Zel: Markovic MMA Read online

  The elevator dinged. The doors opened, but Zel didn’t step inside the waiting car. He turned slowly and faced her, his expression now one of disbelief. “You are married to Lalo Contreras?”

  Sara nodded slowly. “Yes. Officially. But we’re separated.”

  “No, Sara,” Lucy interrupted, “that’s just it. You’re not married anymore. You’re a widow.”

  Sara spun around on her little sister. Incredulous, she asked, “What did you say?”

  “You’re a widow,” Lucy repeated. “Lalo is dead.”

  For the first time in nine years, Sara felt free. “He’s…dead?”

  Lucy nodded solemnly. “They found a body in a burned up motel. It was him.”

  Something in Zel’s demeanor changed. Glancing around nervously, he stepped forward and grabbed her elbow. “We need to get inside right now. Don’t say another word. Either of you.”

  Sara started to point out that the small foyer they were standing in was totally private, but she sensed that Zel knew more about Lalo’s death. She allowed him to lead her inside the penthouse and secure the door. Turning around, he leaned back against it and said, “You both need to stop talking about Lalo’s death in public. Keep it private—and leave it alone.”

  “What do you know?” Sara asked.

  “I know that nothing good will come from digging into that night. Not unless you want to go up against Nikolai Kalasnikov, Besian and the cartel,” he warned. As if trying to put together the pieces of a puzzle, he asked, “Why would your stepbrother come all this way to tell you that Lalo is dead? Why wouldn’t he just call?”

  Sara exchanged a nervous glance with her sister. Putting her trust in Zel, she said, “Everything Lalo owned is in my name. The houses, the cars, a few bank accounts…” Her voice faded as she watched Zel’s expression morph to one of concern. “I know,” she said quietly. “But in my defense, I was just a nineteen-year-old kid who was stupidly in love with the boy-next-door.”

  As if aware of the sensitive discussion about to happen, Lucy quickly excused herself to her bedroom on the opposite end of the suite. Stepping toward Zel, Sara touched his hand and captured his gaze. “Will you please let me explain?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

  Taking his hand, she guided him to the bedroom where they had made love only hours earlier. She sat down on the bed, scooting back across the rumpled sheets until her back touched the piles of pillows that had been hastily tossed aside, and Zel sat in front of her. “I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you that I am—was—legally married. I am—was—separated. We lived separate lives in separate towns and had nothing to do with each other.”

  “Why didn’t you divorce him?”

  She laughed harshly. “You seem to know Lalo. You must know what he’s like. There was no way in hell he was going to let me go. I tried to get free. I offered him more money each year, but he wouldn’t sign the papers. It was about control. It was always about control with him.”

  “Why would you marry a monster like that?” Zel seemed incapable of comprehending how she could have chosen someone like Lalo.

  Pinching the hem of her robe between her forefinger and thumb, she began her tale. “I was just a kid, Zel. I was young and dumb and in love. Lalo was from my neighborhood. We grew up together. We had dated while I was in high school so there was already history and a pull there. We started hanging out again and then dating and before I knew it we were standing in a courthouse getting married.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Nineteen,” she said, “and he was twenty-one. We loved each other.” Zel made a face, and she insisted, “Lalo did love me, but his version of love wasn’t the same as mine. It was controlling and possessive. He got crazy and dangerous. He made me stop dancing—which caused problems with Besian, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

  “I can imagine,” he echoed flatly.

  “Within six months, our marriage had imploded. I went back to the house I shared with my mom and sisters, and he stayed in the house we had bought together as a married couple.”

  “The house in your name,” he amended.

  She nodded. “I had more money than him back then. I would give him half of everything I earned, and he used it to bring in more product that he turned around and sold on the streets. It made him very popular with the cartel, and he grew fast. Maybe too fast,” she said, thinking of his paranoia and his hunger for power.

  Exhaling roughly, she recalled, “When I went back to work for Besian, Lalo fucking lost it. He went into the club where I was dancing and started attacking patrons. He had his crew with him. They trashed the place. When Besian got there with his men, it was mayhem. Blood. Glass. Broken chairs. Busted up doors. And then? Gunshots.”

  “Shit.”

  “It was awful. The police showed up, of course. Everyone ended up in jail that night.” She rubbed her face between her hands. “Nikolai showed up at my house. This was back in his early days in Houston when he was really dangerous. From what I’ve heard, he’s mellowed out a lot and is more into legit business now. Back then?” She shuddered. “You didn’t want to come face-to-face with him. It was bad enough if he sent Alexei or Ivan or—God forbid—Kostya to deal with you.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He told me to sort my shit out—or he would sort me out.” She gulped at the memory. “To him, I was just some stupid girl causing problems. I didn’t want to go back to Lalo, but I didn’t have any choice. For me, going back to Besian and dancing was just about business and earning a living. To him? It was a slap in the face. It was about his wife—his woman—choosing to dance naked for an Albanian loan shark. He was going to start a war to save face, and Nikolai wasn’t going to let that happen. It was pretty clear that Kostya was going to make me disappear if I didn’t make things right with my husband.”

  “What happened when you went back?”

  Sara couldn’t meet Zel’s intense gaze. Dropping her focus to her hands, she wrung them together and tried not to dredge up the memories threatening to surface. “Lalo wasn’t happy. He decided I needed to be taught a lesson. He made sure it was one I wouldn’t forget.”

  Very gently, Zel reached out and traced the bridge of her nose. “Was that when this happened?” At her look of surprise, he smiled sadly. “In my business, you get to know the signs of a broken and healed nose.” He studied her face a moment longer and then traced the apple of her left cheek and the slant of her jaw. “And these?”

  She nodded, her eyes stinging as the memories of horrific pain surfaced. “It was a long three nights tied up in that trap house before Alexei Sarnov bailed Besian out of jail so Besian could come looking for me.”

  “Besian saved you?” Zel seemed taken aback. “Even after all the trouble you’d caused him?”

  “Besian has his faults, but he’s loyal to his friends. No matter what happened with Lalo, he was never going to abandon me.”

  “So what happened when he found you?”

  “He nearly killed Lalo. The two slingers he was letting take turns with me?” She drew a slow line across her neck. “By morning, most of Lalo’s crew had vanished, and he was in Ben Taub’s ICU.”

  “And you?”

  “Besian had Alexei get me out of Houston. He drove me to Dallas and put me in a hotel there to wait.”

  “For?”

  “For Besian to fix things with Nikolai,” she said simply.

  “Is that why you have that tattoo?”

  She nodded and touched the fading mark. “Besian gave up part of his territory and had to give two of his clubs to Kostya. The dollar figure was so high I didn’t know if I would ever pay it off.”

  “But you did.”

  “I did.” She nodded. “Besian and Alexei—he’d been one of my favorite patrons—gave me some seed money for my lingerie company idea. I knew that the only way I could turn that company into a reality was to create a sexy as fuck plus-sized personality. A brand,” she emphasized. “I created t
his Nena Rubens character and learned how to leverage social media. I came to Vegas to dance and learn and network. I started a burlesque show that traveled to New York and Los Angeles and San Francisco. That’s when I launched the lingerie and other products. I waited until I had a hungry audience and then I pounced. As long as my family was supported, I didn’t care about a salary for myself. I paid Besian and Alexei back first—with interest—and then plowed my cut back into the business until we were turning a serious profit.”

  “And now you’re doing very well,” he finished for her.

  “Very well.”

  Almost reluctantly, Zel asked, “Why is your stepbrother here now? What does he think he’s going to gain by harassing you?”

  She cringed before admitting, “He took the heat for the gunshots that night Lalo stormed Besian’s club. He went to prison for it. When he got out, Lalo cut him loose and refused to bring him back into the family. When Ramsay wouldn’t stop causing problems, he set him up and had him sent back to prison. It was a huge betrayal. I’m sure that Ramsay thinks he’s owed what I’ve just inherited. Houses, cars, bank accounts—Lalo put most of it in my name. He was a dick, but he always kept my credit clean so he could use it whenever he needed it.”

  “You can’t touch the bank accounts or the houses or the cars,” Zel warned. “You know the DEA and the FBI and the Texas Rangers will be all over that shit. You need a lawyer. A good one,” he emphasized. “This might be a good time to call in any favors you can from Besian. If anyone knows how to stay on the right side of the law, it’s him.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be contacting me soon.” She was baffled as to why he hadn’t contacted her already. It occurred to her that something even worse than Lalo’s death must have happened back in Houston for Besian to have overlooked a simple phone call. She didn’t even want to imagine what that might be.

  As if reading her thoughts, Zel said, “Don’t ask those questions, Sara. You’re smart enough to know what happens to people who know too much. Whoever killed Lalo must have been protected from high above. You don’t need that shadow following you around, baby.”

  She glanced at him with surprise as the tender name he’d used. It was a glimpse at the future, of a possibility of something serious with this man who had shared his secrets and learned hers.

  Still guilt-ridden, she clasped his hand. “Zel, I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you that I was married. I haven’t considered myself married in years. I’ve had zero contact with Lalo. We were living separate lives. It was only legal papers keeping us tied together.” She bit her lip. “But you were right to feel angry about my lie. I wouldn’t like it very much if I found out you were married.”

  Zel grasped the back of her neck and brushed his thumb along the sensitive spot behind her ear. “I understand why you kept that secret. I didn’t appreciate being blindsided by it, but I won’t hold that against you.”

  “Thank you.”

  Ever so slowly, his hand drifted down her leg and picked up her foot. As he massaged her instep, the air between them grew heavy with sexual tension. “Would you like me to stay?”

  “Yes.” She wanted him to stay and never leave. Tonight. Tomorrow. For as long as he wanted to be with her.

  “I’ll keep you safe, Sara. I won’t let Ramsay touch you again.”

  She understood the weight of that vow. This was a man who had survived a staggering amount of grief and pain. This was a man who was going to step into a cage into two nights and take punishing punches and kicks to make things right with the mobsters who owned him because he had given his word.

  As he crawled toward her like a cat on the prowl, Sara wondered what the hell she was getting herself into now. When their lips met, she shoved aside all those trifling thoughts and focused only on the excitement fluttering in her belly.

  Tomorrow. I’ll deal with the reality tomorrow.

  Chapter Five

  The high-pitched whir of a jump rope whined in Zel’s ears. His feet moved quickly on the mat while his wrists flicked the rope, sometimes switching up the rhythm.

  Normally he’d have been jumping at an ever-faster pace but he was dragging ass this afternoon. Between his night with Sara and the final push of cutting weight before the upcoming weigh-in, his energy level was less than optimal. Luckily, when he’d stepped on the scale upon arriving in Vegas five days earlier, he had only been seven pounds overweight after being on a strict pre-cut regimen. His bounce back starting tonight and tomorrow wouldn’t beat his body to hell.

  Rumor had it that his opponent was tipping the scales over twenty-six pounds high. Mace had been fighting in the light heavyweight class for years, but he’d recently made the move to the next lower class in a bid for dominance and an advantage in the cage. It was a risk for a fighter that heavy and that big to go down a class, but Mace clearly felt he had no other choice. His career was played out in his division. He needed to make this new class work—or else his days fighting for money were over.

  Ivan’s training philosophies didn’t include pushing his fighters to compete in weight classes so far outside their natural body sizes. He didn’t allow the fighters on his roster too get fat or out of shape in between fights either. He wanted them all within ten to fifteen pounds of their fighting class and eating clean most of the time. He had different ideas about long-term strength and endurance than many of his peers.

  Some training camps encouraged—demanded—their fighters drop twenty or more pounds in a fight week and then gain all that weight back within twenty-four hours of their match. It was supposed to be a way to ensure a competitive edge over an opponent but it was fraught with risk.

  Dehydration was no joke. Fighters suffered terribly. The huge swings of weight loss and weight gain were hell on the body and the mind. With the brain so dried up from the lack of fluids, it banged around in the skull with every hit and made the risk of serious concussions very high. He had known men who ended up in the hospital with serious heart issues after all the diuretics, caffeine, saunas and hot baths forced on them during the cut. Mixed-martial arts was dangerous enough without adding the strain of extreme weight loss.

  Zel should have been concentrating on the weigh-in set to start in a few hours, but he couldn’t shake Sara from his mind. The tangled mess her late husband had left behind was a quagmire he shouldn’t wade into, but he couldn’t help himself. He should have run the other way the second he heard the name Lalo Contreras, but he couldn’t do it.

  After a single night with Sara and a morning waking up with her in secure in his arms, he was totally and completely twisted up in her. Her delicious taste, her tantalizing smell—she hadd invaded his senses and taken hold. Zel wondered if he would ever escape the infatuation.

  Do I even want to escape it?

  His stomach rolled with heat at the memory of those thick thighs wrapped around his head. He could almost taste her. Her shrieks of pleasure echoed in his ears. He remembered the debauched expression on her face as he’d kissed his way up her belly afterward and—

  He tripped on the rope and tumbled forward. “Shit!”

  With that booming voice, Ivan shouted angrily as he surged across the gym floor. He let loose a string of swear words, jumbling together Russian, Albanian, Croatian, Spanish and English in a colorful way that would have been impressive if it hadn’t been directed at him. Snarling, Ivan demanded, “Get your mind off that pussy and on your foot work!”

  Cringing at the public scolding, Zel unwound the rope from his ankle and stood. Abashed, he offered an apologetic smile. “Sorry, Ivan.”

  “I don’t want to hear sorry. I want to see you focused! You lose your focus and you get hurt.”

  Nodding contritely, Zel cleared his mind and focused on his routine. If Sara could affect him this badly after one night, he probably needed to steer clear until after his fight. He couldn’t risk any distractions, not with so much riding on the line. He desperately needed the prize money to satisfy his obligations.

  But
winning money wasn’t the reason Ivan had been riding him so hard in preparation for this fight. Ivan wanted him to be free of his debt, but his coach was more concerned about safety. Last year, Mace had killed a man in the ring with a vicious yet legal blow to the head. Zel tried not to dwell on it but the reality of the danger of stepping into the ring with Mace was very genuine. One misstep, one diversion—and he could be paralyzed or dead.

  No. There was absolutely no room for error or distraction.

  Or Sara.

  That thought made him uncomfortable as he headed into the sauna. Even now he craved her. His willpower and determination had brought him this far in his life, but saying no to Sara? He wasn’t so sure.

  And he’d promised to keep her safe. He had already made a personal visit down to the hotel’s security to ask them to be even more vigilant with her. A few signed autographs and fight night passes had been enough to ensure that she would be safe in the hotel. Outside on the streets of Vegas was another story. It would be so easy for a man like Ramsay to snatch her.

  And then I’ll have to kill him...

  The thought stampeded through his brain. It wasn’t an empty or dramatic thought. It was simply the truth. He wasn’t an underworld player. He didn’t live in the seedy underbelly of Houston. Yet, given the choice between letting Ramsay hurt Sara or taking him out, he wouldn’t hesitate or flinch. Her stepbrother was clearly a man who wasn’t afraid of the police or the law. He would hurt her and her family unless someone stopped him.

  Eyes closed, head resting against the wall of the sauna, he breathed in the heated air and tried to fight that claustrophobic sensation gripping his gut. Whether it came from the thought of spilling blood to protect a woman he hardly knew or the damp and nearly unbearable heat surrounding him, he couldn’t tell. Breathing deeply, he reminded himself he only needed a short time in here today.

  The door to the sauna opened, and Zel cracked an eyelid. He watched Ivan stride into the sauna, a crisp white towel tight around his waist. There was hardly an inch of Ivan’s skin that wasn’t covered in ink. Each tattoo told a part of Ivan’s story, each slash of blue or black ink another hint at the life of violence and crime he had lived.