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.
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 Icrushed 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.
