Bjarke stared down at the old man who had his finger pointed in his face. “I’m telling you,” the old coot said, “one wrong punch and you’re dead. You’ve been hit in the head too many times as it is, Bjarke. The doc’s sayin’ you’ve got a history of serious head trauma. Between that and the booze…you’re becoming a liability.”
“But fighting is my fucking life! It’s all I’ve got left!”
“Then you’ll sign a new fucking waiver that doesn’t hold the Pakhan, or your trainer -- which is me, in case you’ve forgotten since I hardly see you anymore -- or the doctor, liable. You end up a vegetable in some nursing home after some rookie sends you to the mat, I ain’t payin’ for it. You sign the paperwork, then you can get back in the ring and get your fucking brains beat out if you want to.”
“I got no problem doing that.”
“With a lawyer witnessing it?”
“Sure, I don’t care.”
The trainer crooked an arthritic finger, motioning for Bjarke to follow him to his office while muttering something that sounded like, “That’s your fucking problem, alright…”
When the trainer stepped out of the room and closed the door, it was as if all the air had been sucked from the room. Alexander Glazov stood there in a perfectly tailored black suit with a black button-down shirt and tie. The dark, monochromatic look made him seem even more imposing. It wasn’t just Glazov’s size or reputation that caused strong men to fear him; Glazov could back it up with his fists or his prowess with a knife.
The best Russian boxers had been brought here by the Pakhan and even as good as they were, Kolya was the only one who had the balls to spar with the Pakhan. Men half Glazov’s age were terrified of stepping into the ring with him. They’d seen firsthand the brutality he was capable of.
Glazov stood with a stoic, unreadable expression. But it wasn’t Glazov who had the prospect of death shining in his eyes, it was Novak. Bjarke had never seen the Pakhan’s cousin look quite like this. The man’s face was impassive except for his eyes, which had all traces of civility stripped away. For a second, Bjarke wondered if Novak somehow knew about his plans for revenge, but then decided that was an outrageous, paranoid notion.
Glazov had a reputation for cruelty but so did Novak. And Novak was the more impulsive of the two men. The common wisdom was to avoid getting on his bad side. Had Bjarke somehow already managed to do that? If so, there would be no forgiveness. Mercy was a concept that didn’t exist when you were Born Bratva.
Novak’s tattoos and piercings told the story of a lifetime of ruthlessness and violence. Russian tattoos were taken seriously; they weren’t done for fun. They represented personal truth. Gangsters knew better than to get tattoos that exaggerated or lied about who they were. Commit that offense and you were likely to have your tattoo removed by Glazov himself, with a sander or even a blowtorch. The process was excruciatingly painful and sent a clear message of accountability. At any given moment your tattoos could be questioned and investigated.
“I have a hard time believing boxing is your life or you’d actually show up for your training sessions. I’ve thought about firing you, but if you’re willing to gamble with your life perhaps fate will see to it that you get what you deserve without any help from me.”
In that moment, Bjarke made his choice. Fuck what Glazov and Novak knew. They were just biding their time. He tried to push down the apprehension festering in his gut. Hiding fear from a man who read people as well as the Pakhan could was no easy feat.
“Sir…I’m sick. I mean no disrespect. I have a disease.”
He trembled as Glazov slowly walked up to him, stopping so close to him that Bjarke could feel the Pakhan’s warm breath graze his cheek. “And…you expect me to have mercy? Anything you say to me is nothing more than an excuse.” Glazov pulled a pen from his pocket and handed it to the boxer with a sinister smile. “Ready to sign your life away?”
Bjarke’s eyes narrowed and his throat clenched as he swallowed awkwardly. Glazov’s double entendre hadn’t gone unnoticed. Glazov was toying with him and they both knew it. Bjarke shrugged off his sense of foreboding and willed his hand to stop shaking so he could sign the damn thing. If it would buy him some time, then so be it.
As soon as the papers were signed, Glazov handed them to Novak, then retrieved his pen from Bjarke’s trembling hand. He and Novak left without a word. They had no intention of seeing him again until they were spitting on the coffin of a traitor.
By the time they were seated in the backseat of the bulletproof SUV, Novak was fuming. “I don’t have kids and I don’t know if I ever will. But I love your kids like they’re my own, would kill for them without a second thought. I rejoiced over those babies being born like they were my grandchildren. Do you know how hard it was for me to not pull out my Glock and put a bullet in that motherfucker’s brain?”
“I know,” Glazov said serenely as he watched the streets of Louisville pass by. “But we’re on the cusp of going legit. Nearly there. We’re not letting him get away with his foolish plans. A few years ago, he’d already be dead and reduced to ash, but things are different now. So, we must bide our time in order to cover our asses. Trust me, I want him dead even more than you do, my friend.” He smiled the smile of a confident, powerful man who had all his bases covered. “He just signed his own death warrant.”