Page 10 of Dance of Devils
My opponent and I, both of us sucking in air, touch gloves with curt nods before retreating to our respective corners. Around us the crowd is in an uproar, screaming and roaring to collect bets or pay out on their spreads.
I use my teeth to rip the tape off, then slide the gloves off my swollen hands.
“Not bad, old man.”
I smirk as I turn to it’s-definitely-Roman, now also sans gloves, standing before me in my corner of the ring.
“I would have thought your father would have instilled in you more respect for one’s elders, Mr. Nikitin.”
He bristles visibly when I call him by name.
“There areruleshere, Kir,” he snarls. “Hence the masks.”
“Well,” I smile at him, “you’d know more about masks and underground cloak and dagger skullduggery than me.”
That earns me another sharp glare.
Roman, together with four other young underworld kings and princes of New York, make up something called The Black Court. It’s all very dramatic, in my opinion: animal masks, an underground lair, the adjudicated “guilty” party being given a choice of literally fighting one of the five for a chance at freedom, or elserunningfrom one of them through some underground labyrinth they have.
Again, it’s allveryover the top, and really not that interesting to me.
However, most of them seem to think I’ve got an ax to grind with the Court. That I’ve got some sort of “get off my lawn” old-guy mentality and a deep distrust for their brand of vigilante underworld justice.
They’re wrong. I honestly couldn’t give a fuck what Roman and his little friends do. So long as they stay away from me and my business, they can fight or chase whoever the fuck they want.
That said… Ireallyenjoy fucking with them. And Roman, with his quick temper, is a ridiculously easy mark.
“We’re ready for you any time you want to stop creeping around the shadows and come at us face-on, old man,” Roman growls,nodding as someone passes him a beer I’m positive he doesn’t need.
“A supremely gracious invitation, Mr. Nikitin,” I sigh in a bored tone, rubbing a towel over my chest. “I’ll have to tell my assistant to RSVP for me sometime.”
Roman downs half his beer and levels a cold look my way. “We have a problem we need to sort out now, old man?”
“We will if you keep calling meold man,” I say through a tight smile.
I’m forty-four, not eighty-seven, for fuck’s sake. And I just fought the little cunt to a draw, so…
Roman drains the rest of his beer and then taps me in the chest belligerently with the bottom of the bottle.
“You keep looking for a fight, Kir, and you’re going to?—”
“Yes, well, this has beenveryengaging, Mr. Nikitin,” I sigh in a bored tone. “But as thrilling a conversation as this is, I’ve gotten what I came for, and it’s time for me to leave.”
“That was adraw,” he growls at my back as I turn away. “Not a win. In case you were confused.”
I smile blandly as I turn back. “Oh, I didn’t come here to win.”
I came here to shake loose some of the fury rattling around inside of me after my “agreement” with Dimitri. To that end, mission fucking accomplished.
I really should try actual therapy someday.
I push my way through the sweating crowd to where I left my shirt and jacket neatly folded over the back of a chair.
Tonight was a packed house. Not an empty seat in the whole place—except for this one. No one tried to sit here, for the same reason my shirt and jacket are exactly where I left them, completely undisturbed.
Masks or not, everyone here knows who the fuck I am.
I finish toweling off my chest and shoulders, slip my mask off, run my fingers through my dark hair, and pull on my shirt. The jacket is next, my shoulders flexing as I slip it on.
