Shark Hunting. Spartacus

Lily Rizk

Shark Hunting. Spartacus

Part I

Chapter 1

«Spartacus to the ring!» echoed the voice of the announcer.

In the middle of the trampled-down field, surrounded by a rough crowd, stood a man nearly two meters tall, warming up his massive frame. He looked to be about thirty-five, with a powerful build and a sharply trimmed beard. Cracking his knuckles, the fighter stared unblinking into the eyes of his approaching opponent. Everything about him screamed predator—merciless, calculated—missing only the tiger's roar.

Across from him stood Spartacus. He was smaller in build, though his muscular body was solid and battle-ready. Shaking out his arms, he clenched his fists and stepped forward. Both men lowered their stance, ready to fight. The makeshift night ring was set far from the city, in a desolate clearing lit by the headlights of surrounding cars. The crowd—mostly men placing bets—buzzed with anticipation. It was nearly dawn. Time for the final round. The fighters already defeated had joined the spectators, their bruised faces watching in silence.

«Ironhead versus Spartacus! Place your bets, gentlemen!» the announcer—also serving as referee—called out. After a brief rundown of the fighters, he reminded the crowd: no rules in this fight.

«Come on, Spartacus!» someone yelled from the crowd. «I’ve got my money on you, bro—don’t let me down!»

Ironhead, Spartacus’s opponent, growled lowly, locking his eyes on him with open disdain.

Spartacus raised his fists to guard his face and began circling slowly, preparing to defend. His opponent mirrored him, following every step. Then, without warning, Ironhead lunged forward, delivering a long, straight punch aimed at Spartacus’s head. The blow knocked him sideways. A sharp pain pierced his eye, and swelling blurred his vision. Before he could recover, he was slammed to the ground—Ironhead’s leg striking the inside of his knee with a vicious snap. Spartacus collapsed.

Ironhead quickly moved to wrap his arm around Spartacus’s neck from behind, trying to lock in a chokehold. But Spartacus turned his head, jamming his face into Ironhead’s side, preventing the squeeze. Reaching behind with one free hand, he grabbed his opponent’s jaw and violently shoved it backward. Ironhead’s grip loosened instinctively.

In that moment, Spartacus pushed off with raw force, twisting out of the hold. At the same time, he landed a brutal punch straight into Ironhead’s liver. Ironhead staggered back, finally letting go.

Without wasting a second, Spartacus spun around and leapt—driving his knee into Ironhead’s jaw.

Ironhead hit the ground. Knockout.

Chapter 2

Sitting on the edge of a large, weathered tree stump—once a proud century-old pine—Spartacus stuck a blade of grass between his teeth and stared into the distance. Ahead lay a ravine, and beyond it, a small river flowed. Behind him, across the field, stretched the village where he was born and raised.

His sun-bleached hair was damp with sweat, clinging to his forehead. His broad, tanned back, slick with sweat like oiled leather, shimmered under the soft glow of the rising sun.

After jogging along the dusty, winding paths and working out at his makeshift pull-up bar, he allowed himself a short break. His stomach already grumbled with hunger, but he wasn’t in a hurry to go home. Being alone with nature was his favorite time—especially in the early morning, when everything around was just beginning to wake. No one disturbed his thoughts, his dreams, or his inner peace. He sat there, letting the warm breeze of summer's end cool his overheated body. His mind drifted far beyond the horizon. So lost in thought, he didn’t notice someone approaching.

“How long are you gonna sit here?” came the high-pitched voice of his stepfather’s son, who had waddled all the way to the edge of the village, thighs jiggling with each step.

“What do you want?” Spartacus replied without turning, his deep bass voice clashing with the kid’s squeaky tone.

“Dad’s calling you. Says it’s important.”

“Did his junk car break down again?” Spartacus muttered, swinging his legs down from the stump.

He grabbed his shirt from a nearby bush—where he’d hung it the day before—and slung it over his shoulder, walking slowly toward the river.

“He says it’s urgent business or something,” the boy puffed as he tried to keep up.

“I’ll be there soon, Styopa,” Spartacus replied. “Let me take a dip first. And you better stay out of the water—you’ll sink again.”

“Then teach me how to swim, Spar!” the kid begged, voice filled with frustration.

“Later. I don’t have time now.”

Styopa dropped his head, muttered something under his breath, and trudged back toward the village.

At the riverbank, Spartacus stripped off his old jeans and underwear, wading straight into the water. Reaching the deeper part, he dove in, surfacing with a low moan of bliss. The cool water wrapped around his body, easing the heat from his muscles.

His strong torso, firm muscles, and piercing gray eyes made the local girls go wild. Every one of them wanted his attention. Even some older women longed for him with shameless hunger.

His mother constantly tried to fend off the many women chasing her son, but they always found ways to get close to him.

As if that wasn’t enough, Spartacus was involved in underground fights. His mother often had to nurse him for days after each brutal match. But no amount of tears or threats could make him quit.

“Why the hell did German name you that?!” she’d cry as she treated his wounds. “You trying to die like he did?!”

“Mama, relax. It’s just sport. We’re not really trying to kill each other,” he’d say, trying to calm her down.

And truth be told, it brought in good money. But that wasn’t the only headache. There was also a whole line of women practically following him around. And Spartacus didn’t exactly mind.

Sometimes Vera, a pretty young woman, would ask for help fixing her wiring, and he’d show up. Somehow, things would drag out till morning. Or Klavdia would call—something about a broken table. Same story. He was just too kind to say no.

“You keep it up, and one day your kindness will land you with a baby and a wedding you didn’t plan!” his mother scolded.

“I'm not stupid!” he'd reply, blushing and making a quick exit.

“So, Uncle Pasha—what’s this about?” Spartacus asked, taking a seat at the dinner table. He hadn’t seen his stepfather that morning, so the conversation was pushed to the evening.

“Let’s eat first, then we’ll talk,” the older man replied, scooping up fried potatoes from the big skillet at the center of the table, then reaching for a plate of roasted chicken.

“Can I help Spartacus too?” Styopa asked with his mouth full.

“No, you can't,” Spartacus answered before his stepfather could.

“It’s not about fixing something, son,” the man said, ignoring the boy.

“What is it, then?” Spartacus’s mother asked nervously, glancing at her husband.

“Men’s business, woman. Stay out of it,” he replied curtly.

She sighed, looking at her son. Spartacus lifted his eyes and slowly blinked, signaling her not to worry.

After dinner, they stepped outside. The stepfather sat on a bench by the gate; Spartacus stood before him, ready to listen.

“You still dreaming of getting out of here?” the older man asked.

“So?”

“You’ll never save enough from those street fights for even a one-way ticket, son. And it’s dangerous. Your mother’s losing sleep over you.”

Spartacus frowned, annoyed. Is he giving me a lecture now? He thought.

“So what are you suggesting?”

The man hesitated, choosing his words.

“There’s a very rich man,” he began. “He’s got a daughter. She made him angry, and he kicked her out.”

“You want me to find her and bring her back?” Spartacus guessed.

“No. The opposite.”

“Come again?”

“We need to teach the father a little lesson,” the man said quietly, leaning in.

“What do you mean, ‘a lesson’? Can you just speak plainly for once?”

“She’s here… in the village. He kicked her out, and she ended up… well, in the wrong place.”

“Where?”

“At Volodya’s barn.”

Spartacus stared at his stepfather in disbelief. He’d always thought the man was smart.

“You kidnapped a rich guy’s daughter?!”

“She came on her own.”

Spartacus chuckled dryly and shook his head. “Nope. Not my kind of job. Thanks. I’m out.” He turned to walk away, but his stepfather grabbed his arm.

“Wait. You don’t get it. You’re supposed to take her back and be the hero,” the man said, switching tactics.

Spartacus turned, brow furrowed. “Uncle Pasha… have you lost your damn mind?”

The man sighed deeply, chest rising and falling. He muttered as if to himself, “Fine. Either you do it, or we dump her in the woods and let her figure it out.”

That hit the nerve he was aiming for. Spartacus stood frozen. His gut rejected being part of something so wrong. But his heart wouldn’t let him abandon a possibly helpless girl.

Half an hour later, they arrived at an old house on the village’s edge. Volodya, Uncle Pasha’s nephew, was often away working in Moscow, so the house was usually empty—except when relatives needed to use it. This time, it served a darker purpose.

Spartacus was furious. The first thing he wanted to do was get the girl out. They crept to the barn and peeked through a gap in the wooden door. A dim light flickered inside, casting soft shadows. A girl sat near the wall, hugging her knees. Her black hair was tied in a loose bun, revealing a beautiful round face with large dark eyes and thick eyebrows. She looked no older than twenty-five. Spartacus stepped away from the door and walked quietly toward the gate. His stepfather followed.

“How long has she been there?” he whispered.

“Since morning.”

Spartacus lifted his head and whispered a prayer of thanks.

“Uncle Pasha, give me the keys to your UAZ,” he said, hand extended.

“Right now?” the man asked in disbelief.

“No, let’s wait until the cops show up. Of course right now. Hand them over.”

The man shoved the keys into Spartacus’s palm, glaring at him. Spartacus ignored it and returned to the barn. He quietly unlocked the door and stepped inside, ducking slightly under the frame.

The moment the girl saw his tall, broad-shouldered figure, she stood and backed away in fear.

“Don’t be scared. I’m not going to hurt you,” he said softly, hands held forward. “I’m here to take you home.”

“Did my father send you?”

“Almost.”

“What do you mean, ‘almost’?”

“He doesn’t know where you are. I want to take you to him myself.”

“Why should I trust you?” she asked.

“Why else would I be getting you out of here?”

They stared at each other for a moment. Then she nodded slightly and motioned for him to step outside.

Spartacus did. Uncle Pasha had vanished. As if he was never there.

“How did you find me? And who are you?”

“Just a village guy passing by. Heard a noise,” he replied, eyes fixed on the road as they drove out of the village.

“I didn’t make any noise,” she said, eyeing him suspiciously. “And you said my father didn’t know where I was.”

“Look, I don’t even know your name,” he said with growing impatience. “You’ll be home soon—what more do you want?”

“Maybe I don’t want to go home!”

He slammed on the brakes and turned to face her fully.

“Then we can go back to that barn, and I’ll disappear like I was never here.”

“Or maybe you could just drop me off in the city and disappear?” she snapped, not breaking eye contact.

“No,” he said calmly. “I’m taking you home. Where do you live?”

“Chicago.”

“Shit,” he muttered, tightening his lips and turning the wheel to make a U-turn.

“Hey! Where are you going?” she asked, alarmed.

“Where I need to. Why am I even dealing with you and your problems? You wanna play cat and mouse? Go ahead.”

“My name is Nadya,” she blurted out. “I really did come from the States. My father’s trying to marry me off to some friend’s son, and I don’t want that. That’s why I ran away. Please… believe me!”

Her tone shifted, and he suddenly felt a pang of sympathy. He stopped the car and rubbed his forehead, then looked at her.

“So what’s your plan—keep hiding in the woods?”

“I want to go back to America.”

“Do you have your documents?”

“Just my Russian ID. I grabbed it just in case. My passport’s back home.”

He gave a slight smirk. “Well, that’s probably for the best. Saves you money on a ticket. They’ll grab you at the airport the moment you show up. So your options are… limited.”

She leaned back in the seat, studying him closely. Then, with a click of her tongue, she said in a husky voice, “There is one foolproof option.”

“You’re looking at me real weird, Nadya…”

“I, um… I don’t have much money right now, but I swear I’ll repay you well if you help me. What’s your name, by the way?”

“Spartacus,” he replied.

“Spartacus? Really?”

“Really.”

“Pretty unusual name for a village guy… though you are a bit different from the rest.”

He smirked again and turned away. “My father named me after the guy in the book. The Thracian. He loved that story.”

“I should probably read it sometime,” she murmured.

He glanced at her, paused, then asked, “So what now? It’s getting late.” He looked at his watch.

“Spartacus, marry me.”

“What?!”

“Not for real,” she straightened in her seat, “just… on paper.”

“This day just keeps getting weirder. Nadya, that’s a terrible plan. I can’t help you like that. Sorry.”

“Come on, I’ll go back to America, and we’ll get divorced. My dad will forgive me, and I’ll pay you—lots. You’ll finally be able to leave this place, start fresh. Or… I’ll take you with me to the States?”

“Or I’ll end up in prison for fraud,” he cut in dryly. “Sorry. That’s not happening.”

She fell silent, turning away in disappointment. “How long is the drive from Rogosovka to Krasnodar in your junker?”

“About two hours.”

“Wake me when we get there.”

She closed her eyes and got comfortable. Spartacus shook his head slightly and started the engine. As they neared the city, he called out, “You weren’t sleeping, were you?”

“I was.”

“Doesn’t seem like it. Whatever. Where to next? It’s past midnight. I still have to drive back.”

“Do you know Krasnodar well?”

“Well enough.”

“Then take me to a decent hotel. I’ve got money.”

“Hold up. What hotel? Give me your home address and quit messing around.”

“Honestly, I don’t think your ‘vehicle’ will make it.”

“Where is it? Forget Chicago for a second. I’m serious.”

“My father lives in Moscow. I came here by train… and I’ll leave the same way. Tomorrow,” she finished softly.

Spartacus pulled over and slammed the door behind him, pacing and cursing under his breath. He kicked the car’s tire hard.

“Damn that bastard of a stepdad! He’s dead when I get home!”

Nadya sat up, startled by his outburst. A few minutes later, Spartacus returned and stood silently, staring at her. She flinched, thinking he was about to hit her, and shielded her head with her arms.

“You’re an idiot,” he muttered.

“I don’t want to marry that guy! He disgusts me!”

“And what about the rest of us, huh?! Tomorrow your father will be here. He’ll find you—and me. Guess who’s taking the fall?!” Spartacus nearly shouted, then turned away and punched the steering wheel. The UAZ honked loudly in response.

“I didn’t ask for this. Those jerks who invited me over got all the info out of me, then locked me in that damn barn.”

Clenching his jaw, Spartacus tried to think, searching for a way out. Pasha would pay—he just needed to get home first. But what to do with the girl? How to protect himself—and her? Why did he get involved at all? Stupid soft heart…

With a heavy sigh, he pulled out his battered old phone.

“Give me the number.”

“Whose number?”

That question made him finally glare at her.

“Your father’s!”

“I don’t have it. I don’t know it by heart… and I lost my phone,” she admitted, blushing.

“You’re kidding me,” he growled through gritted teeth.

“I swear. And don’t try to call him, please! I don’t want to live with him!” She buried her face in her hands and started crying.

Her tears hit him hard. In that moment, she didn’t look like a grown woman—just a helpless little girl. And if there was one thing Spartacus couldn’t handle, it was a woman crying.

He tossed the phone aside, leaned back in his seat, and closed his eyes, muttering under his breath.

“…Fine,” he said after a long pause.

She stopped crying immediately and looked up.

“Fine what?”

“I’ll be your husband.”

“We’ll stay at a hotel tonight. First thing in the morning, we go to the civil registry office,” he said wearily, starting the engine. “How much money do you have on you?”

She reached into her bra and began pulling out crumpled bills.

“I’m afraid to ask where you keep your passport,” he said, eyes still on the road.

“Probably best not to,” she replied, laying the cash on the dashboard.

“Even got dollars, huh,” he muttered, glancing sideways.

“Yeah. Two hundred fifty bucks and three thousand rubles.”

“Give me a hundred,” he said, holding out his hand.

Nadya handed him a $100 bill.

“That’s for the registration. Put the rest back,” he ordered, tucking the money into his pocket.

By 1 AM, they were already asleep in separate hotel rooms. Spartacus had no energy left to think. Marriage? Fine. At least now he had a reason to be responsible for this crazy girl—as her husband.

At exactly 9 AM, they stood at the door of the civil registry office in the district center. Spartacus had called an old army buddy at dawn, and through a few connections, got everything arranged fast. Then he woke his blissfully unaware bride, and they rushed back over.

The hundred dollars weren’t enough, so he threw in another bill, and they were registered. The only requirement was a pregnancy certificate to justify the urgent marriage.

When he heard that, Spartacus almost backed out. But Nadya pulled him aside and promised him it wouldn’t come to that.

“It better not,” he grumbled with suspicion.

An hour later, they were officially declared husband and wife and handed a marriage certificate.

In worn jeans and a slightly grubby blouse, the bride still looked stunning. Spartacus caught himself staring at her for a moment, then shook his head and walked toward the car.

“Never thought my bride would walk out of a wedding in jeans and a ponytail instead of a veil…”

“Phew! You’re my angel, my savior!” Nadya cheered, hopping into the old UAZ.

Perfect outfit. Fancy car. What a day, he thought, smirking as he started the engine.

“Where are we going now?” his new wife asked.

“To my house,” he said, shooting her a look. “Time to meet your in-laws.”

“You’re serious?!”

“What, you want your father to think something’s off?”

“No, of course not… you’re right. But what am I supposed to do there?”

“Live.”

“For real?”

“For real. As my wife. And get ready to work, sweetheart. Nobody’s gonna let you lay around doing nothing.”

“You’re kidding, right? This isn’t a real marriage!”

“Only for us. Everyone else will think it’s the real deal,” he said. “Either that, or we get divorced, and I go straight to your father with everything I know—his name, address, the whole package.”

“No! No, please don’t do that!” Nadya panicked. “Let’s just agree on what we’ll tell him—how we met, when, all that…”

“Good idea,” Spartacus nodded. “When did you get back from the States?”

“Over two months ago.”

“Did you stay overnight anywhere during that time? With a friend or something?”

“No. Just visited my mother’s grave.”

He looked at her and quietly offered his condolences.

“Thanks. She died when I was ten.”

“What from?”

“Pneumonia.”

He sighed heavily and gently touched her shoulder. Nadya looked at his hand, and he quickly pulled it away.

“My father died when I was that age too,” he said.

“But you said I’d be meeting your father-in-law…”

“I’ve got a stepdad.”

“Ah, I see. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, truly,” she said gently. “What happened to your dad?”

“There was a fire at our house. He got my mother and me out, then went back in to save the animals. A burning beam fell on him. Everything burned down. My stepdad took us in after that.”

“You don’t like him?”

“I’m neutral. He treats Mom well, and that’s enough for me.”

“Did he treat you like a son?”

“Not really,” Spartacus said, squinting as he tried to remember. “My boxing coach was more of a father to me—but he passed a few years back too. Uncle Pasha never pushed me, so I didn’t complain. He taught me a lot though.”

“Like what?”

“Fixing cars. He worked as a mechanic all his life. Taught me to build stuff, take care of the house. He doesn’t drink. Just a regular guy. Got his flaws, sure… don’t we all?” he added with a crooked smile.

They pulled up to a modest estate with a tall, even fence. Over the top, lush green branches spilled down, showing a well-tended garden.

“Welcome home, wife,” he said, stepping out and opening her door.

She blushed slightly and placed her hand in his, following him toward the gate.

“For everyone else, we’re a real couple. So don’t flinch if I touch you,” he murmured as he pushed open the gate.

“Mama, is Uncle Pasha home?” Spartacus called out to his mother, who was hanging laundry in the yard.

“Hello,” Nadya said timidly.

The woman froze mid-motion, mouth slightly open, her eyes darting down to the joined hands of the young couple.

“Mama, meet Nadya. She’s my wife,” Spartacus said quickly, already heading toward the house. “So, is he home or not?”

“Son, what are you talking about?” his mother asked, confused.

“I asked if Uncle Pasha’s home.”

“No, he’s not,” came a groggy voice from the porch. Styopa rubbed his eyes as he stepped outside, clearly just waking up.

“Who is this?” his mother asked, walking closer.

Nadya instinctively moved behind Spartacus, seeking cover.

“This is Nadya. My wife,” he repeated casually, like he was introducing a dog or a new motorcycle he’d just picked up.

“Wife?” his mother echoed, circling them. “You never told me you got married! And why am I seeing her for the first time?”

“It just happened. Sorry,” he said, wrapping an arm around Nadya. “We got married this morning. She’s pregnant, so we had to hurry.”

He regretted saying that the moment it left his mouth, because his mother immediately smacked him across the back with the wet towel she was holding. He let go of Nadya and bolted, shielding his head.

“How many times have I told you to stay away from girls?! And now you got one pregnant?!”

“I love her!” Spartacus yelled, sprinting toward the street.

Nadya stood frozen in the middle of the yard, unsure of what to do next.

“You’re not bad looking…” Styopa said, walking down the steps and giving her a long, curious once-over.

Nadya hugged herself and shrank slightly under his stare. But moments later, she felt Spartacus’ strong arms around her again. He pulled her close and started leading her toward the house.

“Know your place, kid. She’s my woman,” he growled, gently shoving his stepbrother aside as he led Nadya up the stairs.

Their mother shook her head in disapproval as they disappeared into the house.

Chapter 4

Two days later, guests arrived—along with Uncle Pasha, who had been absent all that time. Nadya instantly recognized her father and his loyal assistants.

“Well, hello there, daughter,” greeted a man who looked to be in his early fifties. He carried himself with undeniable authority and wealth. Even his cologne swept down the street like a royal announcement.

“Hello, Papa,” Nadya replied, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“Is it true, what I’ve been told?”

“Yes,” Spartacus answered before she could. He stepped up beside Nadya and pulled her into a firm embrace.