Page 18 of Precious Legacy
“Host?” He puffs out a cloud of smoke.
“Alive.” Though I don’t say for how long I want it kept that way. If the asshole has information, I’m certain my uncle will be able to obtain it.
When Alvaro and I visited, we were only there to remind the host that we’re watching. We didn’t need to manhandle or torture the asshole because he knew his card was marked as soon as our toes crossed the threshold. It all just seems too much of a coincidence that the moment we ask for what’s owed to us, the place gets shut down.
“Either someone leaked the location of the den, or we have a mole,” I supply, grinding my molars in frustration.
“Leave it with me,” Cillian smiles, slapping a hand on my shoulder hard enough to make me jolt.
“Thanks.”
My uncle playfully salutes me silently, stamping his cigarette out on the ground with his heel. It’s rare I get much out of him verbally, so I accept his farewell gesture and toss him a wave as he turns and leaves.
“What do you wanna do about the Russians?” Haldon asks when I turn my attention back on him.
Alvaro rubs his palms together like he’s conjuring up a plan already. “I say we do some intel ourselves.”
I turn to him, eyes narrowed in question. “What do you have in mind?”
The smell of sweat and violence stains the air. Blood sprays, along with spittle and the groans of fully grown men beating the shit out of one another. The thick heat of the underground fighting ring we’ve come to visit and the roar of a thirsty crowd is both suffocating and invigorating.
Fighting is what I live for. More to the point, boxing. Only tonight there are no gloves; no judges sitting on the sidelines to tally points, and certainly no referee to contain the fight. No, this is bare knuckle fighting at its best.
The ring sits in the center of an oversized basement, surrounded by exposed brickwork, with spotlights shining down on the blood-stained surface of the raised platform. The whole room is veiled in darkness, but the energy in the atmosphere is palpable. To the far right is a makeshift bar constructed from stacked crates and empty barrels, highlighted by the naked bulbs overhead. The bar top is curated from a discarded door, sticky from liquor and adding to the rundown aesthetic this place boasts.
“I’ll get us a drink,” Varo shouts over the cheers of the crowd.
I nod in response, though I’m barely listening since I’m so captivated by the violent atmosphere. The place is electric. The screams of excitement pierce my ears and have me itching to dive into the ring to cause carnage.
In the background, ‘Break Stuff’ by Limp Bizkit plays, providing a harsh beat that seems to coax the fighters into their element. Close to the ring, three semi-clad girls circle the ropes, snapping their hips with every step to garner the attention of the crowd. Their asses peek out from beneath gold hot pants in an attempt to lure the crowd closer. I’d be impressed if my thoughts didn’t immediately go to Presh because these women have nothing on my girl.
I have to admit, the Russians have done a good job with the fight night. The right people are here; gamblers. The fighters are on point, too—most likely professionals at some point in their lives. And they’ve got the girls to distract the crowd if shit goes sideways. All in all, I have some stiff competition.
Taking note of the venue and patrons, I head over to the bar with Haldon. Varo is just placing his order as we arrive.It was his idea to come here, not only to gather intel but to keep an eye on the Federov brothers, the current leaders of the Bratva that have infiltrated New York City. They approached my Uncle Hunter for licensing a while back. In exchange for their permitted presence in the city, they would supply all the Gambino businesses with liquor. That was over twenty years ago, though, and it seems they’ve been pushing their luck with Haldon’s authority recently.
I’m not saying that my best friends haven’t been pulling their weight, but all of our upbringings have been different. We all have our strengths and weaknesses, and it just so happens that enforcement is one of my strengths.
Taking my beer from Alvaro, we head to the back, where the chaos of the crowd is less volatile. There’s still the heavy rumble of discontent gamblers, but we’re away from the spray of blood, sweat, and alcohol.
So, it looks like the brothers only run these nights once a week,” Alvaro tells me. “One fight a night, one winner.”
“I can see why it’s so busy now,” I reply, taking a sip from my bottle. Everyone seems thirsty for this fight, and if there’s only one fight, the bets are going to be coming in fast.
“That, and it’s high stakes,” Varo adds.
I snap my head to my best friend, brows furrowing.Did he just insinuate what I think he did?
Without me even asking the question, he nods, a grimace forming on his lips.
I heave a sigh. This is what I was afraid of. When it comes to boxing, there’s only one thing you have to maintain once you step in the ring;discipline.If you have the ability to control your emotions in the ring, you’ve already won. But as soon as you lose control and let that discipline slip, things can quickly turn messy.
There’s fighting, and then there’sfighting.Trust the Russians to create a brand of violence that only ends in death. It’s actually impressive how they’ve come up with this idea. I never would have thought of it myself, but then again, I’m not as sadistic as some of the Bratva members are known to be. Sure, I can torture the truth out of my enemy with nothing more than a rusty spoon, but I’ve always skated close to the side of morality. There’s an equal measure of black and white when it comes to what we do. A lot of the time, it blurs into the gray area, but that’s what separates us from evil. We have rules. The Russians don’t.
“We’ve got a lot of work on our hands,” I tell my friends. “We need a strategy, because it’s going to be hard pulling the crowd away from this type of fighting.”
“Have faith, bro!” Haldon shouts, slapping my shoulder.
That’s the problem, though. Competing against the Russians comes with a lot of risks. This might be our city, but the Russians are ruthless. Faith won’t do me any good if this shit goes sideways.
