"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, withindignation 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."
