Chapter 2 Roman
ROMAN
Two men circle each other in the fighting pit below my scaffolding platform.
The challenger feints left and my enforcer takes the bait, dropping his guard for half a second.
That's all it takes. The challenger's fist drives into his ribs hard enough that I hear the impact from here in my lofty perch erected for tonight's show.
My enforcer stumbles back, and the crowd pressed against the chain-link barriers erupts.
The challenger's good—better than the last three who came through here looking to prove themselves.
He keeps his guard tight and moves like a well-trained street fighter.
I lean forward with my elbows on my knees and watch him land another hit.
Yegor stands beside my chair with his arms crossed. "That's the fourth one tonight who's worth keeping."
"Fifth," I say without looking at him. "The one with the scar on his ribs. He fights smart."
"You want all five?"
"I want the ones who can make me money." I watch the challenger duck under a wild swing and drive his fist into my enforcer's kidney. "Put them on the circuit. Start with Yekaterinburg and see how they do."
Yegor makes a note on the clipboard he carries. The fight ends when my enforcer goes down and doesn't get back up, and the crowd erupts as money changes hands along the barriers. I sit back in my chair and gesture for the next matchup to begin.
The next two fighters enter the pit, and the crowd roars.
The families are scattered throughout the warehouse, watching from different vantage points near the barriers.
It's a good way to get a feel for what's happening in this city.
The ones who haven't accepted my invitation, I make a mental note about.
They may be hostile. But those in attendance, it means they may need something.
They may be posturing, seeking my approval or support.
Yegor reads the first name off his list and the man makes his way through the crowd to the scaffolding. He climbs up and sits in the chair beside mine without waiting for an invitation. His suit is expensive and his hands are clean. He watches the fight below and crosses one leg over the other.
"Good turnout tonight," he says. Damien Sarkov, if I'm not mistaken, but I won't ask him if he doesn't introduce himself.
"Better fighters than last month." I keep my eyes on the pit where the smaller fighter lands a hit to the ribs.
"I'm looking for three men. Preferably ones who know how to handle themselves in close quarters." So he gets right to the point. I like that about him. He's here to find talent, which was only one reason for the invitation.
"Then you'll want to wait for the next round." I point to the challenger in the pit. "That one's already claimed."
He shifts in his seat and lifts an eyebrow at me. "You're taking all the good ones."
"I'm taking the ones I need." I turn my head to look at him, but I see the distaste in his expression. Greed isn't a good look on anyone. And since this is my fight, he gets to take what's left after I choose what I want. "You're welcome to the rest."
His face reddens but he doesn't push it. We watch the fight in silence until his time is up and Yegor calls the next name. He leaves without another word, and I give my right-hand man an expression to let him know that man will not be tolerated at my future events.
Three more families come up after him. Each one sits beside me and makes their pitch. They want fighters and assurances about territory, and they want to know if I'm planning to move into weapons now that Anton Radin's dead.
I've only heard the name Radin a few times, but I recall something about weapons smuggling. Not my game, but I’m not too good to branch out if the profit is right.
Still, I'm not pursuing it. My game is in the fight circuit and I do quite well for my family with the choices I make.
If Radin's got a weakness, someone will exploit it. Doesn't have to be me.
The sun has moved lower by the time Yegor calls the last name on his list. "Vera Koval-Radin."
I sit forward, wondering what this woman will be like. Six months past losing her husband and she's apparently come to beef up her team. May or may not be an indicator of what I've heard a few times tonight, that they're weak.
But the woman who climbs the scaffolding isn't Vera.
She's too young, mid-twenties at most, with dark hair pulled back from her face and gray-green eyes that scan the warehouse before settling on me.
Her black dress belongs at a funeral, not here.
She carries nothing in her hands and she stops at the top of the platform.
"You're not Vera Koval-Radin," I say plainly, letting my eyes walk up and down her form. She's short, but it doesn’t detract from her figure. I have to admit that dress fits her like a glove. And it feels sinful admiring a woman so youthful at my age, but I don't mind the view.
"No," she says, taking a step forward. "I'm here on her behalf."
"And who are you?"
"Mila Radin, Anton's daughter." Mila studies me carefully, but she doesn’t look intimidated. I've seen grown men approach me with more caution than her. She holds herself well, chin erect, shoulders squared. It makes her chest push out and catches my eyes.
I gesture to the empty chair, and she sits and folds her hands in her lap. Her posture is perfect, spine straight, chin level. But her eyes fix on the fight, much like her predecessors. Below us, a fighter takes a hit to the jaw and spits blood onto the concrete, and Mila doesn’t even flinch.
"You're young to be representing your organization at a place like this," I say casually, knowing what an insult that might be, and she doesn’t even flinch. She's like a goddamn robot. Or her father trained her well. Either way, I like the fire she carries.
"I'm old enough to be here." She turns her head to glare at me.
"Unless you have a problem with that." When one eyebrow lifts, her lips purse, and I feel called out.
It almost makes me chuckle. I want to look around for her guard dog because any woman this put together deserves equally fiery muscle to back her up.
Most people who sit in this chair either grovel or posture. She's doing neither. It's fascinating, like she doesn't know who I am, or if she does, she really can't be fucked to show it.
I lean back and watch her profile while she watches the fight.
She has a clean complexion, a long, elegant neck, and her hair has been styled well.
But her fingernails are chewed off, fingers callused.
The two don't seem to jive. It's like she's playing a part, perhaps for Vera, one the older woman won't play herself? I don’t understand it, but it's intriguing.
If she's the Radin heiress, why is she dressed in a simple black gown with chewed up fingernails and yet carries herself like the queen she's supposed to be?
"Tell me, Mila, does Vera often send you to do jobs she hates, or does she have a death wish for you?"
"Maybe it's both." Her lips curve slightly before she turns her head to face me. "Or maybe she knows I can handle myself."
"Can you?"
"Mr. Kuzin, you joke." Mila bats her eyelashes, and it does something strange to my gut.
Is she flirting with me? A man my age and with my status?
What does she hope to accomplish? "I am here to represent my family.
If you wish to entertain business with us, then I am the representative.
If you're merely going to insult my intelligence because of my youth, then we have nothing further to speak about. "
Mila starts to stand up, and I grab her arm, halting her.
She looks down at where I touch her as a true queen would, with indignation in her expression.
I nod at the chair, and as she slowly lowers herself back into it, I remove my hand from her arm out of respect.
I am wrong to insult her. She really has some sass.
"Well, then, what is it that Vera has to say to me, if you insist she sent you as a serious representative of the Radin family?
" I glance at Yegor who now stands behind Mila with his clipboard and pen, but he has a smirk on his face.
Bastard thinks I'm being one-upped by a woman, and he may just be right.
"To pay her respects." Mila sucks in a deep breath and crosses her arms over her knee, now paying attention to me instead of the fights. And I have to say, she has my undivided attention too. "And to ensure you know the Radin organization is still operational despite my father's death."
"I never make assumptions, Ms. Radin. My condolences. Your stepmother, I assume?" I wait for her to nod. "She must take the family business seriously."
Mila seems to stiffen as I talk about Vera.
Her lip twitches, and her fingers curl. Then she meets my gaze and says, "I'm here to see what you have to offer, and if I like what I see, I will be choosing fighters for my family.
" I love the way she accentuates the word "my" like she owns it.
Again, I'm impressed by this fox in the grass, and something tells me she is a fierce competition, though perhaps young and naive enough that one day, I can use that to my advantage.
I hold out my hand. "Roman Kuzin."
She looks at my hand for a moment before she reaches out and takes it.
Her grip is warm, and she wraps both hands around mine instead of just shaking.
The gesture is intimate, almost comforting.
Her fingers are soft and her thumbs press against my knuckles firmly.
It's an embrace of friends, not the kind you share as you meet someone for the first time. And here she is offering it to me.
"I'm sure we'll make a few excellent deals," she says. "I know I'm looking forward to seeing more fresh talent." The way she looks at me, so intently, like she's trying to hold my gaze—it's interesting, but I'm not easily fooled.
Her left thumb slides across my signet ring.
The pressure is light, almost gentle, but I feel the band shift on my finger.
And the entire time, she smiles at me like a movie star, all teeth and charm.
But I feel what she's doing, twisting that ring while she squeezes my hand to offset the pressure.
And I'm almost mesmerized by it, almost fooled.
She releases my hand and stands in one fluid motion. The ring is gone from my finger and clutched in her palm, and I lunge forward and grab for her wrist, but she twists away. My fingers close on empty air.
Mila bolts from her seat and runs straight for the edge of the platform.
"Stop her," I tell Yegor, but she doesn't climb down the scaffolding. She jumps.
Her body drops to the concrete below, and she lands in a crouch at the edge of the crowd where her shoes skitter away. Then she's running.
The crowd parts around her like water and she disappears into the mass of bodies before my men can even process what happened.
I stand and grip the railing, watching it unfold with a disbelieving grin on my face.
That little minx lifted my ring. It's worthless, something I vowed to my father when I took over this position that I'd wear.
It's more of a token or a symbol than anything of value, and what the fuck could she even want with it?
But no one steals from me and lives to tell about it.
Yegor's beside me shouting orders to the guards at the exits. But she's gone. I stand there watching the space she landed knowing whatever she did, she didn’t do it alone. No woman of her youth and now obvious inexperience would come after someone like me. Fuck, she has some balls.
She stole from me. In my own house, in front of my men, she took my ring right off my finger. The audacity of it burns hotter than the shock of it. She had to know I'd come after her and yet if she's being honest, she told me her fucking name. How stupid.
I turn to Yegor and tug my jacket into place. "Get the car."
"The fights aren't finished, Boss—"
"Let them finish without me." I make my way to the stairs and down the scaffolding. "I want you ready to move in ten."
"Where are we going?"
"The Radin estate." I push through the crowd toward the exit, and my men fall into step behind me. "Someone needs to learn what happens when you steal from me."