I slammed my fists forward, ripping into the flesh of the newly slaughtered pig hanging from the rafter of the gym. Viktor, my death-match trainer from my Dungeon days, counted my reps beside me. My bladed knuckle-dusters sliced into the pink flesh of the swine, the dripping blood and the cut of the skin almost humanlike as I let the power of my punches loose. “Drop and give me fifty,” Viktor ordered. I did as commanded, falling into my push-ups position. I pushed off the floor, eyes focused forward as Viktor counted me down. The familiar smells of the gym filled my nose, the sounds of clanging metal, grunts, and punching bags being struck brought me back to life. But a rip of guilt also sliced through my chest. Kisa had no idea I’d been training again. She had no idea that I’d called on Viktor to get me match fit again. To be Raze ready. In the weeks that I’d been back in Brooklyn, the street war between the Bratva and the Jakhua Georgians had begun. Our men were being targeted, shot, killed, beat.
