Fearless III Read online

  FEARLESS III

  MMA SPORT & RUSSIAN MAFIA ROMANCE

  Amarie Avant

  Copyright © 2019 by Amarie Avant. All rights reserved

  This is a work of fiction. All characters in this book, including those inspired by real people, are fake. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  . No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means–electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other–except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  All rights reserved

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  A Note From Amarie

  Subscribe

  Contact Me

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Epilogue

  Subscribe

  Author’s Note

  Contact Me

  Anastasiya (Asya)

  Simeon (Sim)

  Asya

  Simeon

  Asya

  A Note From Amarie

  Thank you from the bottom of my heart for waiting for Vassili and Zariah’s finale. If you've been supporting my stories from day one, double thank you. (And if you just crammed the Fearless Series this holiday 2019 season, double thank you too!)

  As an author, I always try to follow through with my promises. For this series, I almost expected not to. I’d grown to care for Vassili and Zar, and I didn’t want to hurt them. Lord knows I can't harm Natasha/Cutie Pie, or the Little Bully rather. But not hurting them would mean that I’d be off my game while writing this story. Shoveling out a bland story was something I refused to do, as well. So, I set Fearless 3 aside and wrote a bunch of other stories instead.

  The morning I learned my great grandmother passed away, I gravitated toward Vassili and Zar. It might sound crazy, but Vassili and Zar were my outlets. Consumed with sadness, I needed someone to hurt, and this couple was as real as ever to me. Putting pen to paper hadn’t been my stress reliever in so long. Though grandmommy lived a good life (getting her wings at a blessed 101 years), the selfish part of me would’ve loved to have her here longer. I wanted to hear more of her stories—I could never write stories that compare to her. The pain made the words flow.

  All the ups and downs Vassili and Zariah went through in the past pale in comparison to this story.

  I tested them, tried them, broke them. Maybe I mended Vassili and Zar back together again . . . Okay, no spoilers.

  Thank you for giving my work a chance, and I hope you enjoy it!

  Amarie Nicole

  Subscribe

  Consider joining my newsletter to stay up to date on new releases and super discounts (especially during these holiday times). You’ll also receive a free book for subscribing.

  Contact Me

  Prologue

  Vassili Karo Resnov

  “Here’s a thousand percent of transparency for you, Mr. Resnov. Zariah’s weakling of a mother and I made a beautiful girl. The first time I held my princess, I thought, God, You let us create something so gorgeous.”

  The cool evening air licks at the back of my neck. I shove my hands into my leather jacket. My wife’s father, Maxwell Washington, has that cunt of a mouth of his wide open. He’s leaning against the doorframe to his house. The inside of his home is immaculate, representing trappings of success. Trappings of my family as he plays judge, jury, executioner, and motherfucking warden. My wife is here. My daughter and my unborn son are here too.

  “May I come in, Mr. Washington?” I growl.

  “I’ll be honest; the two of you made a beautiful little girl.” Maxwell points a stiff finger at my chest. I’ll let him keep talking, breathing for Zariah’s sake.

  He taunts, “My princess is crying for you.”

  “I’d like to see my wife,” I grit out. “Hate me all your life. Let me talk to her.”

  Unfolding his arms, he gestures between us. “We’re having a conversation, you and me. This goes on record as our longest discussion ever. Let’s keep up the momentum. As I was about to say, Zariah will pine over you; probably more than necessary. When she’s ready, I’ll introduce her to some good guys.”

  My blood becomes lava in my veins as I speak. “You’ll introduce her to some good guys. My replacement, dah?”

  The laidback chit chat he was just using fades. Maxwell sneers, pointing another stiff finger at my chest. “You can bet your scummy, communistic ass, I am interviewing your substitute. Consider them more than worthy opponents. One of them will be lucky enough to have her. I’ll vet all the candidates. One will exceed anything you could ever do for your child too.”

  I grab Maxwell’s index finger to stop him from taking another jab at my chest. Only God Himself stops me from breaking his finger. “Keep at it, piz’da. I’ll forget that you’re family.”

  “Piz’da?”

  “It means cunt. Now, I go see my wife!”

  I press his hand toward his chest, twisting until he’s turned around. With him out of the way, I step inside the house I’d vowed never to enter when Zariah and I were newlyweds. He’d played me with her bitch of an ex.

  I’m in the middle of the foyer, ready to shout my wife’s name when a sound I never will forget clicks in my ears.

  Might as well be thousands of them.

  Safeties are being removed from guns. A bunch of cops surround the perimeter of the room. Might as well all be crooked if they’re affiliated with the Chief of Police. They’ve been listening to our conversation this entire time.

  “Which one of you little cunts will pull the first trigger.” I stare face-forward. There has to be at least ten of them waiting to ambush me. “You mudaks! You all will have to take a fucking shot at me.” I point a finger to my forehead like it’s a bullet. “Make sure I’m fucking dead because I am going to see my wife today.”

  “Look at him, so fearless,” Maxwell scoffs from behind me. He leans against the doorframe again, legs locked about the ankles. The bitch thinks he’s untouchable.

  “Kill me and . . .” I pause, offering them the rare chance of a smile. The cocky smile completes the sentence. You die, and everyone you know dies.

  “The Resnov way,” someone whispers.

  I stare into eyes—blue, brown, green. Maxwell has a diversified list of crooked cops ready to play knight in shining armor for him. If my blood wasn’t boiling, I’d
be flattered.

  “Go ahead, threaten a room full of cops!” Maxwell comes over to me.

  “Are they wearing cams?” I spit. “I doubt that. You want this shit to make the news? Cops shoot an unarmed man. Who hasn’t threatened anyone? Who just wants to see his wife and kids?”

  “No cams?” A familiar face moves to block the double staircase. Jackson, the cop with a history of wanting to be there for my wife, stands in front of me. His nostrils are flared, light-brown skin tinged red. An image of our first encounter pops into my mind. While driving in a police cruiser, Jackson and another cop had stopped Zariah and me. We’d been leaving Urban Kashtan, a restaurant with the best borsch, for the first time. I’d bought enough vodka to lick off all the sweet, tight spots of her body. Her ass. Her tits. Her tight, gorgeous pussy. Before we’d made it home, this bitch almost ruined our night.

  “No cams?” I arch an eyebrow, ignoring the pup standing in my face.

  “Correct. No cams, Son. That also applies to the fact that there’ll be no evidence of dead, Russian scum.” Washington folds his arms. “All legalities are covered.”

  For every cop showing his minuscule balls by way of holding heat, I have a machine gun tattooed on my forearm. I’m confident some of them would go down with me!

  I sniff, keeping myself calm. “Fuck, maybe I should finish the statement. All you little bitches know the Resnov way. I die; everyone you know dies. The funeral home becomes rich! Is that what you want on your head, Maxwell? Before you die, knowing that you’ve caused the deaths of your little pups and their families? Make it clear to me.”

  Officer Jackson snarls, “So you’re working for your father, Anatoly Resnov?”

  “Why the fuck does it matter.” I shrug. “No cams? No proof, right? I want to see my family, Mr. Washington. Make that happen before I forget how important you are to my Zariah!”

  “Don’t,” comes a soft, feminine voice. The walls in the room stop shrinking in.

  My hard gaze pans upward past rich paintings. My wife is at the top step, right at the chandelier hanging above. Her beautiful, brown eyes aren’t as innocent as I remember. Her orbs are red-rimmed. A sweatsuit has covered every gorgeous curve that my hands, mouth, and tongue have traced over. She leans against the railing. Emotions flash across her face.

  “Zariah,” I breathe. All the animosity in my chest deflates. “You got to come home, baby. You are mine. We made vows.”

  “With an Elvis impersonator.” Her tiny laugh is almost hysterical, hopeless too.

  “Doesn’t matter. We made vows before God.” I cock my head, hard voice as soft as can be. “You and my child have to come with me. Natasha is my blood, you are mine. You have to come home. Now.”

  She might as well be standing right over me. A lone tear drops onto my forehead. I don’t have the power to wipe it off. Doing so would be acknowledging my faults. I hate her fucking crying. Even the happy tears make me wonder. It makes my mind turn to dark thoughts about how my mom cried Anatoly a river. I contemplate on Sasha. My sister cried to so many men after they screwed her and beat me for believing she was too good for it.

  I nudge my head. “Get my little girl, come down. Now.”

  Her sigh is heavy enough to drop her shoulders. “Vassili, did you get the divorce papers?”

  Venom unleashes in my bloodstream. Keeping my cool is imperative.

  “Maybe the papers are burnt to a crisp in our bedroom fireplace. Our bed is waiting for you.” I stare up at her. The world around us fades. All those .9mms are ready to put me under have ceased to exist. It’s only she and I, which gives me a ‘pass’ when I’d spoken of ‘bed’ and Zariah in the same sentence. Yes, I have an insatiable appetite for her pussy, but I don’t disrespect her around people. After the way Anatoly had treated my mom, my mindset is screwed. Meaning, I would never touch my wife. Never hurt her with words or my hands. I’d rather leave MMA for good than insult Zariah Resnov. So, for now, it’s only me and my wife here at this moment as we talk.

  More tears slide down her cheeks. Zariah murmurs, “I can’t leave.”

  “Okay, I help.” My Russian accent falters into broken English. My 190 pounds of raw muscle have transformed into vulnerability. I start to move again.

  The world crashes around me with a vengeance.

  Jackson, who has been posted against the stairwell, puffs his chest up. His eyes pierce through me. I don’t regard him. He’s not an opponent. He’s not shit to me. I want him to hit me. To get one good lick in so that when I take off on him, he’ll learn the lesson of his life. Shit, might even cost the mudak’s life. I have zero respect for a person who dares to come between a man and his wife.

  Without addressing Jackson, I look up at my wife. I order, “Save a life, Zar. I could kill him. Right now, even with them shooting me. Sweetheart, you would have two deaths on your head.”

  “Just leave, Vassili,” she groans. “We can talk things through later.”

  I continue with, “You remember our first encounter. You know what the fuck I mean when I say, you’d also have more deaths on your head later.”

  “Vassili… Go!” she screams, her voice so loud it begins to croak. “You’re not going to sic Anatoly on them because they’re not going to shoot you, asshole. We have kids. Just give me a moment to think.”

  I slam my forearm into my palm. Jackson jumps. I snap, “You aren’t shit without a gun!”

  He kisses his teeth. “You go up those stairs, you’ll be the shit beneath my boot.”

  “I like that.” I step closer to him. “You know what they say, those that can’t back it up—talk it out. I’ll use that line during my next match.”

  “Fuck you,” Jackson snaps.

  “I’m a killer in the cage, so I run out of shit-talk. Thank you.”

  So, by now, I’ve talked more than I ever would with an enemy. Jackson isn’t aware until his body is slammed against the railing. My forearm levels across his throat. I grit out, “Next step, I snap your fucking neck.” After that, the man behind me gets a swift foot to his throat. His neck snaps too. “Maybe I’ll take more of you mudaks down. Maybe you all will put enough bullets in me first. Remember, I die, everyone down here is dead. That includes you, Pops.”

  With my tattooed forearm constricting much of Jackson’s breathing, I glance over to Maxwell. My wife’s father has a hand up. Either he’s ready to give the order to call off this farce, or he’s executing orders for war.

  “ Vassili,” Zariah stresses from her same spot. She’s too smart to come down here. Too smart to enter ground zero because if I touch her, this charade is over. All I have to do is touch her, skim my hand over any part of her body. She’ll remember just who the fuck she belongs too.

  Zariah’s voice is raw from crying as she says, “Vassili, your entire body is a weapon. Hands. Feet. So, go. I’ll send you more papers.”

  “Nyet. Give me a moment to talk to you. I don’t give a fuck if we have to chat in front of these piz’das!” I glare at Jackson for a moment. His heartbeat is raging against my forearm; his fingers biting against my skin. “Let me talk to you, Zar. Baby, let me talk to you.”

  “Vassili, it’s the end of us. Don’t worry. I won’t abandon our children like your mother did to you.”

  All the venom in me fades. She won’t see me. I stare up at her, eyelid twitching. She stays in the same spot, feet rooted to the ground. Our gazes connect. My look is enough to tell her that she’s crossed the line. She’s mentioned my mother.

  1

  Vassili

  Two Months Ago, Australia

  Kong’s life is in my hands. My fists throb from the pounding I’ve given to his face, liver, and spleen. All of his vital organs are my target. I’m not doing it for the fucking belt. The Welterweight belt is at the tip of my fingers. Just a few more fights, but this one will go down in history.

  All because it’s Kong instead of Danushka.

  My half-sibling is deranged enough to think my father loves me more. Her cunt
of a mother waited a few days longer than mine to go into labor. I can feel her jealous gaze with each punch I offer Kong. Yesterday, my wife and Natasha were on their way to Australia. Her client’s husband, a fucking gang member, stopped by our house. You’d think I had my sister to thank for that. Danushka murdered Noriega then . . . surprise, surprise, we learn that bitch was pretending to be my wife’s ditzy friend. She’s ditzy alright, ditzy enough to believe she can be chummy with me and my family. Danny’s face is before my eyes as my fists slam into Kong’s nose. Reconstructive surgery will be a necessity. I want to slow down and place him in a triangle-choke hold, knee-bar, or something.

  I can’t.

  I’m not in the right frame of mind for submissions with Danushka seated next to my wife and daughter. I kick into the air with my left. The force sends my right foot flying into Kong’s chest. He peddles back on the heels of his feet. The kick should’ve ended him, or he could just be standing there in a daze. With crazed eyes, I decide to put him down. Pulling power all the way through my toes, my punch slams into his nose.