Page 187 of The Bratva King

I might have contributed to that. It’s so easy to spoil him. I’d buy him the moon given the chance.

Whenever I have to take a trip, he gives me one of his dinosaurs. He doesn’t say anything—just gives it to me. I know why. The dinosaur protects me.

I get it.

Roman climbs out of the SUV with blacked-out windows, his tall frame coming around the front. His black hair is cut short, longer on top. The guy is a fighter. Ex-fighter, but he could easily kick anyone’s ass.

He extends his hand. “Ready for one hell of a night, cousin?”

“I am.”

He looks behind me. “No Pasha?”

I shake my head. “His mom is in the hospital again. Bad reaction to the meds they put her on.”

“That’s too bad.”

He goes around to open the driver’s side door. I forget he travels alone. He doesn’t require security like we do. No one really knows he’s the pakhan of a powerful bratva. He operates deep in the shadows.

My cousins have only been in the States for ten years. They’ve done a good job flying under the radar.

“You said this is one of your best fighters?” I ask.

He nods. “Trust me, you’re going to want to talk to his agent and get him to Vegas.”

“For a finder’s fee, right?”

He looks over and grins. “Since you’re family, I’ll give you a discount.”

He pulls up to the back of his gym. It’s a legitimate boxing gym. He sells memberships and personal training packages. There’s a juice bar that sells smoothies because it’s LA and smoothies are a food group.

Roman has built the perfect shell. Money moves through the front, but the real money moves underneath it. The fights. The supplements are another revenue stream.

A valet steps out of the shadows and takes the keys. Roman punches a code into a keypad, and the back door opens. He leads me through a storage room to another secured door.

And then we’re pushing through an unmarked steel door. Two men stand on the other side of it. Big. Armed under their jackets. They nod at Roman and don’t look at me twice.

The hallway opens up and I step out onto the floor of Roman’s real business. The cage sits in the center of the room under a rig of industrial lights.

Around it, the crowd is packed shoulder to shoulder. Men in suits. Women in dresses. Servers circulate the space taking drink orders while people mingle.

The VIP box is directly in front of the cage, with two smaller ones on either side. Leather couches. A private bar. A girl stocking ice who keeps her eyes down and leaves the moment Roman waves a hand at her.

I’ve been here once before with my brothers.

The private server pours two glasses of vodka before slipping away. I know she’ll be somewhere nearby, watching our glasses. The second it looks like we might run dry, she’ll appear.

“How’s business?” I ask.

Roman drops into the chair beside me and exhales through his nose. “Business is good.”

“How good?”

“Better every month,” he replies.

“I’m surprised you don’t have problems with the other businesses.”

“I’m not trying to run drugs, women, or weapons,” Roman says with a shrug. “I’m not competition.”