Chapter 39 #2
Dmitri drives us to the secluded warehouse facility, and when we show up, the parking lot is already full of cars. Some are beat-up pieces of junk, while others are flashy and new. I breathe out into the night air, looking up at the star-filled sky before turning my gaze toward the entrance.
“You two go.” Nico nods to the building. “I’ll trail behind.”
“Ready?” Dmitri asks, not a hint of worry or doubt anywhere on his face.
“Yeah,” I agree, dipping my head. “I’ve been ready.”
I’m not without nerves as we make our way inside, but it’s not the fighting I’m concerned about.
I want to do this, and there’s still a possibility that Anton sees me and doesn’t let me compete.
Dmitri says it’s very unlikely since he’ll be bringing me in himself, and Anton is realistically not going to challenge his heir in front of their men.
It doesn’t take long before we’re noticed. Dmitri Morozov could stand out in any room with his size and commanding presence, but in a room full of his father’s men? It would be impossible for him to go unnoticed.
I’ve been to underground fights before, but this place is on another level.
Two rings take up a good chunk of the open floor, a crowd of shirtless men surrounding them as they wait their turn to step inside.
There’s rafters with armed guards, and spotlights hanging above them, pointed to where the masses gather.
It was loud when we came inside, the combination of mindless chatter and intense music filling the air. But as more people notice us walking in, the noise seems to die down. I feel eyes all over me but keep my face clear of any reaction just as Dmitri does.
We approach a table where an older man sits, smoking a cigarette while he looks at a scattered mess of papers.
“Got one more for you, Miron,” Dmitri grunts without waiting for the man to look up.
As if he instantly recognizes his voice, the man looks up, eyes widening just enough to be noticeable.
“Dmitri,” Miron says in surprise. “I wasn’t aware you were in town.”
My brother-in-law shrugs, lifting a shoulder boredly. “It’s a surprise.”
“All right,” the man agrees, because of course he does. It’s not like he could argue with Dmitri, even if he wanted to. Miron eyes me before picking up a pen and putting down his paper to write on it. “Last name?”
“Moretti,” Dmitri reports before I can.
One word sends the already quietening room into silence.
Miron looks back up at us and his lips part seconds before he can make them form words. “Moretti?” he repeats, his disbelief clearly evident.
Dmitri nods, gruffly adding, “My brother.”
Low voices break out behind us, muttering Russian words of confusion. As out of the loop as he may be, Miron has no choice but to write my name down. His future Pakhan told him to, so he must.
Once he finishes writing, Dmitri leads me away from the table and farther into the building. I know where he’s taking me, because before I see them, I can feel them.
Anton, Lev, and Mikhail are all standing together toward the back of the big room, all of them in black suits while they share a bottle of clear liquor. When he spots us, Dmitri’s father quickly hands his short crystal glass to Mikhail. He needs his hands free to greet his son, after all.
“Father,” Dmitri says, stopping a couple of feet in front of the man. “Uncles.”
Anton looks between us but doesn’t give away his surprise.
“Sir,” I greet, trying not to come off as rude. “Mikhail, Lev.”
“Dmitri, Matteo,” the Pakhan replies, looking at us both before giving his son all of his attention. “You didn’t tell me you were coming home.”
Anton comes forward and pats his son on the back. I swear I can see him fighting the urge to hug Dmitri. But he doesn’t give in. Whether it’s because they’re in public or because he isn’t as close as he once was with his heir, he keeps the distance between them.
“It’ll be a quick trip,” Dmitri replies, nodding to his uncles. “I won’t stay away from Jade for long. But she would want me here with him, if she knew what he was doing.”
Yeah, asking Dmitri to disguise his reasoning for coming to California out of the blue wasn’t my favorite thing I’ve had to do.
But Jade can’t know before our father does, and there’s no way I’m telling him before it’s official.
I don’t know if he would try to talk me out of this, or forbid me from it, so I’m not giving him the chance.
Sometimes it’s better to ask for forgiveness rather than permission.
“And what’s he doing, exactly?”
“Proving himself.”
Understanding seems to light behind his eyes and he looks to me, tilting his head just slightly to one side. “Anya will be upset if you get hurt.”
“I won’t get hurt,” I state confidently. “Not enough to make her worry.”
“And if I told you that you could be with her without doing this?” he asks, his voice just loud enough for me to hear. “If I said that you two could live here as man and wife without abandoning your allegiance to The Outfit?”
“I’d say thanks, but no thanks,” I reply without question.
“If I’m going to have Anya, I’m going to deserve her.
I’m going to bleed for her, and sacrifice everything for her.
To be a man worthy of her, I can’t just sit around on my hands and accept her like a gift.
I’m going to work for her family and earn their love as I’ve earned hers. ”
For once, Lev doesn’t voice an objection.
Nobody does.
“All right, Matteo,” Anton decides. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
The first few fights are quick and brutal, but they have nothing to do with me.
In the meantime, Dmitri has me take my shirt and shoes off and tells me to hold still while he wraps my wrists in black athletic tape.
It’s tight enough to keep my joints and bones in place for heavy hits, but not too tight that it cuts into my blood circulation.
The men surrounding us are varying in size, but most of them are my size or bigger. A couple are smaller in stature like Ivan and Nico, but I’m not going to be fooled into thinking that that makes them less fierce competition. Speed can have just as much advantage as strength.
The bigger they are, the harder they fall.
When my name is called out, it almost doesn’t even sound real.
“You’re up,” Dmitri tells me, lightly pushing me toward the correct ring. His completely calm demeanor reminds me that I don’t need to be worried.
I’ve trained all my life and learned from Anton Morozov’s sons themselves. I’m going to do fine. Better than fine. I’m going to dominate.
I didn’t hear my opponent’s name, but the man is older than me and covered in tattoos. We’re on par for size and height, but judging by the scars on his body, this isn’t his first time fighting.
“Long way from home, aren’t you?” he asks, his accent heavy.
“I don’t know,” I respond in Russian. “You tell me.”
He tilts his head in surprise and then grins. “This will be fun.”
“Not for you,” I assure him.
When the bell dings to signal our start, he fucking launches himself at me, flying through the air like some kind of wild, feral bird. He isn’t difficult to catch off guard, and part of me is pretty sure he’s on some kind of upper. Cocaine most likely.
I dodge his obvious first attack and spin behind him, shoving him into the corner of the ring so hard that he grunts in pain. He puts his hands up, expecting to be hit with a barrage of punches. So I kick him in the stomach and when he goes down wheezing, I catch him in the jaw with a heavy knee.
He goes down in an instant, collapsing as he passes out from a well-placed hit. I stand above him, waiting to see if he’ll try to get up. But when his eyes open slowly, he waves me off.
Cheers and jeers erupt from the men in the crowd like they have after every match as I make my way out of the ring, smirking. My first win and I didn’t even break a sweat.
“Quick,” Dmitri comments as I return to his side.
“Sucks for him,” I reply with a laugh. “Pretty sure he wanted to dance with me for a while. Are all of them hopped up on something?”
“Not all,” he tells me, unsurprised that the man was on drugs. “They don’t have to be clean unless they become one of our men. Some think being juiced up gives them an edge, others are simply addicts.”
Sarcasm obvious, I mutter, “Fun.”
The next fight isn’t so quick, nor is it so evenly matched.
This second guy is huge, maybe even bigger than Anatoly.
But unlike Anatoly, he’s slow and stupid.
He stumbles through his movements, nothing sharp or practiced about them.
It’s like fighting an overgrown toddler, but a toddler who’s hard as fuck to knock out.
My fists are aching with a dull bit of pain when I finally put enough force behind a punch to make the man fall to the ground.
The force when he hits the mat is heavy enough to rattle the whole ring.
The cheers are louder this time, and less aggressive shouts are being leveled my way as I exit the ring.
Dmitri hands me a cold water bottle instead of talking and I accept it happily. I’ve got plenty of gas in the tank still, but Mr. Big Bones was a bit of a fucking hassle that I’d rather not have to experience again.
My next four matches aren’t unlike the first two.
They vary in length and intensity, but I come out on top in the end.
I’ve caught a few stray punches now that my body is becoming more tired, but nothing that has drawn blood or made me stumble.
I almost feel bad for the men I’ve put down tonight, because they’ve been so obviously outmatched by me.
I’ve had the luxury of professional training, and I’ve never missed a meal.
Some of these guys live paycheck to paycheck, others don’t get paid at all.
Sure, some are the sons of lesser Morozov men, trying to make a name for themselves.
They’re more skilled and younger than others, but none of them have lived a life as blessed as mine.