Chapter 39 #3
As the night carries on, it comes time for the final match.
Me, and some guy called Kuznetsov.
I’ve seen him fight twice while I wasn’t in the ring, and he’s good. According to Dmitri, he’s a legacy, but not a good one. His grandfather worked for Anton, but his father disappeared. Leaving the mafia is a bit like going AWOL in the military. It’s dishonorable.
But no one can prove whether or not Kuznetsov’s father wasn’t just taken or killed. He can’t be shamed for his name without proof, but he can be made to work for his place here just like anyone else.
Just like me.
But unfortunately for Kuznetsov, tonight is not his night.
He fights harder than the rest, I’ll give him that. So much so that I just might have to put in a good word for him later on. I’ll need to figure out if he’s only a good fighter, or a good man too before I do.
He catches me with a right hook that busts my lip and hits me a few good times in the ribs that will definitely need to be iced when I get home. But it’s not enough.
I’ve already got him panting within the first minute.
If I weren’t trained better, I might allow myself to feel bad about the pain I’m inflicting on him.
But feeling guilty can slow you down. It’s unconscious.
You don’t know it, but it feeds your brain signals to slow you down so that you back off, and I don’t have the time to back off.
I’m winning this fight.
My strikes are all hard and perfectly placed, using his exhaustion to my advantage. I’m not trying to hurt him too badly, but it might be inevitable. These fights are bloody and the more violent you are, the louder the crowd goes.
I’ve only broken one arm tonight, and one nose. Both in my fourth fight with a particularly nasty big man who looked like he wanted to eat me and bathe in my blood. But both times I crushed the arm and nose loud enough for the cracks to echo around us, and both times the crowd went fucking nuts.
And right now, they seem to be trying to egg me on to doing it again. Part of me thinks they’ve forgotten that I’m a Moretti and are simply enjoying the brutal show I’m offering. Still, despite the crowd roaring, I’m not trying to give them what they want. It just happens.
I don’t mean to kick him so hard that I feel his ribs crack under my foot.
Kuznetsov’s agonized scream is almost enough to make me regret it.
But I finish the job either way. I hit his chin with a left swing and he drops, not passing out, but not getting back up either.
The fight is called as a win for me and a deep, relieved whoosh of air comes straight from my lungs.
I fucking did it.
A wounded Kuznetsov is pulled out of the ring and I’m left alone to bask in my victory. I spot some looks of anger in the audience but mostly looks of respect. Dmitri gives me a nod of approval, and I lift a bloody smile in return.
Breathing heavily, I wipe a trail of blood from my chin to my lip, grimacing as sweat stings the wound. It’s busted enough to bleed, bruise, and swell, but not so much that I’ll need stitches. It’s completely worth it.
And that rings true when I’m not alone anymore. Anton steps into the ring, and for the first time since I’ve met the man, he looks at me with something that can only be described as approval.
Yes, he stopped disliking me after a while. He may have even been beginning to like me, but the look in his eye right now is something else entirely. It’s acceptance. Not just of my place in Anya’s life, but of me as a man. It’s so close to respect that I can almost taste it.
The men quiet down as they notice him.
“Someone get this man a tattoo.”
Shouts of surprise and cheer go off all around us, and Anton extends his hand to shake mine. Thankfully, he doesn’t squeeze the hell out of it since I’m going to need to ice my knuckles tonight too.
In a matter of seconds, a man with a duffle bag joins us in the ring, followed by Lev and Mikhail, each holding a chair. I’m pushed into one while the other man takes the other, pulling open a small folding table and sterile tattooing equipment.
He has a singular stencil with him, and my heart races as I recognize the image.
It’s the Morozov family crest, from what I’ve gathered.
There are intricate details surrounding the center, including a set of wings that rest on both sides of it.
Traditionally, most of the design is in black and white but with red highlights in some of the features.
He cleans my chest with a towel to wipe away the sweat, and then with alcohol wipes to disinfect the area.
Then he roughly shaves my right peck with a disposable razor.
The tattoo gun starts buzzing as he tests it out without touching me but then Anton holds up a hand, telling the man sitting in front of me to stop.
A devastated part of me is worried that he’s changed his mind, that he’s not going to let me get the ink I need to be recognized as one of his men.
Only, he doesn’t tell me to get up. Instead, he takes the stencil and tosses it to the ground. “Not that one, this one.”
He doesn’t provide another drawing, he just gestures.
Inches away from him, his brothers stand side by side, each of them with a fist clenching the collar of their shirts, pulling the fabric down on the right side.
It’s different from the design I’ve seen on the chests of Morozov soldiers and on the wrists of some Bratva daughters back at Empire Academy.
Most of the image is the same, but the color accents are blue rather than red, and the edges are sharper—almost like they’re meant to be made out of glass. No, not glass. Ice.
Morozov means frost, after all. They want me to have the same tattoo as them, the marking of their family that isn’t afforded to their typical soldiers. The Pakhan and his sons don’t need the tattoo, but the people closest to them have them. His brothers, and his most trusted men.
They’re making a statement by bringing me into their organization at all, and that statement just went from he’s one of us to he’s family.
Fuck, I can’t wait to tell Anya.