Dead Men Don't Owe Debts

I survived 100 underground death matches just to keep my brother alive.

My reward? A rusted coffee can holding his ashes.

When I knelt in the pouring rain, desperately scraping his ash out of the black mud, Cassian—the mafia boss I'd bled for ten years—kicked the can away.

He pulled a gun and pressed it to my head. All because his innocent fiancée felt "scared" by my look.

"Apologize to her," he commanded.

Looking at the gun I had engraved with his name years ago, I didn't cry. I didn't beg. I just laughed.

Clutching the battered, empty tin can to my chest, I turned and stepped off the cliff into the raging Black Sea.

Only then did the great Cassian panic, his desperate screams swallowed by the dark waves.

The stench of rust and blood fermented in the underground fighting pit, like damp cotton strangling my lungs.

This was the hundredth fight. No protective gear, no rules. Only one way out—death or total unconsciousness.

Crack.

A heavy fist slammed into my left ribs. The sound of bone fracturing was swallowed by the deafening roar of the crowd outside the cage.

I choked down the blood rising in my throat, reached back to pull the sharpened steel rod hidden in my boot, and drove it precisely into the carotid artery of the two-hundred-pound Russian brute in front of me.

Blood sprayed across my face, warm and sticky. The massive body collapsed with a thunderous crash onto the cement floor caked with dried blood, twitched twice, and went completely still.

I braced my hands on my knees, gasping for air. Blood and sweat dripped down together. Through my blurred vision, I looked up toward the second-floor VIP box.

Behind the one-way bulletproof glass, Cassian sat on the sofa.

He wore a tailored black suit, swirling half a glass of whiskey in his hand.

The dim light carved out the sharp line of his jaw. His gaze cut through the glass and landed on me, as if watching a dying dog.

Beside him, Valerie sat in a wheelchair. She wore a pristine cashmere dress, Cassian's jacket draped over her shoulders, looking down at me with those innocent eyes.

Three years ago, in a gang shootout, Valerie's legs were blown off.

Cassian decided that I'd triggered the bulletproof corridor door early to save myself, locking her in the blast zone.

As punishment—and to secure the expensive targeted therapy for my terminally ill brother Leo—Cassian stripped me of my position as the family's top assassin and threw me into this godforsaken fighting pit.

"Survive one hundred death matches, and I'll believe you didn't do it on purpose." Those were his exact words.

Now, the hundred fights were over.

The cage opened. Two guards rushed in, yanked my arms behind my back, and dragged me up to the second-floor box.

The door burst open. Expensive cigar smoke and cold air hit me in the face.

A boot kicked the back of my knees, slamming me to the floor.

My kneecaps crashed into the thick, soft Persian rug, and the filthy blood coating my body instantly seeped into the intricate gold-thread patterns like a disgusting stain.

My broken ribs pulled at my internal organs. I gritted my teeth and stared at those spotless Italian leather shoes.

"Cassian." My voice came out like sandpaper scraping stone. "One hundred fights. I'm done. Leo's medication this month, and the freedom you promised."

Cassian didn't look at me. He set down his glass and bent to adjust the jacket slipping from Valerie's shoulders.

That calm tenderness—I used to kill for it. Valerie shrank into his arms, as if frightened by the blood covering me.

"Ella, you're always so impatient." Cassian's voice was low, dripping with absolute arrogance. "You're scaring Valerie."

"One hundred fights." I stared at him. Repeated it.

Cassian finally stood. He walked toward me, his black leather shoe moving naturally onto my fingers splayed against the carpet.

He didn't stomp. He just slowly shifted his weight onto the back of my hand.

Pain shot through every nerve. My whole body convulsed, but I bit down on my lip until I tasted blood, refusing to make a sound.

"Yes, the hundred fights are over." Cassian looked down at me, his eyes devoid of warmth. "But you seem to have forgotten—atonement isn't just about killing. It's about submission."

He nudged Valerie's wheelchair with the tip of his shoe. There were mud stains on the wheels from the trip over from the estate.

"One last step." Cassian's voice was flat. "Take off that jacket Leo gave you. Use it to wipe the mud off Valerie's shoes and wheelchair. Then lick the dirty water off the floor. Do that, and your atonement is complete."

My pupils contracted sharply.

That leather jacket was a birthday gift Leo bought me with every penny he'd saved from odd jobs. Though it was worn and bloodstained, it was the only warmth I had left in this hell.

"Impossible." I met his eyes.

Cassian laughed coldly. He pulled out his phone, dialed a number, and put it on speaker. The steady beep of a ventilator echoed through the room.

"Ella, I can have them pull your brother's ventilator plug anytime I want." He tossed the phone in front of me, the gesture casual. "A jacket, or your brother's life. Your choice."

Valerie sighed softly from her wheelchair. "Cassian, just forget it. Ella has her dignity too. That jacket means a lot to her. My shoes can stay dirty."

"What dignity does she have?" Cassian's gaze cut like a blade. "A traitor who left her own people to die doesn't deserve dignity."

Staring at the hospital number flashing on the screen, the pain in my ribs was replaced by something colder.

My hands shook so badly I could barely grip the metal zipper. The jacket still carried the cheap scent of Leo's laundry detergent—the only human smell in this room reeking of blood and cigars.

"Don't…" A broken gasp escaped my throat.

But I still pulled it open. The sound of the zipper grinding was especially harsh in the silence. I peeled it off my shoulders like tearing away my last layer of skin.

I clutched the jacket and crawled toward Valerie's wheelchair. She lowered her eyes, her lips pressed into an almost pitying curve.

Coarse mud scraped against the lining. Dirty water completely ruined the crooked "Ella" Leo had hand-stitched inside.

Cassian stood to the side, cold-eyed, as if admiring a piece of art he'd completely shattered.

"It's clean."

I threw the ruined jacket aside, braced my hands on the floor, and stared at the mud in the carpet crevices. I bent down, my nose almost touching the rug.

The moment my tongue touched the icy filth, I heard Cassian's soft laugh from above. The kind of satisfaction a master feels when a wild dog finally learns to fetch.

The bitter filth slid down my throat.

He thought he'd finally broken me. Crushed me.

He didn't know that in that moment, ten years of loyalty died with that mouthful of filth.