Iron Wolf Tavern, Boston
Nikolai Morozov
There’s something about the quiet that comes before a fight that buzzes louder than the fight itself.
It was late, the kind of hour when normal people are in bed, and the wolves come out to play. My brothers and I had claimed the back room of the Iron Wolf, same as we always did before something important or big. Or, if I’m being truly honest, just because we could.
I could feel the weight of all their eyes on me as I took my seat at the table.
Ivan was the first to break the silence, tapping his glass against the table like he was conducting an orchestra. “You sure your face can take a hit from a guy called The Bear, Nik?”
“Cute,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “I can take him. I’m not worried.”
He grinned, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “You’ve never fought this guy before though, this Dmitry Volkov. They say he’s a real monster. Rumor has it he cracked a man’s spine with one hand. And that was during training.”
“Then I’m in for a fun night.” I smirked.
Sergei let out a snort that barely qualified as a laugh. “Don’t get cocky. He’s got four inches and forty pounds on you. And if the stats are right, he’s meaner than a cornered boar.”
I shrugged. “I’ve fought worse.”
Aleksei arched a brow, as polished as ever. “When? Your last opponent was a guy from Southie who looked like he’d skipped leg day for a decade.”
“Legs don’t punch your face,” I muttered, but he wasn’t wrong. I wasn’t going to tell him that though.
“Volkov’s not just size,” Sergei said, setting down his drink with the same careful precision he applied to everything in his life. “He’s got skill. Honestly, I think there’s something else going on. I think he’s being paid to make a point. Someone sent him specifically to make an example of us and we’re going to have to put up or shut up by the end of this fight.”
My attention shifted to Maxim.
He hadn’t said much, but he didn’t have to. My eldest brother never wasted words. He set his glass down, the light glinting off his massive gold ring—the one that always made people nervous.
“This isn’t just sport for us, Nikolai, and you know that.” His voice was quiet, but serious. “Boston’s watching us. So are the Irish. The Italians. Even the Greeks. If you lose this fight, it’s going to send the wrong message. That we’re weak. That we can’t handle ourselves.”
I met his gaze head-on. “Then I won’t lose.”
His steel-blue eyes didn’t blink. He was measuring me the way he always did—not for heart, but for discipline. It used to piss me off when I was younger, but now I understood it.
“Good,” he said simply, then sat back.
Ivan raised his glass. “Still… just a suggestion? Maybe dodge one punch this time. You know, for variety.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Think harder. Or you’ll be sipping borscht through a straw for a month,” Sergei muttered.
Aleksei lifted his drink with a smirk. “To our brother, the undefeated. May his ego remain intact, and his jaw remain unbroken.”
I clinked my glass against theirs, feeling that familiar charge start to stir in my blood—the kind of electricity that only comes when violence is around the corner.
“To broken jaws,” I said with a grin. “Just not mine.”
They laughed, but beneath the teasing, I knew they felt it too—the shift in the air. This wasn’t just another underground brawl. It was a test.
And tomorrow night, I’d answer it the only way I knew how.
With my fists.
