on December 30th, 2014
To take back life, one must first face death...
One man stripped of his freedom, his morals...his life.
Conditioned in captivity to maim, to kill and to slaughter, prisoner 818 becomes an unremorseful, unrivaled and unstoppable fighter in the ring. Violence is all he knows. Death and brutality are the masters of his fate.
After years of incarceration in an underground hell, only one thought occupies his mind: revenge...bloody, slow and violent revenge.
Revenge on the man who lied.
Revenge on the man who wronged him.
Revenge on the man who condemned him and turned him into this: a rage-fueled killing machine. A monster void of humanity; a monster filled with hate.
And no one will stand in the way of getting what he wants.
One woman stripped of her freedom, her morals...her life.
Kisa Volkova is the only daughter of Kirill ‘The Silencer’ Volkov, head of the infamous ‘Triad’ bosses of New York's Russian Bratva. Her life is protected. In reality, it’s a virtual prison. Her father’s savage treatment of his rivals and his lucrative and coveted underground gambling ring—The Dungeon—ensures too many enemies lurk at their door.
She dreams to be set free.
Kisa has known only cruelty and loss in her short life. As manager of her father’s death match enterprise, only grief and pain fill her days. Her mafia boss father, in her world, rules absolute. And her fiancé, Alik Durov, is no better; the Dungeon’s five-time champion, a stone-cold killer, the treasured son of her father’s best friend, and her very own—and much resented—personal guard. Unrivaled in both strength and social standing, Alik controls every facet of Kisa’s life, dominates her every move; keeps her subdued and dead inside...then one night changes everything.
While working for her church—the only reprieve in her constant surveillance—Kisa stumbles across a tattooed, scarred, but stunningly beautiful homeless man on the streets. Something about him stirs feelings deep within her; familiar yet impossibly forbidden desires. He doesn’t talk. Doesn’t communicate with anyone. He’s a man beyond saving, and a man she must quickly forget...for both their sakes.
But when weeks later, out of the blue and to her complete surprise, he’s announced as the replacement fighter in The Dungeon, Kisa knows she’s in a whole lot of trouble. He’s built, ripped and lethally unforgiving to his opponents, leaving fear in his wake and the look of death in his eyes.
Kisa becomes obsessed with him. Yearns for him. Craves his touch. Needs to possess this mysterious man...this man they call Raze.
Dark Contemporary Romance. Contains explicit sexual situations, excessive violence, disturbingly sensitive and taboo subjects, offensive language and mature topics. Recommended for age 18 years and up.
I am once again blown away by the talent of Tillie Cole. Not only does her writing just get better and better, but how many authors do you know that can write about a sweet nerdy English girl in love with a star football player, a mute biker mesmerized by a girl from a cult, and now a death match fighter and a Russian mafia princess. Most authors stick to one genre but Tillie branches out and each book is just so damn good!
Warning– Just to forewarn readers, this book has some dark, violent, and possible even disturbing parts to it. I felt that they were necessary for the story, and to show the brutal underground world that these characters come from.
Prisoner 818 has no memory of life outside the prison walls. He was actually forced into the prison at a young age, his freedom stolen from him. He then was conditioned to become a killer and a top death match fighter. His everyday became a kill or be killed situation. The only thing keeping him going is the name, address, and mission written on his cell wall- a mission he doesn’t remember writing, but one he knows he has to see complete… Revenge.
“Welcome to hell, boy.”
“Hell, boy thought, considering the guards words. It was a living breathing hell.”
Kisa is the daughter to the head of New York’s Russian Bratva. Her life is planned out for her; from where she goes, to what she does, and even to who she will marry. She is engaged to Alik, who controls her worse than her father and vows to never let her free. Honestly, Alik is a raving lunatic… a sociopath that only seems to calm down with Kisa is around him. She is a strong woman to put up with him, because he scared the crap out of me.
“I need you with me, I only feel at home with you.”
After almost being attacked one night, while volunteering for her church, Kisa is saved by a mysterious man. He runs away before she can see him completely, but he feels very familiar to her and she can’t stop thinking about him. When their paths cross again, Kisa becomes obsessed with him.
“Whatever out souls are made of…..” His and mine are the same.”
Behind all of the darkness in this book, is a true love story… one of forgiveness, passion, greed, and lust. In true Tillie fashion, she writes a story that grabs you in from the beginning and makes you forget everything else around you. I didn’t want to put my kindle down until the very last page. I can’t wait to see what this amazing author comes up with next!
Passing three homeless people, two men, one woman, I made quick work of dispensing the care packages and turned the corner to the next block, praying I would see the man hunkered down.
Taking a deep breath, I turned onto the street and, in the farthest, darkest corner, saw a large shadow and a jar of glass glinting from the nearby streetlamp.
My heart began to race like I’d run the damn the New York Marathon, and checking there was no sign of danger in my vicinity, I moved silently across the street to stand right in front of my man, his dark-gray sweatshirt in place, hood pulled low over his eyes, his body as still as stone. The jar in his hands had coins and random notes in it but it was only filled halfway to the top.
Like last night, I was immediately struck by him. This time his static position allowed me to really assess his frame. He was big. Maybe two hundred and twenty pounds, athletic looking, slightly bulkier than Alik. His black training pants were covered in dirt, and on closer inspection, I noticed his hands were covered in rough, broken skin, dried blood clearly etched into the flesh.
“Hel… hello?” I managed to ask, my voice shaking like a leaf in a storm.
He didn’t move. He looked like he was barely breathing.
I willed him to look up. I wished him to push back the thick gray material of his hood and look up at me. I had to put a face to the actions of last night. Something in my gut pushed me to make a connection, to get a name… a visual, something.
But he did nothing.
Glancing over my shoulder, I took in the quiet street and I slowly bent down, warily watching the man the whole time. He didn’t flinch. For a time, I wondered if he was deaf. Any noise I made didn’t seem to register.
“Excuse me? Are you okay?” I said, holding my breath as I waited for him to look up and reply.
I inched closer. “I’m with the church. You saved me last night. Do you remember? Do you need anything? More food, blankets? Would you please talk to me?”
His gray sweatshirt was zipped up, hiding what I guessed was a broad chest. His shoulders were huge, his traps visible through the thick material. His legs were crossed as he clutched the open-topped Mason jar resting on the ground.
My heart beat furiously, my palms sweated, and I found myself reaching out to pull back the hood.
The material slid back like I was unwrapping a Christmas gift. No, it wasn’t that safe. I’d observed this man in action. He killed a man without remorse. Reaching out to him would be like putting my hand in a wild animal’s cage. I had no idea if he was a threat to me or not.
A cropping of messy sandy-colored hair emerged, followed by the most beautiful chiseled face I’d ever seen. A broad forehead, defined European cheeks, a strong jaw, perfectly full lips, and stubble covering his golden skin.
The man’s eyes remained downcast as though he hadn’t even felt the material of his hood being pushed back off his head. The only indication that he’d noticed me at all was the slight tightening of his fingers on that jar he was holding.
My breathing quickened and all I could do was stare. I was struck mute and still by his looks, his unkempt raw and rugged looks. My stomach was tightening, my hands began to shake, and my pussy began throbbing.
He was perfect—wild, rough, stern—absolute heart-stirring perfection.
“Do… do you need anything?” I asked again through a clogged throat, my voice barely a whisper. “Please, talk to me,” I begged, feeling all hope drain from my limbs. “I want to thank you for saving me.”
Again, there was no response, and I realized I wasn’t going to get anything from this man. I studied his sharply featured face. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, but with dirt and dried blood covering his face, in reality, he could have been older.
I found myself desperate to know his story. Why was here? Who was he? But his silence pushed me away. I sucked warm air into my lungs in an attempt to calm down. I didn’t know why this was so important to me. I didn’t know why, but I had to know why he was collecting money. What was it for? Did he really need help?
I kneeled there for minutes just listening to his deep breathing. Then I sighed and placed the care package of food and blankets at his feet.
“I… I’d better go,” I announced and slowly got to my feet. I was about to turn around when the man cleared his throat, and I froze.
“Mnny,” was all I heard, his gruff, deep voice unintelligible.
I turned to face him. His head was still downcast.
“What?” I asked urgently and bent down until my knees hit the ground, praying he would speak again.
His fingers gripped the jar and he tilted it up in my direction. “Money,” he growled.
I visibly shook at the deep timbre of his feral-sounding voice. It was primal, animalistic. I slapped a hand on my chest as I fought to breathe. I dipped my eyes to try and meet his, but his chin lowered until it almost touched his defined, ripped chest. He could sense I was trying to make eye contact, yet he wouldn’t let me see him.
Filling my lungs with the humid night air, feeling their ache, I asked, “Money? You need money?”
A grunt told me I had it right, and I bent down farther. “How much?”
Nothing happened for several seconds, before one of his rough hands let go of the jar and he reached into his pocket, pulling out a tattered piece of paper. He held it out for me to take. I reached out for the scrap. When my finger brushed his warm finger, a current like a bolt of electricity shot through my body. I almost leapt back at the sensation. He must have felt it too as no sooner had our fingers touched than he pulled his hand back and tucked it into his pocket.
With trembling hands, I unfolded the crinkled paper and my eyes saw a number: ten thousand.
My eyes locked on the man whose tense jaw was protruding under the hood, his full lips pursed.
“Ten grand?” I whispered, yet he said nothing. “Ten grand?” I said louder, betraying my disbelief. “What do you need that kind of money for?”
His free hand clenched slowly into a fist and the split skin began to seep with droplets of blood. I was gripped by fear as I watched the droplets fall to the sun-parched ground.
“Revenge,” he snarled.
I startled at the severity of his tone, at his rough voice, his voice that caused sparks to ignite deep in my stomach.
“Revenge?” I whispered in confusion, fighting to keep the nerves from my voice.
His clenched hand slackened and once again resumed its place on the jar.
“Revenge… revenge on the man who lied.”