accepting the challenge with a small smirk, before flicking back to his rivals.
The first man rushed forward. The blond blocked the punch and kicked the side of the man’s knee out, dropping him. He wasted no time going for the second one, punching him so hard in the chest the man stumbled back, also out of the fight.
Three and four charged him at the same time. He focused his attention on the bigger of the two, twisted his hand in his shirt and yanked him in close to deliver a series of bone-crunching punches, regardless of the hits he took in return. Once the third man dropped in a bloody heap, he squared off against the remaining two.
I arched an eyebrow and slipped a hand inside my waistband, retrieving a knife. Catching the eye of one of the attackers, I slid the knife across the floor and resumed my stance, arms crossed.
The man snatched the weapon off the ground and lunged at the blond. He ducked and wove, deflecting the blade, looking for an opening to retaliate. With the other, unarmed, opponent circling toward his backside, the blond defender was running out of options.
“How’s it going?” a quiet voice said next to me. I didn’t need to turn to know it was Misha.
“We’ll see.”
“Better than Oleg?”
“We’ll see.”
Misha chuckled and glanced at his watch. “When this is done, we have a meeting.”
I stole a glance at him out of the corner of my eye and nodded.
The blond was in a headlock now, trying to dislodge the man behind him while not getting stabbed by the one in front. With a series of elbow strikes and kicks backward, the blond freed himself and threw his efforts into the one with the knife. They grappled with one another, blood slinging between them as the knife sliced back and forth, not caring who it cut with its curved blade.
Finally, the blond won out, twisting the man’s arm backward and forcing him to stab himself in the shoulder with the knife the man wouldn’t let go of.
Misha clapped politely.
I, on the other hand, strode forward in silence.
Sweating, bleeding, and breathing hard, the blond’s chin tipped up defiantly.
A step away, I unholstered a gun and pointed it at his face.
In the blink of an eye, the blond’s hands were on mine. One grabbed the gun while the other slammed into the inside of my wrist, bending it inward. The gun slipped from my hand. He flipped it to his dominant hand and took aim at my chest.
I assessed the blond again, giving him an approving nod. “You’re hired.”
He inclined his head and spun the gun on his finger, handing it back to me, grip first.
“What’s your name?” I asked, holstering the weapon.
“Ilya Chernyshevsky.”
Tossing a glance over my shoulder at Misha, I bit my tongue before I said something inappropriate. I should have known. From their appearance to their fighting style, Ilya was like a younger version of his uncle. It was so obvious now, I felt like a fool for not seeing the connection sooner.
Misha smirked and strolled toward the door, texting on his phone.
