Chapter 8
EIGHT
F ists fly through the air, the crowd going wild as blood sprays from the ring. I stand and watch from the back of the room, safe from the barbaric actions of the two men currently fighting to the death. I’ve always enjoyed the thrill of a fight; the skill it takes to measure up to your opponent and take their hits. It never matters how good you are, because ultimately, the desperation to win will always prevail. Money is a great motivator, but the prospect of living is so much more, especially when you’re indebted to the Russians.
We might be under the Italians’ thumbs, but that hasn’t hindered us from creating businesses that rival theirs. Fortunately, my intel has yet to uncover whether they have any involvement in racketeering. We found a gap to fill, and that’s exactly what we did.
These fight nights are designed for the likes of those that owe the Bratva, from financial debt to everything else. If there’s an excuse to extort, the Russians won’t hesitate.
Unfortunately, there are some who take liberties, testing the boundaries of the Bratva. For those who don’t know, the boundary stops when you miss a payment. The likes of Kai and I will rain hell on you until you pay, and if you can’t, then this is where you end up— in the middle of a ring in a dingy basement, fighting for your life.
As barbaric as it sounds, it doesn’t stop the patrons from throwing money down. Our nights are always filled to the brim with spectators eager for a taste of blood. I think what sets our nights apart from the rest is the fact we host one fight, once a week. You wouldn’t believe how hungry people are for a chance to win big—even if they end up borrowing.
The cycle never ends.
Kai throws a fist in the air, cheering on the fighter who’s currently delivering hits faster than Anthony Joshua. We shouldn’t really be betting in our own venue, but I’m the one who oversees these fixtures. If anyone has anything to say, they’d have to say it to my face. So far, nobody has.
Another roar of the crowd attracts my attention, the leading fighter raining down blow after blow on his opponent. There’s no referee to monitor these matches. It’s down to the fighters and them alone to either call it quits or fight until they can’t anymore.
“We have company,” Kai yells in my ear, over the noise of the crowd. He gestures with his hand holding a beer towards the entrance to the venue.
Despite the room being shrouded in darkness, it’s impossible to miss his presence. Alvaro Bonanno looks like a deviant; a sexy shadow of brooding prowess all wrapped up in Armani. He doesn’t notice me, at least I don’t think he does. He hasn’t made it known that he’s seen me, but his gaze tours the room, admiring the scene.
“Want me to kick them out?” Kai asks.
I watch as Bonanno moves deeper into the room, his two buddies following close behind. “No,” I reply, shaking my head. “Something tells me they’re not here to cause trouble.”
“Whatever,” Kai grumbles. “The Italians are always trouble.”
I resist the urge to agree with him. The truth is, Alvaro is more trouble than I’m willing to acknowledge. There’s something about him that I’m drawn to, and even though we’re enemies by association, it doesn’t stop him from being so damn attractive, and it sure as shit doesn’t stop me from wanting to tear his clothes off. In fact, it doesn’t change a fucking thing.
The three men amble through the room, gazes fixed on the fight in the center as they make their way to the bar opposite where we’re standing. From here, they definitely can’t see us, so I lean back against the exposed brickwork of the basement wall and wait for them to come back into view.
“Do you think they’re here because of the Laundromat?” my second asks.
I consider his question, but it’s unlikely that they know we’re behind the closure of one of Genovese’s gambling dens.
Kai paid the den a visit last night, doing his rounds to collect what was owed, and reported that the Italians had already enforced their claim to the territory. Rather than lose money to the Italians, the Federov brothers ordered a complete shutdown, and since we have several members of the NYPD in our pockets, it was fairly easy to do.
It’s only a matter of time before Genovese realizes what’s going on, but by then, we’re hoping it’ll be too late. The Russians will own the city, and there’ll be nothing left for the likes of Bonanno and his companions. As promising as the idea is, it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
“So, what do you think they’re here for?”
That’s a good question. I’ve heard rumors of Roman Genovese and his success on the West Coast. Opening multiple gambling dens in the form of fight nights is no easy feat, add to the fact they used those events to push product, launder money, and it’s no surprise how well they did. The most obvious answer to Kai’s question is that Genovese is here to size up his competition, because I somehow doubt he’s here to shake hands with the Federovs.
My eyes snap to movement beside the bar, the three men headed towards a vacant table created from a discarded crate. They’re chatting amongst themselves, eyes focused on the ring as they sip their beers.
A roar rips through the crowd, snapping my focus back to the fight. At this point, I can’t tell who’s winning anymore. They’re both equally worn down, one fighter limping as he tries to land his fist in his opponent’s face once more. It’s utter chaos, but the crowd loves it.
“Guess I’d better find out,” I tell my second, realizing he’s still waiting patiently for an answer to his question. Handing him my half drunk bottle of beer, I run a hand through my hair and begin my short journey around the room. My pulse kicks up a notch with each step, every foot of closed distance making my heartbeat thrum harder.
Alvaro spots me as soon as the crowd parts to allow me through, an irritated expression deepening his features. That only makes me smile, because evidently it’s not just my words that press all the right buttons. Apparently, my very presence does, too.
“Bonanno!” I grin, holding my hand out to shake his. It’s purely out of politeness, plus I know how much my arrogance pisses him off.
As expected, Varo doesn’t take my hand, instead gesturing to his friends who shift awkwardly. “You know Gambino,” he grunts.
I do. In fact, I know far more than Bonanno would even consider. I know everything there is to know about Alvaro and his family, as well as the other families that make up The Notorious Five.
Varo points at his second companion with a thumb. “This is Genovese. Roman, this is Milo Kyrovsky, the Federov’s second-in-command.”
Genovese takes my hand and shakes it, firm and certain, just as I predicted. Clearly, he’s not letting his friend’s feigned distaste for me tarnish his manners.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?” I ask, acknowledging Genovese’s calculated gaze that tours over me. He’s the complete opposite of Alvaro. Where Bonanno’s features are dark and deviant, Genovese’s are light, even if there’s hidden depths to his outward appearance.
“Just scoping out the competition,” he replies, rolling his shoulders back.
“You interested in fighting?” I inquire, throwing a thumb over my shoulder as I raise a brow in his direction.
Roman smirks, some alternative meaning clear in his words. “Something like that.”
“Is that alright with you, or do we need your permission to enter an open venue?” Varo snaps at me. His words hold a spark of defiance; a fire I want to ignite.
“Chill, Bonanno,” I chuckle, clapping a hand down on his shoulder. “Have another drink.”
He shrugs me off like my touch burns him. “Get fucked, Kyrovsky,” he growls back.
I hum in thought for a moment before leaning in close. I don’t miss the way his breath stutters slightly at my proximity, nor can I ignore the faint tinge of red that paints his cheeks ever so slightly. I’ve got him right where I want him; wound up tight. All it would take is a few words for him to unravel, and boy, do I love watching his explosive reactions. “Such dirty words coming from a pretty mouth,” I whisper not-so-quietly into his ear.
I know his friends can hear me, and that makes this so much more delicious.
Varo’s jaw flickers with irritation, the slightest movement I might have missed if I wasn’t so focused on how adorable he looks when he’s pissed. With clenched fists, he shoves me away, grumbling, “I need a drink.”
I laugh at his retreating form. “Put it on my tab.”
He cuts me a glare over his shoulder before I lose him in the crowd. I don’t follow him this time, instead heading back toward Kai, who is deep in conversation with some girl who looks way too young to be here. I don’t question it, though, even if my concealed morals tell me otherwise. The Russians are known for having establishments that don’t conform to any legal requirements. It’s dangerous, but that’s what makes places like this so popular.
Acknowledging me with a lift of his chin, my second hands me my beer back, the condensation dripping over my knuckles. I lean back against the wall and take a sip. My gaze hones in on Alvaro ordering several drinks from the bar. I’ve got the perfect view from here, observing Bonanno’s form in all his delicious glory, wrapped up in the deepest black suit that only accentuates his dangerous features. I’m silently daring him to put all those drinks on my tab, just so I have another excuse to get close to him.
But then a thought occurs to me. This is our territory; I don’t need an excuse. Still, I bide my time. With those drinks in his hand, I have no doubt he’ll be hanging around for a while.
“Did you get any information?”
My eyes narrow on Kai. We might have a close working relationship—I see him as the brother I never had—but that doesn’t mean he gets to question me. Especially when I don’t actually have any information to give. “They’re just here to check the fight out.” It’s only half a lie. The other half is much more interesting, because even though Roman Genovese never said as much, I know exactly what he’s doing.
“Something we need to report back?” Kai asks as he throws back the remainder of his beer.
I take a sip of my own, regarding Alvaro as he carries a tray of shots and beers back to his makeshift table. I consider Kai’s question for a second before turning my attention to him. “Leave it for now.”
The Italians aren’t stupid. They wouldn’t try anything here, and even if they did, we’d be able to handle it. I have men stationed everywhere for the exact purpose of infiltration, surprise attacks, and anything else that might threaten the Russians’ business.
Still, it doesn’t stop me from watching them closely. It’s not exactly a bad sight, especially when Alvaro shucks off his jacket, exposing a tight-fitting shirt that clings to his obviously muscular torso. My dick twitches as I focus on the movement. With his back to me, it’s easy to imagine what he would feel like, bent over and taking every inch I have to offer. It would be so easy to find him like I did the other night and press him against the wall, sealing my lips over his.
Yebat . That kiss still lingers in my mind; the taste of tobacco and tequila lacing his tongue as I run my own across it.
Clearing my throat, I turn away and readjust myself. I know I’m only torturing myself, but it’s too damn easy to lose focus around Bonanno. The longer I look at him, the more I want to close that space between us and remind him of the evident attraction between us, because I know he feels it, too. His volatility is only proof of that; nobody gets this worked up over someone they’re not into.
A loud rumble washes through the crowd, followed by cheers and applause as one of the fighters collapses in the ring. The winner roars his success, fists bunching and punching the air. I glance at Kai and he nods, acknowledging that the winner will be excused from what he owes us—to a certain extent, because we can’t be seen to be too lenient. As for the loser, he won’t be walking away at all. He’ll be leaving in a bodybag.
“I’ll handle the clean up,” Kai offers.
My stomach turns slightly. Even after all these years, seeing this much death and destruction still makes me uneasy. I know that these men put themselves in this situation. I also know that the Federovs’ ‘olive branch’ comes with alternative consequences, ones I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.
I nod in response, my mood immediately shifting to a place I’m battling in my mind on a daily basis. The only thing that provides me with any calm or clarity isn’t something I can afford to entertain, so I head through the crowd, away from the violence and gore and into the back of the basement where the locker rooms are. It’s the only place I know I can be alone with my thoughts. And though I know I might be able to escape this side of life temporarily, it’s never long enough.