THE DEVIL’S ON CALL

The velocity Of A Fall



Zoya spent two agonizing minutes trying to shrink herself into the leather chair, wishing the heavy shadows of the subterranean arena would swallow her whole. Even with the three massive Starkov guards hovering around her like steel pillars, she could feel the predatory stares of the crowd boring into her skin, tracking the bare skin left exposed by the wicked web of her black dress. She kept her eyes locked rigidly forward, focusing on the bloody canvas of the ring being frantically wiped down by the venue cleaners for the next match.
Ivan’s fight.
The realization sat like lead in her stomach, making her feel profoundly uneasy. One minute passed. Then thirty seconds. Fifteen. Five.
The announcer’s theatrical voice sharply rang out over the booming speakers, making her violently shudder. "Ladies and gentlemen, the match you’ve all been waiting for! Introducing our star fighter... the mad Starkov... IIIVVVAAAANNNNN!"
Zoya’s eyes snapped intensely to the fighter’s walkway. Ivan stepped out from the dark tunnel, half jogging down the ramp toward the steel cage. He had completely shed his casual suit, wearing only low slung athletic shorts and a pair of tight black boxing wraps around his knuckles. His dark curls were wet, sticking to his forehead, and his signature, chaotic smirk was firmly pinned to his lips. His dark tattoos trailed down his broad chest and back, starkly visible through the haze of cigar smoke except for the thick white bandage wrapped securely around his left flank.
The VIP women behind Zoya instantly cheered and roared in excitement, jumping to their feet along with the rest of the bloodthirsty crowd. Zoya was practically the only person left sitting still, her knees trembling beneath her dress. Her eyes traced Ivan as he effortlessly vaulted over the apron and stepped inside the ring without a single shred of hesitation.
She closed her eyes for a split second, making a silent, desperate prayer hoping he was going to be okay. It wasn't born out of affection; it was pure survival. If he bruised or ruptured his gunshot wound, it would lead to catastrophic internal bleeding, and Zoya had a terrifyingly bad feeling that his injury would only make her own situation infinitely worse. If Ivan bled out, Lev might blame her. She couldn’t logically explain why she was suddenly worried about the structural integrity of both twins, but she imagined that with how deeply close their dark world was, Ivan’s health would worry Lev the exact same way she always worried about her brother, Kirill.
Suddenly, Ivan’s eyes landed directly on her through the wire mesh. He gave her a sharp, deliberate wink. It wasn't a playful, comforting, or 'cheer me on' kind of gesture. It was a diabolical promise, coupled with a wide, unhinged grin. Zoya shifted uncomfortably in her chair, a chill running down her spine as she wondered what lay next on his agenda of absolute crazy.
The roaring cheers died down a little as the opponent was introduced. A tall, imposing man with a brutal buzz cut stepped into the cage. He was built like a brick wall, possessing the exact same terrifying muscle mass as Ivan.
As the referee stood between the two giants, the entire room quieted down to a low hum of anticipation. Zoya looked down at her heavy medical trauma bag on the floor, silently hoping she won't have to use it tonight. I am supposed to be escaping, she reminded herself, her knuckles turning white. I shouldn't be worrying about this suicidal maniac.
The referee made a sharp call sign, raising his hand high, and the moment it dropped, the arena bell rang out. Clang! Zoya could feel her palms starting to sweat against her shawl as the two men began to circle each other. Her eyes were on Ivan the entire time, tracking every single movement from his wet curls down to the heavy muscles of his back, observing how his feet shifted to find a comfortable, balanced stance. She watched how his large hands folded tightly into fists, monitoring his opponent's eyes while protecting his own flank in a rigid defense. It was all so... sensational.
Zoya could feel her breathing slipping away from her, no longer steady. She had never experienced true, paralyzing anxiety in her career, but ever since she met the Starkovs, she had been experiencing something dangerously close to it every single day.
Without warning, the buzz cut fighter lunged forward in an all-out, aggressive attack. He was terrifyingly fast. Ivan quickly defended himself, raising his forearms to protect his angles and his chest. With a heavy, sweeping hook, Ivan managed to push the giant off him, throwing him back against the wire before they returned to circling each other. Zoya let out a long, ragged breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
They went back and forth on each other for several minutes protecting, defending, trying to land heavy punches and snapping kicks into each other's ribs.
Then, without any reason, Ivan locked eyes with Zoya all over again.
Zoya froze in her seat. With Ivan's attention completely shattered and no longer paying attention to the man in front of him, the opponent seized the opening. He violently backed Ivan into the corner, releasing a relentless flurry of heavy, unprotected punches straight to his body and skull. The crowd erupted into disapproving, confused screams. “Come on, Starkov!” a man from the front row yelled, slamming his fist on a table.
Ivan, however, was completely unresponsive to the blows. He just looked at her. Even through the brutal impact of the punches and kicks raining down on his torso, he just kept his dark eyes pinned directly on her frame. No response. No fighting back. He didn't even raise his heavy hands to defend himself or cover his exposed face.
A devastating punch landed brutally across his left eye, instantly splitting his brow open. Blood gushed down his face, leaving him a bloody mess within seconds. The sight made Zoya instantly shudder, her stomach twisting into a sickening knot. What is he doing? Even with the thick blood flowing down into his eyes, blocking his vision, his frozen stare remained locked onto her.
"What the f**k are you doing, Ivan... fight," she whispered frantically underneath her breath.
She looked around the crowd, but all she noticed were hundreds of people screaming for him to get up and defend himself. But he did absolutely nothing. He kept his eyes locked onto Zoya like a man possessed, like he was actively begging for a reaction from her. Zoya shuddered again as a heavy kick landed right against his ribs. Unable to take it anymore, she got up abruptly from her chair.
Even through the freezing cold AC air pumping into the underground venue, she could feel a hot stream of sweat rolling down the center of her back. She didn't know much about the rules of boxing, but shouldn't the referee do something about this? He was letting a man get beaten to death. She looked at her guards, hoping at least they would step in to save their boss. But no they just stood there, cold faced, completely unbothered.
Another voice rang out from the crowd behind her, a wealthy woman screaming, “Come on, Ivan! My money is on you!”
"Yeah... come on," Zoya whispered underneath her breath, her chest heaving.
Still nothing. The buzz-cut fighter did a little arrogant ego lap around the center of the ring, soaking in the wild screams of the spectators as if the fight were already won. Ivan just sat slumped in the corner, his bloody face still turned toward her. The fighter finished his victory lap and marched back into the corner, aggressively picking Ivan up by his shoulders and dragging him into the dead center of the ring. Even with his head drooping, Ivan's eyes never left her once.
He’s crazy, she thought, a wave of horror washing over her. No... he’s completely deranged and sick. He didn't even look like he was in pain. He just stared at her through the blood, as if he were waiting for her to do something to scream, to cry, to explode, or to run. Anything to prove he had broken her composure.
The opponent clasped both of his heavy hands together, raising them high above his head, aiming a devastating, downward blow directly for Ivan's bandaged chest. He had a twisted, lethal grin on his face. He was going to kill him. He was going to crush Ivan's ribs and shatter his lungs.
Before the man's hands could meet his chest, Zoya's defenses completely broke. She screamed at the top of her lungs along with the crowd.
"Fight, Ivan! Fight!"
She screamed with everything left in her lungs, slamming her bare hands down onto the wooden table like the gamblers around her. "Please," she muttered quietly, a desperate whisper hoping he would somehow hear her over the noise.
As if snapping out of a deep trance, Ivan’s hand shot up, catching the giant’s clasped fists bare inches before they could impact his chest. In a fluid, terrifying display of agility, Ivan somersaulted backward, the man’s hand still locked in his grip. Using his knee to block the giant down against the canvas, Ivan twisted the man's arm entirely out of proportion.
A loud, sickening crack echoed through the arena. Even with all the roaring noise of the crowd, the sound was completely unmistakable. Ivan had just broken the dude's arm cleanly out of its socket.
The fighter’s agonizing scream echoed through the speakers. He was genuinely in severe pain. Zoya watched in absolute mortification as the man's arm twisted the completely opposite way, yet she couldn't tear her eyes away from the sight. She watched like she was under a spell. The opponent was clearly done for, completely incapacitated, but Ivan wasn't finished.
Zoya watched him, completely covered in a mixture of his own blood and his opponent's, as he pulled the screaming man down into a brutal, suffocating chokehold, locking his massive legs around the man's torso. He was smiling. That unhinged, twisted son of a b***h was smiling as he cut off the man's airway. Without a shred of hesitation, the fighter began tapping out frantically against the canvas, his hand slapping the floor in a desperate plea for his life. But Ivan just wouldn't let go. The guy tapped and tapped, his movements growing slower. At this point, the referee should have intervened. At this point, anyone should have stepped into that cage.
Zoya felt her eyes water, a tight, heavy knot of pure terror forming in her stomach.
The frantic tapping suddenly stopped, and the guy's hand went completely limp against the blood stained floor. Finally satisfied, Ivan let go of the hold, casually pushing the unconscious body off him while still smirking. The referee finally entered the cage, checking the man's pulse before making a sharp sign to the commentator. The arena bell rang out repeatedly, announcing Ivan as the undisputed winner.
The crowd went completely livid. Screams louder than anything she had heard before erupted from the grandstands as Ivan stepped out of the ring, his bare chest slick with sweat.
It all felt like distant background noise to her. Zoya's ears were ringing violently, her eyes still glued to the unconscious fighter who was already being loaded onto a stretcher by paramedics and carried out of the arena. Zoya had seen Ivan and Lev kill m before she had watched them execute a man in her basement, But at least at that time, she hadn't been emotionally or mentally involved in their space. Now, seeing this... seeing him like this, raw, bloody, and completely, utterly mad... she couldn't move a single muscle. Her stomach was knotted up with thousands of conflicting, terrifying feelings.
Zoya didn't even notice when he walked up to her table. Before she could react, Ivan grabbed her tightly by the hand, leading her….no, dragging her…straight toward the back rooms of the facility. As she was pulled along, she finally saw the other fighter moving his uninjured hand, still writhing in deep pain on the stretcher. She let out a quiet, internal sigh. Thank God he's alive. Barely. She turned her eyes back to Ivan, who was guiding her down a dark, concrete hallway and into a secluded room filled with metal lockers.
He took her heavy medical bag from the guard who had trailed behind them, tossing it into the room before shutting the heavy door, leaving just the two of them entirely alone in the quiet space. He set the bag down on the concrete floor, walking past her without a word to sit heavily on one of the wooden benches.
Zoya was practically still shaking from what had just happened in the ring. She couldn't even bear to look at his face. She tightly shut her eyes, taking a deep breath, refusing to let her fraying nerves get the best of her. With a hardened jaw, she bent down and picked up the medical bag, moving toward him and setting it down by his side. She unzipped the compartments, pulling out all the sterile supplies she needed. She didn't even bother to pull on a pair of latex gloves. Desperate to feel something real, she doused her bare hands in cold antiseptic, the sharp sting of the liquid freezing against her skin.
She stood directly in front of Ivan. His dark eyes never left her face for a single second. She picked up a thick piece of cotton wool, soaking it in saline, and began to clean his cuts thoroughly, starting from his busted, bleeding eyebrow before moving down to his torn lips and bruised cheeks. She carefully examined his old gunshot wound through the baseline of his bandages, her hands visibly shaking against his skin. Thankfully, the white cotton was intact; the stitches hadn't ripped. She let out a soft, trembling sigh of relief.
She threw all the bloody, soiled cotton into a nearby trash can, quickly closing the medical bag, wanting nothing more than to get the hell away from this monster.
As she stood up to leave, his hand shot out, wrapping tightly around her wrist. Zoya violently flinched at the sudden contact.
"Look at me, ptichka," he said, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly register that radiated a deep warmth Zoya knew a monster like him shouldn't possess.
She spoke, her voice shaking despite her best efforts to stay detached. "You wanted a doctor after the fight. My work is done. Please let me go back outside."
His large hand only tightened its grip on her wrist, his thumb pressing into her pulse point. "I didn't just want a doctor after, Zoya. I want you."
Zoya finally looked down into his face. His striking blue eyes had dimmed to a stormy, hazy grey in the dull, fluorescent lighting of the locker room. She wanted to keep the bubbling emotion inside, wanted to maintain her professional calculation, but she simply couldn't hold it back anymore.
She half yelled at him, her anger exploding. "What the hell was that out there? You almost got f*****g killed! And then you almost... you almost killed that man!" She couldn't even finish her words, her chest heaving.
"He'll live," Ivan said lazily, as if the near-death of a human being were nothing more than a minor inconvenience. He stood up slowly, his tall, massive frame completely towering over her, trapping her against the line of the lockers.
Zoya watched how he watched her. She felt the heavy, intoxicating pressure of his body pressing close against hers, and she vividly remembered how, just a few minutes ago, she had been screaming at the top of her lungs, begging him to fight. Their breaths became perfectly even as they stared into each other's eyes. Ivan’s hand slowly left her wrist, his long fingers tracing a path up her bare arms, moving all the way to her shoulders, before sliding up to the sensitive skin of her neck and resting against her lips.
She looked at him like she was completely entranced, frozen in place, waiting for his next move. Even with his hand still wrapped in the rough black fighting silk, she could feel the burning, warm touch of his skin. Her entire body reacted to him violently. Without thinking, she tilted her head slightly to the side, giving his fingers more access to touch her bare throat. His other hand snaked around her waist, pulling her hips flush against his.
This man, who a mere moment ago was practically a feral monster about to rip a man's arm out of its hinges, was here with her feeling her, caressing her with an unbelievable, soft gentleness. Her lips parted slightly as she felt his hot breath brushing against her mouth. He was so, so close. His hand wrapped carefully around the back of her neck, tilting her head even further back, and he placed a soft, lingering kiss against the skin of her throat. Once. Twice.
Zoya felt like her entire world was spinning on its axis as she pressed her body hard against his solid chest. His hot breath and the heavy trace of his lips left her completely incapacitated, her mind scattering into the dark. He trailed the kisses all the way from her neck up to her jawline, until his eyes finally came back into her field of view, the brilliant blue now visibly clear and sharp.
"Zoya..." he muttered, his voice a low rasp, as if he were about to say something real.
She didn't want him to speak. She didn't want him to say a single word to ruin the illusion. She just wanted to feel his lips against hers, to drown out the terror of this house. A sudden, dangerous heat spread from her core down to her legs, and she clutched her thighs tightly together as she grew warmer and warmer under his touch. She couldn't explain how she felt, couldn't logically justify why she was responding to her captor's touch like this.
Ivan opened his mouth to speak again, but a sharp, demanding knock suddenly echoed from the locker room door.
Zoya shook violently, reality crashing back into her brain like ice water as a muffled voice called out from the hallway. "Ivan, my man! Come on out, we still need to settle the bookings for the night!" It was Chenkov.
Zoya reacted immediately, using all her strength to pull herself entirely away from his chest. Ivan stumbled back slightly, his eyes snapping to hers before turning to the door, a dark, dangerous frown marring his features.
"I’ll be out when I f*****g feel like it, Chenkov!" Ivan roared back, his voice instantly turning into that cold, sharp, terrifying register the usual Ivan she knew. The mad, psychotic mafia enforcer.
Zoya felt a wave of horror hit her. What the hell was I just doing? Why was I letting him touch me? "Okayyyy..." Chenkov’s voice came back through the wood, dripping with a sleazy amusement. "There’s no need to get aggressive. Sorry for disturbing you, friend." He was clearly implying he knew exactly what kind of scandalous thing was happening inside.
Zoya scrambled backward, her hands flying to her body as she frantically adjusted her shifted shawl and the tight straps of her dress. "Hmmm, it's ok," she said, her voice high and tight as she tried to sound as calm and unbothered as humanly possible. "Why don't you go do what you have to do? I'll be right here waiting for you."
Ivan looked at her for a long, silent moment, his eyes narrowing as if he still wanted to say something about what had just passed between them. But then, he reached into the locker behind her, pulling out a clean black shirt. "Stay here. I'll be back soon."
Zoya watched as Ivan exited the room. Right before he stepped into the hallway, he gave her one final, lingering look, and she forced a small, compliant smile onto her lips.
The moment the heavy door clicked shut and locked from the outside, Zoya completely melted. Her knees gave out, and she collapsed onto the wooden bench closest to her, burying her face in her hands. Her mind was in an absolute frenzy, contemplating the utter madness of what had just happened. Did I... am I actually attracted to Ivan?
"No," she said fiercely to herself in the quiet room. "No, you can't possibly be. You are just developing a textbook case of severe Stockholm syndrome."
She had to get out of here. She had to get out right now. This was her only chance. The adrenaline returned in a violent surge, and she sprang up to her feet, hurrying toward the door. Ivan must have left some of his personal guards stationed outside to watch her, so she knew she had to be incredibly smart and incredibly quick. If she didn't run right now, she would probably never get another chance at freedom.
She slowly opened the heavy door, peering through the crack. A guard immediately came into view. Then a second one. Two guards.
The moment she stepped out of the locker room, both men shifted their weight, moving purposefully toward her to block the corridor. Zoya's heart hammered against her ribs, but she recognized one of them clearly sometime earlier this week, she had painstakingly treated a deep knife wound on his forearm.
As they approached her, she quickly changed her entire tone, masking her panic behind a mask of wealthy annoyance.
"Thank God you guys are here," she said, her voice dropping into a high-pitched, dramatic register. She added a subtle, fluid sway to her hips as she stepped closer, playing the part of a demanding woman. "I really, really need to use a proper bathroom. And don't you dare even think about pointing to the one inside that disgusting locker room, because as a licensed doctor, I can personally name five different deadly pathogens living on that toilet seat."
The two guards looked at each other, hesitating, silently deciding if it was a good idea to indulge their boss’s woman.
"What the hell are you two staring at?" Zoya snapped, crossing her arms. She pointed her finger directly at the guard she had treated. "You. Can you find me a clean bathroom, or do I have to let Ivan know his personal guards are completely useless and make him leave his meeting to do it himself?" Her breath was frantic, her chest heaving as she prayed they would take the bait.
The guard sighed, lowering his posture. "Come with me, ma'am," he said.
Zoya rolled her eyes dramatically, following close behind him. She tried to walk as normally as she could in the towering heels, doing her absolute best not to gain any unwanted attention from the still rowdy, gambling crowd. The guard led her up the steep concrete stairs, weaving back into the main restaurant area the exact way they had entered. He stopped in the quiet hallway, motioning toward the restaurant's private restroom door.
Zoya stood there, glaring at him with her arms folded tightly over her chest. "Well, go check if it's clean first," she demanded in her high-pitched, haughty voice.
The guard nodded lazily, clearly already thoroughly tired of dealing with her dramatic antics. He pushed the restroom door open and stepped fully inside. The moment the door clicked shut behind him, Zoya’s compliance vanished. She lunged forward, grabbing a heavy wooden chair from a nearby service station and violently jamming the back of it securely beneath the restroom’s brass door handle, locking him inside.
Without waiting a single millisecond, she turned on her heel and sprinted into the main restaurant. The dining area was still crowded with wealthy patrons. She forced herself to stop running, walking at a rapid, aggressive pace, occasionally jogging in her heels while trying to look normal to the waiters.
She slammed her palms against the grand glass exit doors, the cold night air hitting her face like a shock wave.
Immediately, she rushed out of the driveway, running all the way down the dark, busy city street. She didn't know if it was the painful high shoes slowing her down or her own terrified nerves, but her heart was in her throat. She ran until she was finally a block or two away from the restaurant, the bright lights of Saint Petersburg flashing around her. She waved her hand frantically at passing taxis, cars, anything that moved on the asphalt. She kept looking back over her shoulder, the terrifying illusion of Ivan walking silently behind her gnawing at her sanity.
Thankfully, a yellow taxi finally pulled up to the curb. Zoya practically rushed into the backseat, slamming the door.
Completely out of breath, her voice cracking with pure panic, she yelled at the driver. "Please! I need you to take me to a police station! A train station... an airport... I don't know, just anywhere far away from here!"
The driver, a middle aged Russian man, looked at her through the rearview mirror, tracking her bare legs, the strapped dress, and her frantic expression from head to toe. "Are you ok, miss?"
Zoya was practically on the verge of physically ripping him out of the driver's seat. "No! Just drive!" she yelled.
Sensing the extreme danger, the man stepped on the gas, and the taxi roared forward into the city traffic. Zoya kept looking back through the rear window, watching the restaurant finally fade out of her view. She was violently shaking, her fingers gripping her knees. For the next two minutes, the driver navigated the busy roads. He kept casting suspicious, lingering looks at her through the mirror, while Zoya desperately mapped her surroundings.
"How much longer to the station?" she asked, her voice on a razor-thin edge.
"Just a few more turns," the driver said smoothly, turning the wheel into a secondary, dimly lit road.
Up ahead, a massive trail of red tail lights came into view. It was a congested red light. Traffic was completely stopped. Zoya’s anxiety spiked all over again, her breathing turning ragged. We need to be moving. We need to go.
"Would you like anything, miss? A bottle of water?" the driver asked calmly.
"No, thank you," she replied sharply, her eyes darting back to the rear window again.
Thankfully, the traffic light shifted, and the line of cars began to move forward. But just as the taxi driver was about to accelerate, a massive, black SUV violently cut directly in front of their bumper, tires screeching as it blocked the lane.
No... no... Zoya whispered, the blood draining from her face.
The door of the SUV flew open, and a massive Starkov guard stepped out onto the asphalt. She recognized his face instantly. The taxi driver looked back at her, completely confused and terrified. "Miss, what is…”
"f**k, f**k, f**k," Zoya cursed fiercely.
Desperate, she threw her passenger door open, hoping to sprint in the opposite direction down the sidewalk. But the exact moment her feet hit the pavement, she violently bumped straight into a very firm, massive, and completely unamused chest.
She stumbled back. Standing right in front of her, his face a mask of pure, frozen fury, was Ivan. His own sports car was already idling directly behind the taxi, cutting off her escape.
Ivan looked down at her with an ice-cold stare, completely devoid of any emotion. He was still wearing his athletic boxing shorts, a simple t-shirt thrown over his shoulders, and the small white bandage she had placed over his split eyebrow earlier.
"Looks like I can't leave you alone for a single minute, doc," his voice came out cold, low, and terrifyingly calm.
Before she could even draw breath to scream, he grabbed her violently by the wrist, pulling her hard across the pavement and throwing her into the spacious backseat of his sports car. He immediately climbed in right after her, slamming the door shut. A secondary guard was already behind the wheel. Zoya didn't even have time to struggle, scream, or protest. All she could do was scramble to open the opposite door, but the electronic locks clicked firmly into place. Through the tinted window, the last thing she saw was one of the Starkov guards tossing a heavy bundle of cash through the taxi driver's window before the SUV cleared the road.
Ivan still had his large hand wrapped like a vice around her wrist.
"Drive," he commanded the guard in a low growl. Without a second of hesitation, the car accelerated, and they were back on the dark road heading toward the estate.
Zoya turned her head, looking at Ivan with eyes full of pure venom and burning anger. "You must really feel on top of the world, don't you?" she spat, her voice trembling. "Because you're stronger? Richer? What? Does it honestly turn you on to oppress people who can't fight back?"
Ivan let out a sudden, menacing laugh. It was a loud, mocking sound that echoed off the leather interior.
He violently pulled her closer by her wrist until his face was bare inches away