Page 28 of The Pakhans’ Curvy Prize

He's a regular, a man in his thirties who thinks he's tougher than he actually is and bets more than he can afford to lose.

Tonight, he got his ass handed to him in under two minutes, and judging by the way he's staggering toward the bar, he's not taking it well.

I watch him order a drink, down it in one gulp, and order another. His face is already swelling from the beating he took, and there's blood crusted around his nose and mouth.

He's drunk, angry, and looking for someone to blame for his humiliation.

The bartender, a young guy who's worked for me for about six months, sets another drink in front of him and says something I can't hear from up here.

Whatever it is, it's the wrong thing to say. The fighter's face twists with rage and he lunges across the bar, grabbing the bartender by the front of his shirt.

I'm moving before I consciously decide to do so. I take the stairs down from the balcony two at a time, my focus narrowed to the situation unfolding at the bar.

The crowd parts for me automatically, sensing the shift in atmosphere. By the time I reach the bar, the fighter has the bartender halfway across the counter and is pulling back his fist for a punch.

I catch his wrist mid-swing and twist, applying just enough pressure to make him gasp and release the bartender.

Then I spin him around to face me, keeping his arm locked behind his back in a position that would be agonizing if I applied any more force.

"You're done here," I say quietly, my voice carrying despite the noise around us. "You lost your fight. You lost your money. Now you're going to lose your membership if you don't walk out of here right fucking now."

He tries to struggle, which is a mistake. I apply more pressure to his arm, and he cries out, his knees buckling.

The entire warehouse has gone silent now, everyone watching to see how this plays out.

This is the moment that matters.

This is when I remind everyone here that this is my club, my rules, and my consequences for breaking them.

"I said you're done," I repeat, my tone harder now. "You can walk out on your own, or my men can drag you out bleeding. Your choice."

He makes the wrong choice.

He tries to throw an elbow back at my face, which tells me he's too drunk and too stupid to understand the situation he's in.

I don't give him a second chance. I sweep his legs out from under him and drive him face-first into the floor, my knee in his back and his arm still locked in a position that would break if I applied just a little more force.

Blood spreads across the concrete from where his face hit, and he's making choking sounds that suggest I might have broken his nose. I lean down close to his ear, making sure my voice is loud enough for the people nearby to hear.

"You ever come back here, you ever threaten one of my people again, and I'll make sure you leave in pieces. Understand?"

He nods frantically, and I release him, standing up and gesturing to my security team. Two of them move in immediately, hauling the bleeding man to his feet and dragging him toward the exit. He doesn't resist this time, too dazed and hurt to do anything but stumble along between them.

The silence in the warehouse is absolute. Everyone is watching me, waiting to see what I'll do next. This is the part I don't particularly enjoy, the public display of dominance, but it's necessary. Fear is a tool like any other, and sometimes you need to remind people why they should be afraid of you.

I turn to face the crowd, my expression calm and controlled despite the adrenaline still pumping through my system. "Anyone else want to test the rules tonight?" I ask, my voice carrying across the space. "No? Good. Then let's get back to the fights."

The tension breaks, and the noise level gradually returns to normal as people turn back to their conversations and their bets. The next fight is announced, and the crowd's attention shifts to the ring. I make my way back to the balcony, nodding to the bartender as I pass. He looks shaken but grateful, and I make a mental note to check on him later.

By the time the evening winds down, I'm ready to leave. The fights have been good, the money has been counted, and order has been maintained.

I've done what I needed to do here.

Now I need to check on my other businesses, make sure everything is running smoothly across the board.

I head to the Ivory Wolf around eleven, expecting to find the usual Saturday night crowd and nothing out of the ordinary.

I make my way through the crowd, nodding to a few regulars who recognize me, and head toward the bar to check in with the manager.