THE DEVIL’S ON CALL

Blood And Ballot

The cold evening breeze embraced Zoya’s legs the exact moment she stepped onto the grand stone porch, a sharp, uninvited friction against her skin that made her immediately stiffen. Zoya barely came out here. If she ever crossed the threshold of this sprawling estate into the open air, it was either to hastily collect crates of arriving medical supplies or to tightly escort a heavily bleeding guard straight into the clinic. To step outside just to exist to feel the vast, dark sky opening up above her felt completely foreign.

She spotted two sleek, black cars idling in the expansive circular driveway, surrounded by a couple of armed guards standing like statues in the dim lighting. She couldn't see Ivan yet.

A wave of bitter frustration washed over her as she clutched the edges of her garment. Earlier, she had practically begged and pleaded with Rowena to find her absolutely anything else to wear, but she had frantically refused. “If Ivan wanted you to wear that, he absolutely wanted you to wear that,” Rowena had whispered, her eyes wide with a genuine, desperate sort of panic. “If I interfere with his orders, Ivan will have my head. We don't cross him when he’s like this.” Utterly frustrated, defeated, and realizing the terrifying futility of her position, Zoya had finally bowed her head in acceptance, swallowing the pride that tasted like ash in her mouth. Out of sheer pity, Rowena had offered to help her do her hair and makeup to speed up the process. Zoya had forcefully urged for a light, minimalist look, arguing that the scandalous dress was already doing far too much on its own. To give her some semblance of a shield, Rowena had let her borrow a thick shawl. It was a pathetic defense

it covered her shoulders and barely half of her upper body, leaving the entire lower half of the strap heavy black dress completely exposed to the elements.

Zoya stepped off the porch and onto the pavement of the driveway, the sharp, rhythmic click of her heels echoing through the quiet night air as she approached the vehicles.

Then, Ivan came into view.

He was fully dressed now, leaning against the driver’s side of the lead sports car. He wore a sharp, casual suit, but he had left his black silk shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, solidifying his signature, effortlessly playful look. His dark hair was completely, lightly slicked back, though a few rebellious, loose strands of curls fell over his forehead, catching the dim amber glow of the driveway lamps. One of his large, scarred hands rested on the steering wheel through the open window, while his other arm propped against the frame.

He looked seriously like he was intensely thinking about something, his jaw set in a rare moment of quiet gravity. But like he could instinctively sense her presence, his head snapped up and his icy blue eyes landed directly on her.

Ivan froze for a split millisecond. His entire posture shifted. Slowly, deliberately, he popped his car door open not to actually get out and greet her, but simply to look at her properly without the obstruction of the glass.

His gaze shifted into something completely unreadable. It was dark, intense, and heavily hazy as it slowly traveled down the sleek updo of her hair, lingered on the dark wrap of the shawl, and then tracked the long, pale expanse of her bare legs weaving through the wicked lattice of the black straps. Zoya couldn't tell if her body was violently shivering in response to the biting cold night air or under the sheer, suffocating weight of his stare. Desperate to ground herself, she tightened the shawl around her shoulders and walked entirely around the vehicle, heading straight for the backseat to put distance between them. His eyes traced her every single move like a hawk mapping prey.

Just as she reached the rear door and was about to pull it open, a loud, definitive clicking sound echoed through the chassis.

She grabbed the door handle, but it was completely locked. Zoya snapped her head around, throwing a sharp, furious glare directly at Ivan’s profile, hoping he would understand her absolute disdain and open the door for her.

"You’re riding with me, ptichka," Ivan said, his gravelly voice dripping with smooth, unbothered amusement. He turned his head toward her, his smirk returning in full force as he added, "In front."

He emphasized the last word with a deliberate nod of his head as he reached across the interior console, grabbing the front passenger door handle and popping it open from the inside.

Zoya’s jaw tightened, clearly annoyed by the petty show of dominance. As she stood in the cold, a sudden tactical thought flashed through her mind. She wondered if they were actually going out into the city alone. She glanced back at the armed guards standing by the secondary vehicle, then locked her eyes back onto Ivan. If it was just the two of them in this sports car, her chances of escaping would be easier. A lone driver was a vulnerable target.

Then, Ivan shattered her spiraling thoughts. "Don't worry, they're coming too. Just in a different car. I prefer to drive alone."

She cursed violently and entirely internally. She stared at Ivan, who was now grinning from ear to ear as if he could see right through her skull and knew exactly what kind of escape plot she was running. She muttered another quiet, venomous "f**k" underneath her breath as she finally climbed into the low passenger seat, grabbing the door and slamming it shut with enough force to rattle the window.

"I swear to God, Ivan, you're gonna burn in f*****g hell for this," she hissed, staring straight ahead at the dashboard.

Ivan only let out a loud, booming laugh, throwing the car into reverse with a casual flick of his wrist. "Been there and back, baby. Now buckle up, we're already late."

Zoya slowly reached for her seatbelt, pulling it across her chest with agonizing slowness. A small, vindictive smirk touched her mind as she remembered how she had deliberately taken her sweet time with Rowena upstairs. She had complained about literally every single hairstyle Rowena tried, forcing her to undo and redo the pins until they finally settled on a simple, elegant updo. It was her own small, petty act of revenge against Ivan’s tight schedule, and knowing it had made him late gave her a sense of satisfaction.

The powerful engine roared to life, and they drove up to the massive iron gates of the estate. The security guards responded immediately, the heavy steel barriers swinging open to grant them passage into the dark world outside.

As the car accelerated onto the open asphalt, Zoya looked out the window, watching the fortress disappear behind them. "Is this the part where you put a black bag over my head?" she asked, her voice dripping with dry sarcasm.

Ivan chuckled, his large hands expertly gripping the steering wheel as he navigated the dark bends. "No, ptichka... unless you're into that kinda stuff. I can always make the arrangements if you ask nicely."

She threw him a look of pure disgust, turning her head back to the window, internally wondering how on earth she was going to survive this night without losing her mind or killing him.

The interior of the car became utterly quiet, the silence heavy and thick between them. Zoya leaned slightly against the door, her sharp eyes constantly moving. In the side rearview mirror, she could see the secondary guard car driving closely and tightly behind them, a permanent shadow cutting off any immediate hope of jumping out at a red light. The road they were navigating was densely lined with tall, heavy trees, with only a few sparse streetlights illuminating the dark asphalt, and barely any other vehicles in sight. She observed every single landmark carefully, desperately trying to find a sign, a billboard, or a recognizable building that would give her a clue as to where they were located in the country.

"Petersburg," Ivan’s hoarse voice suddenly broke through the dark cabin.

Zoya turned to him abruptly, her eyes landing on his hands as they expertly spun the steering wheel, navigating a sharp curve with effortless control.

"Huh?" she replied, her heart skipping a beat.

"We're in Saint Petersburg," Ivan said, his eyes remaining fixed on the dark road ahead, his tone completely casual.

Zoya screamed internally, her knuckles whitening against her shawl. How come he always knew exactly what she was thinking? It was deeply infuriating, as if he had a direct line into the anxious pacing of her brain.

Well, she reasoned, since he was apparently in the rare mood to actually answer her questions, she might as well use the opportunity to fish for more information about her captors.

"Where in Petersburg?" she asked, injecting a faint hint of hope into her eyes as she turned her torso toward him.

Ivan turned his head toward her for a split second and let out a sudden, mocking laugh, as if he had just successfully baited her into a trap. Realizing he was just messing with her, Zoya let out an irritated sigh, rolled her eyes hard, and aggressively motioned with her hand toward the windshield. "Look at the road, Starkov."

"Ask something else," he murmured, the wicked smirk firmly back on his lips.

He was clearly playing a game with her. Well, two could absolutely play this game. If he wanted questions, she was going to give him something that would cut right through his smug demeanor.

"Have you always been this deranged?" she asked, her voice flat and piercing.

"Yes," Ivan answered immediately, his voice dropping into a quiet, unexpectedly heavy tone. "Some days are worse than others."

Zoya blinked, entirely caught off guard. She hadn't expected him to answer so seriously, or with such a raw, unbothered lack of denial. The sudden shift in his energy made her hesitate, but she forced herself to press forward.

"And what about Lev?" she continued, watching his profile closely. "You're both very different. Don't twins usually share the same likeness apart from just their looks?"

Ivan’s head snapped toward her, his dark eyes locking onto hers with a sudden, intense sharpness that made it clear he hadn't anticipated that specific question.

"Lev and I are much more similar than you'll ever know, doctor," he said, his voice lowering into a cold, dark tone that sent an immediate shiver down her spine. He looked at her so intensely, with such a rigid, frozen gravity, that Zoya felt herself uncomfortably shifting in her leather seat. For a terrifying second, the playful, chaotic persona of Ivan vanished completely, and the words coming out of his mouth sounded exactly like the icy, lethal authority of Lev.

He focused his eyes back on the road ahead, and Zoya quietly breathed out a long, shuddering sigh of relief. Sometimes, when the air got too thick around him, she genuinely thought he was just going to snap his internal tether and pounce on her right there in the confines of the vehicle.

She shook the tension out of her head, refocusing her mind on the tactical game. "And your parents? Do they know their sons are psychotic maniacs who enjoy kidnapping people?"

Without turning to look at her this time, Ivan answered almost immediately, his voice devoid of any warmth. "The father is a maniacal, pig-faced bastard crook. And his wife is dead from a nasty, case of drug overdose."

Zoya turned to him abruptly, her lips parting as her heart gave a painful thud. She stared at his profile, desperately hoping that what she had just heard was some kind of sick, dark joke or a twisted metaphor. But no. Ivan was entirely serious. His eyes remained fixed on the dark highway, his jaw tight.

How could he have said something so profoundly tragic so casually? And the clinical, detached way he had addressed his own mother as nothing more than "his father's wife" was completely unhinged. It spoke of a deep, rotting well of trauma that lay beneath.

Before she could even open her mouth to say a word or offer a response, Ivan sharply cut her off, his voice turning into a cold blade that instantly struck a nerve. "How did you lose your medical license, doc?"

A suffocating wave of pure silence instantly washed over her, drowning out the roar of the sports car's engine.

Zoya’s jaw locked. She absolutely hated talking about this topic. She hated whenever it was brought up, whether it was a passing snide remark from Kirill during her intake or a quiet question from Alina back in her old life. She despised thinking about that horrific, career ending day inside her residency supervisor's office the betrayal, the paperwork, the cold finality of the board stripping away everything she had pulled countless double shifts to achieve.

Zoya turned her head sharply toward the passenger window, staring out at the blurred trees, trying to force her breathing to slow down. To calm the rising panic in her chest, she focused her mind entirely on her little nephew, Leo. She thought about how much money she was earning under this contract, and how she might see him soon, imagining the moment she could finally wrap her arms around him and give him a million hugs and kisses.

In no time at all, the sports car slowed down, pulling up to the grand entrance of what seemed to be an incredibly high end, exclusive restaurant.

Zoya looked through the windshield, a sudden surge of anxiety hitting her. She was obviously not properly dressed for an establishment like this. Looking through the glass, she noticed a long, glittering trail of multi million dollar luxury cars filling the private parking lot. Everything around her from the polished marble columns of the entrance to the gold trimmed canopy practically screamed unadulterated luxury and elite status.

She opened her door and got out of the vehicle, her heels hitting the pavement as her eyes immediately began mapping her surroundings with frantic precision. The main road outside the restaurant's driveway was busy, crowded with traffic and flashing city lights. It was a public space. She realized with a jolt of adrenaline that she could easily get a taxi if she just managed to break away, run to the curb, and hail one down.

She watched out of the corner of her eye as their three heavily armed bodyguards stepped out of the secondary car, instantly moving into a protective perimeter around them. Before she could even take a single tactical step toward the edge of the pavement, Ivan crept up silently behind her. Without a word of warning, his large, warm hand wrapped firmly and possessively around her bare waist, his fingers pressing directly into the exposed skin between the straps of her dress. He tossed his car keys to the waiting valet with his free hand.

With a strong, unyielding pressure, he pulled her tightly against his side, guiding her straight inside the grand glass doors of the restaurant. Zoya stumbled slightly, her feet struggling to keep up with his long, rapid pace in the uncomfortable shoes , but she forced herself not to complain aloud. She could feel the tense, rigid line of his jaw, sensing that he was still thoroughly annoyed from their earlier dark conversation in the car. Heck, she reasoned bitterly, she was the one who should be furious here, not him.

They entered the main dining area of the restaurant, and the atmosphere inside was dripping with opulence. There were a few scattered, occupied tables, filled with men and women all dressed in fine, incredibly expensive tailored attire. The moment they walked through the center aisle, dozens of heads turned. The patrons stared at them openly as they walked by, and Zoya had never in her entire life felt so profoundly out of place. She felt exposed, vulnerable, and completely absurd in the skimpy black dress.

A few of the wealthy, looking men seated at the corner tables offered respectful nods of gesture toward Ivan as he passed. Ivan didn't smile; he merely replied with cold, hard stares that sent a clear message. Most of the high society women were also staring at them, their sharp, judgmental eyes trailing slowly from Zoya’s bare legs, up to the heavy shawl, and then directly to Ivan’s possessive hand on her waist before locking onto his face. Zoya could literally feel the heat of their venomous glares boring holes into her back as they kept walking deeper into the establishment.

Zoya was absolutely dying to ask him if they were here to simply dine like civilized people, or if he had an entirely different, twisted plan for the evening. But her thoughts were instantly cut short as they approached a massive, heavy brass door at the back of the restaurant, guarded by two large, armed men in tailored suits.

The moment they saw Ivan approaching, one of the guards immediately turned around and punched a complex security code into the electronic keypad to unlock the door. The other guard lowered his head respectfully, his voice smooth. "Good evening, boss."

Ivan gave a short, dismissive nod as the heavy brass door clicked and swung open. Zoya noticed with a cold prickle of awareness that both of the guards completely avoided making any form of eye contact with her. She couldn't tell if they were intentionally looking away because of her highly revealing dress, or if they were simply terrified to look at any woman who was with Ivan Starkov.

Then, she made a vital mental check in her mind. Boss. One of the private guards had literally called him boss. Did the Starkov syndicate actually own this establishment?

Ivan led her through the threshold, pulling her down a long, dimly lit hallway and down a steep flight of concrete stairs. As they descended into the subterranean level, she could feel the heavy, consuming warmth of his large hand resting firmly on her waist. His skin pressed directly against hers through the calculated, revealing cutouts of her dress, a constant, burning reminder of his absolute proximity.

As they approached the bright light at the bottom of the stairs, a heavy, suffocating wall of scents hit her senses all at once: the bitter sting of expensive cigar smoke, the stale, sharp tang of spilled alcohol, and the heavy, unmistakable musk of sweat and raw adrenaline. Simultaneously, a deafening wave of roaring screams, wild cheers, and metallic clanging grew louder and louder, vibrating right through the concrete floorboards.

The moment they stepped out into the grand, subterranean space, a chaotic, overwhelming spectacle exploded into Zoya’s view all at once.

The underground arena was massive, packed to the brim with hundreds of wealthy, dangerous looking people. To her left and right, VIP tables were piled high with stacks of cold hard cash, open bottles of luxury alcohol, burning cigars, loose pills, and all kinds of illicit substances. But right in the dead center of the room, illuminated by a harsh, blinding battery of overhead stadium lights, stood a massive, towering steel cage serving as a brutal fighting ring. Inside the wire, two bloody, battered fighters were violently tearing into each other, throwing heavy, bone crushing punches as the surrounding crowd roared with bloodlust.

The moment Ivan’s towering figure carved through the entrance, a ripple passed through the arena. Dozens of eyes turned sharply toward them, people pointing their fingers and others leaning in to whisper rapidly into their companions' ears. Zoya felt instantly conscious, acutely aware of how exposed she was, but Ivan remained completely unbothered, his jaw set as he expertly navigated them through the dense, rowdy crowd, his hand never leaving her waist.

The three massive bodyguards they had brought along trailed closely behind them, their sharp eyes constantly scanning the crowd for threats. Both men and women continued to stare at them as they passed especially the women. Zoya noticed that the female crowd was split into two distinct worlds. Some of them were fully clothed in immaculate class, radiating a sharp, refined, and deeply dangerous aura of old money. Others had little to no clothes on at all some completely bare chested, others clearly employed as high end strippers dancing for the gamblers.

Zoya wasn't one to judge anyone's profession, especially considering her own utterly ridiculous, captive situation, but the only thought running rampant through her head was what the f**k were they doing here? Why on earth would Ivan drag her to a literal underground illegal gambling den?

They pushed deeper toward the front of the ring, passing a lavish VIP table filled entirely with beautiful, heavily made up women. The moment they passed, some of them looked at Ivan with desperate longing, before turning their eyes toward Zoya with blatant disgust and sheer, unadulterated nastiness.

Zoya quickly looked away, staring straight ahead, but she could still clearly hear their venomous whispers cutting through the roar of the crowd.

“Who the hell is that?”

“Probably the little reason we were kept waiting for an hour,” another voice hissed. Zoya could hear the absolute, pure venom dripping from their tone, making her blood boil.

Ivan finally came to a stop at a prime, heavily guarded table right in front of the crowd, positioned directly opposite the fighting ring. Inside the steel cage, one of the bloody fighters had the other pinned completely against the mesh corner, mercilessly beating the absolute s**t out of him as the referee watched.

Zoya didn't have a phobia against blood as a trauma surgeon, she had seen literal buckets of it in her lifetime but she still couldn't comprehend why he would bring her to this violent place.

As she sat down on one of the leather chairs, a short, energetic man with brightly dyed platinum blond hair approached their table, his arms spread wide in a grand gesture of welcome.

"Iiiiiivvvannn!" the man shouted over the noise, his accent thick and grating. "My beloved champion! You're late!"

Ivan stood towering over Zoya's chair, his massive frame completely blocking her view of the blond man as he replied in a cool, unbothered tone. "Sorry, Chenkov. I got a little delayed by my on call doctor."

Ivan finally shifted his weight, moving out of the way and letting the platinum blond man's sharp eyes land directly on Zoya.

Chenkov stopped in his tracks, a wide, sleazy grin spreading across his face as he flashed his teeth at her. "Well, well, well, Starkov. You didn't tell me you would be bringing your own personal cheerleader tonight. The VIP ladies are going to be thoroughly dissatisfied." He waved his hand dismissively toward the table of whispering women behind them. The women immediately waved back with fake smiles…well, mostly waving to Ivan, a gesture which Ivan completely and utterly ignored as he turned back to his associate.

"When does my fight start?" Ivan asked smoothly.

"In about..." Chenkov glanced down at the expensive watch on his wrist, just as the loud, sharp ring of the arena bell echoed through the space, announcing the knockout winner of the ongoing match. "...five minutes," he said simultaneously.

Zoya froze in her seat, her brain stalling for a full second. Wait. His fight? Did she just f*****g hear them correctly? His fight. He had dragged her all the way from the estate, forced her into a this dress, and brought her to a subterranean arena just to watch him climb into a steel cage and fight?

Zoya stood up abruptly from her chair, her shawl shifting as she stared directly into his icy blue eyes, her chest heaving with a sudden surge of adrenaline. "Wait... you're fighting?"

"Yes, ptichka," Ivan said casually, his face completely relaxed as he pulled his sleek smartphone out of his pocket to quickly type out a message.

"What the f**k do you mean, yes?" she whispered fiercely, stepping closer to him, invading his space so the surrounding gamblers and guards wouldn't overhear her words. "You got shot exactly two weeks ago, Ivan! Your internal and external stitches are not entirely healed!"

What the hell was this lunatic thinking? Was he completely mad? Well, obviously she knew he was psychologically unhinged, but was he actually completely suicidal?

Ivan stopped typing, lowering his phone as a wicked, deeply amused smirk spread across his lips. He leaned down, his face inches from hers. "That's exactly what you're here for, Dr. Rosvitch. You're my live in doctor, remember?"

"You're f*****g crazy," Zoya ordered, her voice trembling with a mixture of professional outrage and disbelief as she motioned with her hand toward the exit stairs. "We are going back to the estate right now. Let’s go."

In her sudden, overwhelming burst of medical panic, she didn't even realize that she had completely abandoned her carefully calculated plan of escaping into a public taxi. Her intense focus had shifted entirely to the fact that her reckless patient was about to rip his stomach open in a steel cage.

"Is that genuine concern I hear in your voice, Dr. Rosvitch?" Ivan whispered playfully, his breath brushing against her ear, his eyes gleaming with an immense, arrogant satisfaction.

Zoya’s temper completely snapped. With a sharp gasp of fury, she placed her palm directly against the center of his chest landing exactly on the spot where his gunshot wound lay beneath his shirt and squeezed it hard, pressing her fingers firmly into the healing muscle.

Ivan didn't even flinch. His smirk only widened.

"You know what? Suit yourself, Starkov," she said, her voice turning completely ice cold as she ripped her hand away from his chest. "If you climb into that ring and die tonight, as your official physician under contract, I am not liable for a single thing. Go get yourself killed."

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed one of their massive Starkov bodyguards step forward, quietly placing her heavy, fully stocked medical trauma bag right beside her leather chair. Of course. Ivan had literally thought of absolutely everything. He had packed her equipment before they even left the house.

"We'll just have to see about that, doc," Ivan whispered back, giving her one last, lingering look.

The platinum blond Chenkov cleared his throat loudly, trying to regain their attention. From the outside angle of the crowded room, the close, heated proximity between Zoya and Ivan looked like nothing less than a highly intimate, lover's quarrel. Chenkov was staring at them with an amused grin, and honestly, almost everyone in the surrounding VIP section was watching them too.

Chenkov tapped the face of his watch significantly. Ivan finally let out a soft chuckle, stepping back from Zoya’s chair. "See you in a minute, ptichka."

With that, Ivan turned and walked away, disappearing into the back fighter corridors alongside the blond man.

Zoya sank back down into her leather seat in a state of utter, overwhelming frustration. She clutched the pity shawl tight around her shoulders, looking up at the three motionless, towering bodyguards who stood like stone walls directly behind her chair. She rolled her eyes harder than she ever had in her life, bracing her spine against the leather as the stadium lights began to flash, preparing herself for the absolute chaos that was about to unfold in the steel cage.