What Happens in Vegas…
Las Vegas, Nevada
Klenchvenko vs. Dominguez
T-Mobile Arena
Present Day
A natoly Medlov sat ringside in his $250,000 seat watching the most anticipated prize fight of the century without so much as a bat of his crystal blue eyes – even with the flashing cameras and phones, even with the celebrities and beautiful women, even with every eye that wasn’t on the fighters landing squarely on him and his family, even with a $5 million bet set with 2-to-1 odds on his countryman compounded with juice set at nearly eight points – even with all of that, nothing external solicited a response.
He was as cool as any one man could be with an undeniable Herculean presence. Every single strand of his golden hair was perfectly tucked into a man bun, no sweat on his wheat-colored brows, no overtly-male perspiration in his soft Egyptian cotton t-shirt that clung to his wide, muscular frame, no tension in his tree-trunk, pillar-like legs covered in dark denim jeans.
The young, blonde billionaire didn’t show his hand, didn’t smile, didn’t frown, didn’t even shift in his seat. Void of emotion, he watched as the fighters moved into the third round of what had already been a bloody, vicious and delicious fight. And it was only going to get better from here…
Better for whom? Better for him…
The crowd behind Anatoly, erupted into glorious, thunderous applause while a beautiful Moroccan ring girl with a long, black mane, bowed legs and heart-shaped rear in a hot pink swimming suit made her way around the ring carrying her sign high above her head.
Tonight was going to be absolutely legendary. From a monetary standpoint, the fight was already highly lucrative, grossing a record-breaking $211 million, making it the new richest fight in history. Illegal money on the fight doubled that.
Bookies across the world were taking bets on the fight, most of them for Klenchvenko, a crowd favorite. And the folks at home could witness the fight in high-definition via a Pay-Per-View feed for only one hundred dollars and some change. Everyone, no matter their socioeconomic status, could get in on making history.
And those factors were exactly what Anatoly Medlov banked on when he decided to play the odds by making sure that the promotions company who coordinated this mammoth event was owned by his people, more specifically his father.
But there was nothing on paper that would prove so. Paper trails were a dangerous thing. His father owned many things off the books.
It was how the Medlov Men operated...
In the shadows.
In the darkness.
And in control.
***
Russian-native Igor Klenchvenko was undefeated, beloved and defending his heavyweight championship belt against the promising young, African-American/Puerto Rican fighter from Brooklyn, Sean Dominguez.
The build-up to this fight had been orchestrated by some of the brightest and most-daring PR and marketing minds of the industry. What made this fight epic was the combination of hate and symbolism that both men represented.
With Russia at the center of every discussion on every news outlet in the free world and Americans’ sincere needs for a real win since the election of its less-than-presidential new orange president, the average American needed to take their minds off the state of the country and enjoy some good old-fashioned entertainment.
But not just any kind of entertainment would suffice. A football game or soccer game simply would not do. It had to be violent, epic, and visceral.
The Klenchvenko-Dominquez fight categorically achieved all of that in a very classic way. Klenchvenko was a patriot of his country, wearing its red crimson and gold colors, with nationalist pride that only rivaled the nostalgia of the protagonist of Rocky IV, while Sean Dominquez was an outspoken social justice advocate who had marched the streets of New York and Washington with the BLM (Black Lives Matter) movement and used his celebrity to reach a national platform.
Klenchvenko was praised by Putin and regarded as a hero, while Sean was put down by the conservative right in America as being a hot-head superstar with a big mouth who needed to stick to boxing instead of social justice issues.
It was the perfect storm. Promoters had successfully focused on the controversial issues that people either loved or hated and highlighted those issues in every interview.
The result brought all the fans on both sides together in Las Vegas for this fight. Superstars, supermodels, and super moguls alike flooded the building along with politicians and businessmen.
The people who could not afford to physically be there in the arena made their presence known on social media. Bars and restaurants around the country held a fight night and many more gathered for private parties in their homes.
For merchandising sales, this complex dynamic was also a winner. Americans who didn’t like what Dominguez stood for bought tickets to support Klenchvenko, while minorities, liberals, and Catholics bought tickets to support Sean in droves.
It was like the 2016 presidential election all over again.
Politics, drama, and entertainment. It was yet another opportunity for the rich to get richer while getting a rise out of the masses.
Organized crime families across the world were making a killing off bets, women, drugs, pickpockets, credit card boosts, purse snatching, car thefts, identity thefts and jewelry heists – if it was illegal, it was happening tonight in the city of sin and across the nation.
Anatoly reveled in his newest plan. By morning, he’d be millions richer without having to kill a soul…he hoped. And all it had taken was a smart strategy, a few arrangements, and two very vocal athletes. Little did the world know, however, it wouldn’t be the two men in the ring to have the final word tonight, but three men who were sitting ringside.
Ding, ding, ding.
In a tailored black Armani tux that seemed to add a few more inches to the illusive, seven-foot, blonde, Dmitry Medlov gave a wide, bright smile behind his hand as he leaned over and whispered into Gabriel Medlov’s ear. Whether meaning to or not, Dmitry had been a source of attention all night with his GQ front cover style, known billions and innate other-world handsomeness.
His predator-like, ice blue eyes scanned the room occasionally but were mostly set on the fight, while the women in the room, mostly watched him.
As a very public figure with a very private life, he was used to the attention, so he barely gave it notice.
Since he had arrived a few days ago, he had had his ass kissed by every politician in the city, his movements watched by every federal law enforcement agency in the country and nearly every woman he had come into contact with hit on him. But he was off the market – happily married with a mansion full of children, and bases covered for all his illegal activity. Now, it was just time to sit back and enjoy the show.
The super sophisticated Gabriel Medlov, Dmitry’s nephew and third-in-charge in the Medlov Crime Family, laughed aloud at his uncle’s off-color comment and blew Cuban cigar smoke into the air of the non-smoking area. His voice boomed, even over the loud roar around him. Having the time of his life and dressed for whatever the night would bring, he donned a tailored sports jacket, white button-down Oxford, and dark jeans, looking like old money, he came from and new money that he was always chasing. The only brunette out of the Medlov men trio, he drew nearly as much attention as his uncle, standing six feet, eight inches tall with mossy green eyes, black as night hair and old-world charm.
With a glass of scotch in his left hand, Gabriel sat on the front row with his legs crossed, paying more attention to his surroundings than the fight. It hadn’t been a year since he had been kidnapped by militant Nazi extremists in Ukraine and the experience had left him changed in many ways. But he played it off well as to not alarm others of his dark demeanor. He always wore a congenial smile and never let on to be as deadly as he truly was, which was why most people never saw him coming until it was too late. But he, too, was uninterested in a wealth of attention from the women tonight. Recently married to a freedom fighter and father to a new son, the last thing he wanted to do was get back into his old habit of skirt chasing. For him, tonight was all about the money, what he could get and then what he could take.
Sitting on the right-hand side of Dmitry was his loyal son and second-in-charge, Anatoly Medlov, who hadn’t bothered with a suit for this occasion or any other. In his customary dark jeans, boots and a snug t-shirt, he watched the fight intently and quietly. As usual, there were no smiles or laughs from the twenty-seven-year-old gangster. It was all business, all the time.
The shortest out of the three men standing at a blocky six feet, Anatoly had never truly learned to be diplomatic or classy. He was the definition of a bad boy, a thug, a Vor. He walked hard but worked harder.
At first sight, people usually didn’t notice his beauty before they noticed his danger. No one assumed that he was rich or an elitist. He had gone to no fancy schools, had no fancy titles and didn’t give a damn what the world thought about him.
The elaborate Russia mafia tattoos that covered his hands, arms, neck, and back only confirmed his menacing presence. Where his father and cousin always covered theirs for legitimate business meetings and interviews, he let his freak flag fly. He didn’t bother wearing elegant, down-played suits and jewelry because there was only one type of business he engaged in – the illegal kind. He wore ostentatious Rolex watches with enough bling to feed a small country because he could. He wore his hair long and in a man bun because anyone who dared call him feminine wouldn’t live long enough to finish their sentence. He wore a scruffy beard because it hid his angelic features. And he wore his wedding ring because his wife was the only woman in the world that he truly trusted.
In the middle of joking with his nephew, Dmitry turned his attention to Anatoly and cut his eyes. “You have still not learned to just sit back and enjoy the moment,” he said to Anatoly, observing his son’s tense body language. “What’s the purpose of all of this if you’re not going to indulge a little, boy?”
The men in the aisle directly behind them screamed out at the fight, drowning out his voice. Taking a drink from the waitress when she walked up with her wares on the tray, Dmitry adjusted his tuxedo coat and nodded. “Thank you,” he said with a smile.
“My pleasure,” she winked. “Anything for you, sir?” she asked Anatoly.
“No,” Anatoly answered without looking up. Finally, taking his eyes off the fight when she walked away, he glanced over at his father with a half-crooked grin. He knew yet again the old man was jousting with him. It seemed to be his favorite pastime. “Who says that I’m not enjoying myself?” he asked, adjusting his jeans. For a quarter million a seat, it sure was not very comfortable. “Don’t I look happy?”
Straightening his broad shoulders, he turned to his father very dramatically and gave a sarcastic, full-on smile that would have scared the normal person.
The gesture caught Gabriel off guard, and he frowned at Anatoly. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he mouthed.
“I’m happy,” Anatoly mouthed back.
Dmitry shook his head and chuckled. “You are right. I mistook your happy face for constipation.” He sipped his vodka, knowing that he had made his point whether his son acknowledged it or not. If he had taught these boys anything, it was that in life one worked hard to play harder.
Anatoly lightened up a little. Maybe the tension of the fight was starting to weigh on him more than he realized. Sitting back in the seat, he rolled his shoulders and tried to relax. “You want to see me really smile? Catch me after this fight.”
Dmitry pushed closer to him so that he could hear him better. “After this damn fight, I’m going to meet with our new friend and then retire for a massage. We’ve been in this city of sand and dreams for too long. The heat is starting to be a bother.” He watched as Klenchvenko’s powerful right hand connected with the left side of Dominguez’s face. “He can take a punch. I’ll give him that.”
Anatoly’s brow shot up. “I don’t care if Klenchvenko knocks his soul completely from his body. Just as long as he doesn’t fall, we win,” he said, eyeing his bodyguard, Marat, standing in the aisle way on security detail.
Marat put his finger to his earpiece, listened and responded. Glancing back over to his boss, he touched his watch and nodded.
“Showtime,” Anatoly said with a genuine smug smile on his face. His father could have this fight. It was already in the bag. Now it was time to chase some new money.
“Three rounds into the bout of the century and now it’s Showtime?” Dmitry uncrossed his legs and sat up in his chair as Anatoly stood. “What have you been watching this entire time?”
The Medlov’s guest had finally arrived from the private airstrip. A small detail of bodyguards escorted them down from the foyer through the crowd.
Right beside Anatoly, opposite his father, were two empty seats reserved for one very important Ethiopian billionaire and his personal aide. From what Anatoly had been told by Gabriel, the Ethiopian was an ardent fan of boxing, so they had purchased the half a million dollars-worth of seats as a good gesture, but what they hadn’t expected was the jet’s delay.
Oh well. It would just have to be wasted money tonight. The return on their investment from this guy would dwarf that number a hundred times over.
Two Ethiopian men in inconspicuous dress made their way down the stairs to the front aisle. As they approached, all three of the Medlov Men stood, which brought nearly as much attention to the floor as the men who were fighting in the ring.
“So very nice that you could make it,” Gabriel said, shaking the men’s hands one by one.
He hovered over them as he glanced toward Klenchvenko, who had unexpectedly started to take a beating from Dominguez.
First a swift right hook.
Then a powerful uppercut.
The crowd went wild, rocketing from their seats in unison. The commentators on the side were screaming as they called the fight, play by play, and the trainers were on either side in the corners were nearly bouncing off the ropes.
It was pure and utter mayhem.
“We appreciate the invitation!” Aman Heile, the new software king of Ethiopia, said, trying to talk over the roaring crowd. It was virtually impossible to do, but he tried anyway, ignoring the vibration in his chest from the thunderous audience.
Making his way to the designated seats, Aman shook Anatoly’s hand last and gave a wry smile. “Forgive our tardiness. We flew directly in from business in Hawaii,” Aman apologized. “At first, I thought we might miss everything, but I see we are only in the third round. This is lucky for us.”
Anatoly leaned into the small-framed man as to not be heard by anyone else. “No worries on the tardiness,” he said, covering his mouth from the nosy cameras. “But you did miss the fight.” He grabbed Aman’s arm to keep him from sitting and wrinkled his nose as a warning. “Trust me. You don’t want to waste your time by sitting. We won’t be here much longer. Just stand and enjoy the finale.”
Aman was confused. “But the fight is going on as we speak.” He turned as Gonzalez cornered Klenchvenko right in front of them. Talk about great seats. The referee was on their heels watching every single move. Involuntarily, Aman’s mouth flew open. This was amazing, surreal even. The power of the blows could be audibly heard. Sweat and blood bounced off the men in high definition. It was bone crushing bone.
“No, my friend, this fight is as good as over,” Anatoly said, turning his eyes to the ring.
Just as the words left Anatoly’s mouth, after a barrage of jabs, hooks, and crosses between the two men, the all-powerful Russian adversary took a final jab to the face that made his hairy legs buckle and his lean muscular frame fall from the heavens and bounce hard against the ring floor.
The echo was unmistakable. There would be no recovering from that blow either emotionally or physically.
The undefeated Klenchvenko had just been knocked unconscious for the first time in his pristine 37-0 career. His body was splayed out on the ground among an arena in disbelief while Dominguez jumped up and down for joy only inches away.
Everyone froze with shock, everyone except the Medlov men and the referee who bent down to call the fight and resuscitate the Russian.
TKO!
The crowd went from silent to insanely loud. No one could hear the person beside them for the screams.
The commentators at the table across the way put their fingers over their ears as they tried to listen into their earpieces and give a reaction. Cameras flashed repeatedly around the arena. Bookies pulled out their phones to text. Whores rushed to the exits to get ready for calls from their johns.
Aman was speechless. Slowly turning back to Anatoly, he raised a suggestive brow. He wouldn’t dare say what his mind proposed. He knew that the Medlov men were powerful, but this was unfathomable…
“As I said, there is no need to sit,” Anatoly said as his bodyguards moved people out of the aisle to make way for their exiting bosses. “Did you bring the package?”
“Yes,” Aman answered, eyes still on the chaos in the ring. “It’s with my men, just like you instructed.”
“Good. Let’s head over to our penthouse then, to discuss the details. Follow my father and cousin. I’ll be over directly.” Anatoly put his hand on the man’s back and urged him to quietly follow his entourage.
“That will be very nice. Thank you,” Aman said, turning to make one final request. “Do you think I could possibly meet the new champ before we go?”
Anatoly shrugged. “We’ll have him come over and meet you after we’re done, da.”
“That would be amazing. Thank you,” the man said, eyes bright with promise.
“Don’t mention it,” Anatoly said, giving him a wink.
There were currently fifteen African countries involved in war or experiencing post-war conflict. In West Africa, there was Cote d'Ivoire, Guinea, Liberia, Nigeria, Sierra Leone, and Togo. In East Africa, there were Eritrea, Somalia, Sudan, Uganda, and Ethiopia. Dmitry Medlov was involved in all of them except Ethiopia, up until this point.
Their newest client was prime for the picking. Having begged for an audience with the Medlov Men after a bloody border clash with Eritrea that had awakened old giants in the region and stood to interrupt business for him and his family on a permanent and detrimental basis, Aman was ready to pay the $25 million fee for their services tonight and more if needed.
Aman’s father was a general in their military and had utilized his son for the transaction with Dmitry Medlov because he could not officially do so himself. Dmitry had agreed to meet Aman here, tonight, to discuss how they could work together…quietly of course and after making full payment. After that, Gabriel and Anatoly would take the ball and run with it.
So far, Anatoly had to admit that things were off to a good start. If Aman was impressed with throwing a boxing match, he’d be damned speechless by what they could do with a developing country. But that had become his motto in life – under promise, over deliver.
***
After the arena was emptied out, Anatoly stayed back, per his father’s instructions. Sitting in his seat quietly by the ring with his men standing guard, he waited patiently for his next meeting. Now that the place was empty, it seemed larger and with the house lights down, much less exciting. In the dim light, he could hear the workers’ conversation echoing through the hollow space while they cleaned up the mess left by the masses and prepared for the next day’s event.
After a long day of continual noise, the silence seemed to ease his mind and allow it to drift from business in Las Vegas across the ocean to family in Moscow. The last time that he had spoken to his little sister, they had gotten into an argument over him trying to send her money. Instead of having enough food to eat and a nice apartment to live in by taking just a little money from him, she preferred the funk of Kapotnya and the scraps that came from her menial job as a maid in a local hotel.
Anastaysia had always been difficult. Her morals and her Bible told her that he was a bad man and when they spoke every so often, she made sure to remind him of his sins.
However, something compelled her to still check in with him and accept his calls when he had time, up until recently. The calls had become fewer and fewer until they were no more. He was starting to get worried about her now and had sent several men over to her home to speak with her, but she had not come to the door.
A neighbor said that she had moved, chasing a new job opportunity. The problem was; however, she had not left a single trace of where she was. He had put fillers out in the city a few months ago. So far, nothing had come back, and he had long since stopped talking to his middle brother Arseny, and his baby brother Immanuil was nearly out of reach altogether after he joined the Russian army.
It was a shit storm and his gut wouldn’t let him rest. Somehow, he had to find her and make sure that she was okay.
The ringing of his cell phone brought him back from his thoughts to the present.
“Hello,” Anatoly answered quickly.
“Hey. He’s ready for you. You’ve got five minutes with him before he’s escorted to the hospital for follow-up,” the man whispered over the phone.
Anatoly scratched through his beard and yawned. “On the way.” Standing up and hanging up his phone, he shoved it in his pocket and motioned for his men. “Let’s go.”
As the doors leading to the dethroned champ opened, Anatoly breezed into the crowded room like the devil come to collect his due. All eyes zeroed in on him, wondering why he was there.
Klenchvenko looked up from the floor and nodded at Anatoly. “Leave us,” he said to his entourage as he lurched into a stupor under a blood-stained towel.
Everyone in the room did exactly as they were told, exiting out of the room into the long, hollow hallway were Anatoly’s men stood guard.
“I’ve been told I have five minutes,” Anatoly said, sucking in a breath.
“At this point, who the fuck cares if it’s five minutes or five hours.” Klenchvenko seemed broken. Unwrapping his bloody knuckles, he threw the tape on the floor and flexed his hand.
“The first loss is hard for everyone,” Anatoly said, pulling out a passport. He walked over to the boxer and offered it. “But not everyone gets a consolation prize.”
“It was the first time in my life I ever cheated.” Klenchvenko took the passport and opened it. A picture of an older man with gray hair and wiry eyes glared back at him. “My father was a good man. He was not an enemy of the state the way that Russian government says. He just hates the president, and because of that and his desire to use the same free speech Americans take for granted, he was sentenced to die in prison. He already has stage two cancer. He should be with family now, not locked up like a fucking animal for wanting a full, true democracy.”
Anatoly didn’t need to be convinced about any of the details regarding the man’s life. He had gotten what he wanted, and now it was time to reciprocate. However, he did enjoy giving good news from time to time. “Government is a shame. And I agree that no man should be persecuted because of his beliefs, especially imprisoned. That’s why he’s already here.”
“Where?” Klenchvenko asked, eyes watering. He could not believe the words to be true, but if they were, these men had pulled off an impossible feat that would leave him indebted to them for the rest of his life.
“You did as we asked,” Anatoly said, walking closer to the boxer. “Don’t worry. There will be another fight, an even bigger one. We’ll sell more tickets; we’ll make more money. And the victory will be up to you this time. We’ll never ask you to cheat again. Ever.” That was as much hope as he could give him under the circumstance.
Klenchvenko didn’t care about any of that now. “Where is my father?” he asked again. “How did you get him out of Russia undetected?”
Anatoly knew that sickening desperation. He had felt it for his cousin Gabriel, his sister Anya, his father and even his stepmother. In truth, he had felt it for everyone he had ever loved. He would not toy with the man’s feelings. “He’s at a private cancer treatment facility right here in Las Vegas resting up. When we recovered him, he was pretty bad off. So, after the flight, we took him somewhere where he could be taken care of for a while.”
“On a scale of 1-10, how badly have they hurt him?” Klenchvenko asked.
With a shrug, Anatoly let the man read between the lines. “I’m a murdering bastard, so the scales are relative,” he said, avoiding the conversation. He didn’t want to get into just how badly the old man’s state was when they paid to have him pulled out of the infirmary at Black Dolphin prison, but it was positively repulsive, even for him.
Anatoly’s mouth twisted as he tried to move along the conversation. “He was asking for you when I left him. He didn’t care about the fight; he just wanted to know that you were okay.”
“Even with everything he’s been through, he’s still worried about me. I imagine he’ll be disappointed when he finds out that I finally lost one.”
Reaching over, Anatoly put his hand on Klenchvenko’s shoulder. “What we do for family is always worth it, eh? No matter the cost. Your father will understand.”
“Thank you,” Klenchvenko said in a near whisper as he nodded back hot tears. Gripping the passport, he heaved a sigh of relief. “Please tell your father and cousin, thank you.”
“No thanks needed,” Anatoly said, looking at his Rolex. “My five minutes is up. The name and address of the medical complex is in the back of the passport. Good luck.”
Walking out of the locker room, Anatoly felt his phone buzz again. “Shit. Hold on,” he told his men.
Moving off where no one could hear him, he answered when he saw that it was his wife, Renee, who was in Atlanta taking care of her sick grandmother.
“Hey, baby,” Anatoly said, missing her immediately.
It had been a crazy day and for a few hours there, his mind had been in other places, but just the thought of her reminded him of why he had possibly been in a bad mood. Being gone from her for too long caused that in him.
There was a sniffle on the other end of the line followed by silence.
“Hello,” Anatoly said again. He frowned. “Baby, are you alright?”
“She’s gone, Ana,” Renee whimpered. “Big Momma is gone.” She sounded helpless and afraid.
Though he would never admit it, he knew that it was only a matter of time. Her grandmother had been sick for nearly a month with no real recovery in sight. Still, the reality of her passing made him sad, especially for their daughter.
“I’m sorry, baby. When did she go?” he asked, biting his lip.
He had always liked Big Momma. She was a sweet old woman with more love in her heart than he had seen in anyone outside of his own mother. She was always taking in strays and trying to help someone out. A pure saint.
“About twenty minutes ago,” Renee sniffled again, wiping her runny nose as she leaned against the cold hospital wall. She was fighting a migraine. “I don’t know what to do. I guess I’m supposed to feel relief that she is not suffering anymore, but I’m too selfish for that. All I feel is pain. I just want her back.” She made eye contact with Boris and looked down at the linoleum floor.
Anatoly felt her urgency without seeing her face. “Where are you now?” He looked at his watch and counted the hours it would take to get to her.
“At the hospital,” she replied, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “I’m here with Boris. He keeps mugging everybody, making folks uncomfortable.” She sniffled again and turned her back to her bodyguard.
“I’m on the way,” Anatoly promised.
“But I thought you were in Las Vegas for the fight,” Renee said, hoping to God he would come anyway. What she needed at this moment was not just to hear his voice to be near him.
Anatoly didn’t make her wait long. “The fight is over. It’s a short flight. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“I love you,” Renee confessed.
“I love you,” Anatoly replied softly. “I have to go.”