“Quit twirling that fucking coin,” Glazov growled at his cousin. The two men were in the backseat of the SUV, Glazov having just ended a call with his wife confirming that the caravan of black SUVs had arrived home safely. Kathleen had called her husband with the update as she entered the main house through the back entrance. She and the rest of the family were giving the new parents a bit of privacy, at Nikita’s request, as they brought the twins in through the front door. Natasha had been feeling particularly emotional since the birth and Nikita knew she wouldn’t want an audience as they navigated this first task as new parents.
Glazov’s vehicle was idling in front of the training facility he had built some years earlier, a state-of-the-art gym for Russian fighters he had brought to the U.S. The focus was primarily on boxing, with some mixed martial arts for those whose interests or skills warranted it. From time to time, Glazov would host exhibition fights for special guests, and he was planning one for the week just before Christmas.
Glazov recruited fighters from the streets of Russia, men who wanted a better life and were prepared to do whatever was necessary to get it. He arranged for their travel to the States, got them work visas, and held them to a strict training regimen that some might consider extreme…brutal, even. It was a pet project that Glazov followed closely.
These men were hungry, and it was a deep-seated hunger that he understood. The will to survive could drive men to do things they would never do under ordinary circumstances. When channeled properly, that kind of passion and discipline could be used to move mountains…or annihilate enemies. He had, on occasion, selected new Bratva guards from the stable of fighters.
Most of his fighters immersed themselves in intensive physical training in the hopes of participating in the prize fights the Pakhan occasionally presented for his special guests. But the most ruthless of the lot were sometimes given more unsavory tasks.
“Ain’t gonna happen,” Novak said in response to his cousin’s comment. “You and I both know that’s why it’s called a habit—I can’t quit. I have developed a habit of handling this coin and I have no intention of trying to break it.”
“You’ve developed a habit of getting on my damn nerves.”
Novak held up the coin between two fingers. “After all, it’s Russian. It’s got history. It’s part of me, part of my charm. And it keeps my fingers nimble for those private moments when one needs fine motor skills.” He smirked at Glazov’s long-suffering sigh. “It could be worse, you know,” Novak continued darkly. “There are far more destructive addictions that can eat a man alive. Now, stop taking your irritability out on me. This is nothing but a standard check-in. You worry too much, Glazov.”
“Try telling my sixth sense that I have nothing to be concerned about,” Glazov murmured as he took in the unassuming façade of the building that housed his stable of warriors.
The bodyguard/driver paid no attention to their bickering, having long ago become accustomed to their banter. His job was to keep watch from behind the vehicle’s bulletproof glass and ensure the safety of the two men in the backseat. He knew better than to allow himself to be distracted by the day’s pissing contest.
“Ah, are the legendary Bratva gods whispering in your ear again?” Novak snickered.
“I like to think that the Pakhans who have gone before me continue to guide my steps and the steps of my children…and my grandchildren.”
“What about me, motherfucker? Don’t I deserve to be guided?”
That warranted a laugh from Glazov. “You are always included in everything, you know that. I probably take that for granted more than I should.”
It was a source of quiet pride to Novak that he had such special standing with Glazov. He had more than earned it, having helped the Pakhan kill his own father decades earlier. Neither man had ever had any regrets for killing the sadistic bastard. He had never shown Glazov anything but grief. Good riddance.
“Well, let’s do this.” Glazov unfolded his large frame from the SUV, but only after the guard had done a sweep of the sidewalk and street. His blonde ponytail gave an air of vitality and youthfulness to a middle-aged man who was aging quite well. As always, he was impeccably dressed, today in the deep maroon suit and custom black shirt his wife had selected for him that morning. As was her way, she had taken an otherwise mundane moment and infused it with sexual heat that he found nothing short of intoxicating.
“There,” Kathleen murmured as she gave her husband’s tie a final adjustment. “I suppose you’ll do,” she said, keeping her voice offhand even as she fought back a smile. She ran her hands over his broad shoulders, humming with pleasure as the muscles rippled in response to her touch. She knew how much her admiration meant to her tough-as-nails Bratva husband. The chance to tease him like this was simply too hard to resist.
“Ptichka…” He let his hands slide over her hips, gripping her ass possessively as he yanked her against him. He kneaded the firm flesh and wasn’t gentle about it, knowing that this was a particularly sensitive erogenous zone for her. After all, teasing worked both ways.
He ground his hips against her, reminding her of the sexual power he could bring to bear in an instant. As if on cue, she melted against him and slid her arms around his neck, clearly ready for yet another rough fuck.
“So I’ll do, hmm? Did I not just finish fucking you to within an inch of your life?”
“Well, yes, there is that,” she purred as she looked up at him through her lashes. He brought his hand down hard on her ass with a swiftness that had her gasping indignantly even as she continued to rub up against him like a cat. She couldn’t hide the satisfied smile that curved her lips…
Glazov had always taken pride in his appearance. Before his wife came into his life, his efforts had been for the sake of cultivating his professional image. But the surge of sexual heat that he experienced whenever he caught Kathleen watching him was what drove him now.
He knew his efforts did not go unnoticed by the opposite sex but he didn’t care about that in the least. Glazov only had eyes for his Kathleen. From the first moment he’d seen her, there had been no one else for him and there never would be. From that moment on, his body refused to respond to any other woman. It truly was a case of obsession at first sight.
But his woman was a mother, too, and a damn good one. He could feel her concern about the safety of their son and daughter-in-law weighing on her heart and mind. He shared that concern, of course, but knew that a mother’s instincts about the wellbeing of her children – no matter their age -- went profoundly deeper. She needed to be distracted. As soon as he finished up here, he planned on going home and seeing to her needs.
With his mind set to the task at hand, Glazov straightened the cuffs on his shirt. Novak pocketed his coin and the two men strode into the gym. Their entrance didn’t go unnoticed. The atmosphere abruptly became hushed with anticipation and more than a little anxiety. None of the men wanted to be the reason the Pakhan and his right-hand man were gracing them with their presence.
Although Glazov was feared, Novak’s vengeful reputation preceded him. He was all too willing to exact vengeance on anyone who crossed the line. The two men arriving together could only mean someone in the gym was in deep shit, and no one wanted that kind of trouble.
Simeon Markov hurried over to greet the men with a look of worry in his eyes. A short, slim, older man, he had been training fighters for Glazov from the earliest days of the Bratva boxing venture.
Glazov placed a hand on the man’s shoulder, shook his hand, and reassured him with a lie. “Nothing’s wrong, Sim. We’re just here to watch the boys train.” They were there for much more than a leisurely visit but there was no need to worry the old man.
As always, the Pakhan’s face revealed nothing, but no amount of words would put the old man’s mind at ease. He knew the Pakhan was a busy man with many responsibilities and that he did nothing without purpose. He had no choice but to accept Glazov’s explanation.
Glazov and Novak took front row seats and watched the men go through their conditioning routines. Two fighters, Kolya and Bjarke, took their places in the ring and began sparring.
As the two men circled each other, Glazov took stock of their potential, just based on how they presented themselves in battle. Kolya’s wavy brown hair was perpetually tousled and unkempt but he kept it cut short enough to not get in his eyes. His vigorous, youthful appearance and thickly muscled frame stood in stark contrast to his opponent’s weathered face, military-style crewcut, and middle-aged softening of his midsection.
Kolya felt indebted to Glazov for taking him from Russia’s brutal underworld of fighting in back alleys and dank underground spaces, of fighting for men who gambled money they couldn’t afford to lose. It hadn’t been easy but he had survived the wanna-be gangsters who had threatened him to try to get him to throw fights.
His tenacity and love of the sport were what had prompted Glazov to come to Kolya’s aid. That kind of spirit rang true with the Pakhan. He wanted men who weren’t afraid to stand up to the evils of weakness and compromise; Kolya had proven himself over and over, when he thought no one was watching. That was the thing about Glazov, he was always watching, just like he was today.
Kolya was the only man willing to spar with the Pakhan, and neither man held back when they faced off in the ring. It was the only way Glazov could get a decent fight. They always drew a big crowd and usually ended up battered and bloodied.
Glazov looked longingly at the boxing ring. He wouldn’t mind blowing off some steam today, but unfortunately more pressing matters demanded his attention.
Kolya landed a brutal uppercut, snapping Bjarke’s head back before sending him careening back onto the mat with a resounding thud. Novak leaned over to Glazov and whispered, “You’ve got to love a southpaw, man. The other guy never sees a left-hand punch coming.”
With Kolya victorious, Glazov gave him a slight nod, then stood and walked back to the small, secluded room where Kolya always mentally prepared before taking down an opponent. The boxer entered the room moments later while unwrapping his hands, and frowned when Novak closed the door.
“Yes, sir,” Kolya said, removing the last of the material and tossing it into the garbage can by the door. “You honor us with your presence, as always. How can I be of service to my Pakhan?”
“What’s going on with Bjarke?” Glazov already knew the answer to his question but he wanted Kolya’s take on it.
“Oh, him? Simple. He’s a drunk. He’s chronically late for training, doesn’t show up at all sometimes, and now I’m wondering if he’s throwing fights for money.”
Glazov shook his head, disgusted, as he studied the boxer who, true to nature, had been honest and forthcoming in his reply. “I see. I want you to start following him. Get pictures. I know what I know, but I need confirmation. A man who throws a fight has no honor. I won’t have such a man working for me. If I unleash Novak’s wrath on him, it won’t be a quick death. I need you to find out what that son of a bitch is doing. Novak is not a patient man and he won’t waste time finding out if Bjarke is worthy of death. As far as my cousin is concerned--” Glazov took a moment to tilt his chin toward Novak, who remained stoic and unreadable. “--Bjarke’s worthy of death already, just for showing up late and wasting my fucking time.” That elicited a wicked grin from Novak. It was the first sign of any emotion from him up to this point.
Kolya’s response was what it always was: “My allegiance is to my Pakhan. I would be honored if you allowed me to take this traitor out, but if your choice is to give that honor to Novak, so be it.”
“If your life is ever in danger, take his ass out. Other than that, let him live.” Glazov glared at the man as he continued. “I’ll know the difference, so don’t look for an opportunity to kill him. That’s my call.”
“I would never be so presumptuous, sir. My allegiance is to my Pakhan. You can trust me to carry out your orders according to your wishes.”
There was nothing pretentious or fake about Kolya. He had the unique ability to internalize his energy and remain impassive, and yet convey an almost childlike sincerity. Glazov had made a point of knowing all there was to know about him. Kolya had killed a man during an underground fight many years ago in Russia. He was disciplined in his personal life. He saved every dollar he could. He lived in the same simple apartment he had occupied since arriving in the U.S. years ago. Interestingly, he had bought a home the previous year – a home he did not live in.
At first, the home purchase had appeared foolish and extravagant to Glazov. But upon further reflection, he recognized it as a clever move by a man who aspired to live a life far different, far better, than the one he had endured in Russia. As a fighter and as a man, Kolya had won Glazov’s respect, something that wasn’t easy to do.