Page 61 of Violent Possession
There are no puddles of beer on the floor. No loose nails on the stage. The ring ropes are clean. The fucking air conditioning works, making the air breathable. It’s too clean a place for the kind of dirt that happens here. It’s sterile.Alexei’swork.
There’s a dark glass mezzanine up high. The VIP area. The owners’ perch. I saw him and his cousin, Vania, go in there before the first round. The whole fight was for them. The rest is just noise.
The mezzanine door opens. Men in suits I’ve never seen before, older, smelling of money. Alexei talks to them. He has that tense, social dinner smile in front of Vania, shaking the men’s hands. Vania comes out right behind him, exchanging greetings.
Then Alexei remains, alone, as the others leave. Leaning on the glass balustrade.
His eyes finally fall to meet mine across the noisy hall. The business smile he wore with the others disappears. What replaces it is something different. A small, almost imperceptible smile, but it’s not cold. It’s not condescending. It’s...satisfied. Almost proud.
A stupid, unwanted warmth spreads through my chest, rising up my neck. Idiotic reaction. I hate it. I hate the way my body reacts to this crumb of approval from the man whoboughtme.
I look away, back to the noisy crowd, trying to understand. His words at dinner come back to me.“Brute force is a product that sells.” “Serious sponsors.” “For our profit.”
I was displayed. Is he using my violence as marketing to attract these men in suits? He expands Karpov’s business, makes it bigger, richer, more professional.
But why, if Alexei, prim in that impeccable, clean suit, seems to detest dirt?
The locker room is also cold and sterile, smelling of antiseptic. If I hated the last one, I hate this one more. There are even security guards at the door to make sure only Marcus and I come in here. It doesn’t look like the places I grew up in.
I sit on the metal bench, the noise of the crowd outside finally starting to fade in my head. Alexei’s smiling, satisfied face... Expanding the circus. Forour profit.
“GREAT GRIFFIN!” Marcus was saying, pacing the locker room. He looked like a kid who just got his allowance from his dad. “THE KING! THE BEST!” he shouts and slaps me on the back that nearly knocks me off the bench. “I take back EVERYTHING I said about disappearing from Sacramento! If we keep having these fights, we’ll bebillionaires, stumpy!”
He paces back and forth in the small space, gesticulating with his hands.
“We ate it likenothing! The night is ours, champ! We have to celebrate. First round of whiskey and the hottest women in town, all on me!”
A loop of the same thing. The cycle of violence, money, and oblivion... this shit feels empty today. Hollow. The ritual of the flesh.
“No, Marcus,” I say. “I’ll pass tonight.”
He stops with his mouth open. “Pass? Are you sick? We just gotrich! What else do you have to do?”
Before I can answer, the locker room door opens. Two men in impeccable black suits enter. They are Alexei’s men.
Marcus sees them and scowls. “What the hell is this,again?”
“Mr. Griffin,” one of the men says. “Mr. Malakov awaits you.”
“Wait.” The color drains from Marcus’ face. He whispers the name as if it were a plague. “Malakov… ?” His eyes widen, going from me to the men in suits. His euphoria disintegrates. “Thiswas the investor? A Malakov? Holy shit, Griffin...”
He turns to the man.
“Which one?! The brute?”
The man doesn’t answer. Marcus turns to me.
“Griffin?”
I understand his panic. Names like “Malakov” don’t circulate out loud. They are whispered in alleys, ghost stories to scare small criminals—and big ones, I guess.
“It’s just a business meeting, Marcus,” I lie. I start gathering my things, picking up my dirty shirt from the floor.
I notice the state of my hands. Dripping blood. The post-combat adrenaline no longer has a reason to stay, and the pain begins to appear. Face, ribs.
“Business? With aMalakov?” he shouts. “Griffin, you don’t understand, these guys own the fucking city! I’m your agent, Ihaveto know where you’re going! Last time you almost killed me with worry!”
Almost, yes. Worry that his golden goose had been cooked too soon.
