There’s something about the symmetry of a boxing ring that centers me.
Which is exactly the reason I had a twenty-four foot diameter ring installed in the massive gym complex I designed for myself and my crew. It’s an exclusive membership. Price of entry? Lifelong fealty sealed with the mark of the Oryolov Bratva branded onto your skin.
I pull my gloves on and breathe in the scent of freshly-sanitized leather. They’re stitched with my initials on the side so the men know they’re off-limits.
What can I say? I’m a possessive bastard when it comes to my things.
Kirill is jumping in place inside the ring. He’s the only one I box against consistently because he’s the only one who offers me a challenge. We’re close to evenly matched. Fifteen years of beating each other to a pulp means he knows my weaknesses and I know his.
Makes the fight so much more interesting that way.
“Ready to eat canvas?”
I smirk. “It always amazes me how cocky you are, considering I won the last three rounds.”
“I have to throw you a bone every once in a while, don’t I?”
We start to circle one another. “You’re doing a lot of talking from that end of the ring,” I remark.
Kirill laughs as he moves towards me with his elbows tucked to his chest, fists over his chin. I know what to expect. He’s an impatient bastard, so he almost always throws the first punch.
As expected, he lunges toward me with a jab. I block it once, twice, three times before Kirill lets up. The moment he pulls his fists back, I swing a powerful uppercut.
“Fuck!” Kirill groans, crunching forward.
He reroutes himself quickly and charges forward again. I see the combination he’s planning before it even begins. Jab, jab, cross, big right hook designed to separate my head from my shoulders.
I meet them all—both jabs fly off my mitts, I swerve the cross, and then, before that hook can find my chin, I sink a huge left hand directly into his gut, centered on the liver.
Kirill lets out a huge grunt as he collapses back against the ropes, his chest rising and falling hard. I just smirk at him. “You were saying something about luck?”
His jaw flexes and he cracks his neck from side to side. “So… how was your lunch with Jessica yesterday?”
I suppress a smile. Given how well we knew each other’s boxing styles, sometimes the only way to win is to get inside each other’s heads.
“She was her usual nightmarish self,” I say as we resume.
“So you continue to see her… why? For those new tits she’s toting around? Heard Dr. Caviezel did a really great job with them.”
He launches another barrage of jabs. I block them all, then return fire, backing him up into the far corner of the ring. “The only part of that woman’s body that I’m interested in is the palm of her hand.” I throw another uppercut that Kirill manages to narrowly avoid.
“Pardon?”
“Because her daddy is right there, in the center of it.”
Kirill snorts. “True.” Then he gives me an evil grin. “You know, you could just marry the woman. Then Hiram Allens becomes your daddy by marriage.”
He lets his hands drop just enough to give me a window. I take full advantage, rocketing a left cross into his eye socket. It’s enough to drop him to the ground.
Looking down at him, I laugh. “This strategy’s not working for you, brother. You’re just giving me fuel.”
Kirill manages to get back on his feet before his ten seconds are up. “It’s a serious suggestion.” I dance a little closer to him to do some more damage to his body while he tries to bob and weave away from me. “Like Vadim says—you need to make babies. And soon.”
“Fucker,” I growl.
Laughing, Kirill skirts the edge of the ring. He leans back, arms slung across the ropes, as he waggles his eyebrows at me. “Of course you’ve already contracted a woman for sex. Why not contract the same woman for a baby?”
“Son of a bitch.” I charge him and we get tangled up in a clinch, muscles flexing and sweating as each of us searches for leverage.
“Emma’s not gonna be the mother of my children,” I snarl as we separate just enough for me to rip off a triple jab that leaves Kirill’s nose gushing blood.
He dances away once more. He’s bleeding like a stuck pig, but you wouldn’t know it from the smile on his face. “Hm, I seem to have got you going there. Could it be that the pretty little assistant is a weak spot?”
It takes more than a hook to the face to shut my best friend up. A Mack truck to the face might not be enough, either.
The moment he gets out of attack range, he grins wickedly. “Bet she’s an animal in bed though, right? Tell me: is she a moaner or a screamer?”
That fucking does it.
I combine my arsenal—speed, agility, power—and descend on him like a fucking storm. Kirill does his best to hold his own, but few can withstand the beast that is my possessiveness.
With a handful of hard blows, I have Kirill kissing the same canvas he promised me I would have to eat.
“It’s in your best interests to stay down, brother.”
Kirill twists around and lies sprawled flat against the canvas. Sweat drips off him and puddles around his body. “Oh, I have zero intention of getting up anytime soon,” he chuckles. “Also, you’re welcome.”
I scowl. “For what?”
He lifts his neck up maybe two inches and looks around. “For making you look good in front of your men.”
I lift my gaze. An audience gathered during our match and I’d barely noticed. Kirill said her name and all I’d been able to see were red dots blurring my vision. My men are nodding their approval of the fight; I catch satisfied, respectful nods in deference to my victory over my second-in-command.
Kirill is known as an elite boxer within the walls of this complex. He’s sparred with most of the men here and come out on top time and time again. Beating him is a mark of skill, a badge of honor.
I offer him my hand and pull Kirill back up onto his feet. “Well played.”
He smirks. “You have the control, brother. You need to make sure you keep it. Especially when it comes to the girl.”
I clap him on the back and he exits the ring.
Kirill’s right. My preoccupation with Emma feels dangerous somehow. But the only way it has the power to do any real damage is if I let it.
And I have no intention of letting anything or anyone control me.
Not even that intoxicating little kiska.
