Nikolai
“She placed a bet.”
The words hit the air like a loaded round, and I barely blinked.
Ivan stood across from me, holding his phone like it was a weapon in his hand. He was too casual about it, like he didn’t realize he’d just lit the fuse on something I was already two seconds away from detonating.
I was in the back office of the bar—the one we didn’t open to the public. One wall was lined with ledgers, the other with guns. My gloves were on the desk. My bloodied tape was still balled in the corner from that morning’s training round.
Ivan crossed the room and set the phone down in front of me, screen unlocked.
Private betting record. Timestamped. Verified.
Kingsley, Sloane.
Bet: Moretti.
Fucking hell.
I already knew.
I’d felt it in my gut the second I saw the odds start to slide. I’d felt it when I heard her name whispered in the same breath as the last fight. I’d felt it in my bones when I saw her in that crowd—leather and lipstick and reckless curiosity in her eyes like she wanted to be ruined.
Now I had proof.
I stared at the screen like I was trying to burn through it.
“She doesn’t use her real name for anything,” Ivan muttered. “Except on this.”
Of course she had.
Because she wanted me to know.
This wasn’t just about money. She didn’t need it. She was the mayor’s daughter; she could burn thousands a week and call it cardio.
No, this was about playing the game. This was about getting under my skin.
Congratulations, sweetheart—mission accomplished.
“You want me to handle it?” Ivan asked.
I didn’t look up. “No.”
“You sure? Because if she’s screwing with the odds, she could be screwing with more than that. Money. Influence. Maybe even our connections.”
“I said no.”
He backed off. Smart.
I didn’t like being tested, but I really didn’t like being teased, and that’s what this was. A cute little stunt dressed up like a hustle. She was poking the bear, seeing if it would growl. Seeing if it would bite.
What she didn’t know was that I didn’t growl.
I went straight for the throat.
I leaned back in the chair, stared up at the ceiling, and took a long, slow breath.
Beautiful, reckless, arrogant little fox.
She thought she was safe in her penthouse wearing that sly little smile she put on when she broke the rules. She thought this world was her playground, but my world wasn’t made of swing sets and secrets. Mine was blood and consequences. If she wanted to keep playing, fine. The next time I saw her, though, she wouldn’t walk away untouched. So I picked up the phone and dialed her father.
The mayor answered on the second ring, because of course he did.
“Morozov.” His voice was clipped. Short. Always pretending like he had the high ground—even when he was standing on a ledge I built for him.
“Kingsley.” I leaned back in my chair and drummed my fingers on my desk. “We need to talk.”
There was a pause. Just a breath.
“You calling to make trouble?”
“I’m calling because your daughter already beat me to it.”
Silence.
Then, “What did she do?”
“She’s been attending my fights. Placed a bet under her real name. Manipulated odds to inflate her payout. Smart, reckless, and flashy: she’s your daughter, all right.”
Another pause, but this one was heavier. Resigned.
“She’s always finding trouble and jumping straight into it,” he muttered. “Even when I build her a palace to keep her away from it.”
I didn’t respond.
Because I got it.
I’d spent my life dragging people out of fires and she looked like someone who jumped in just to feel something.
“She’s gonna get herself killed,” he said, softer now. Not scared, just tired. “And you and I both know there’s only so much I can do when she’s dead set on destruction.”
“That’s why I’m calling,” I said. “Because you’re right.”
“She needs to be handled,” he said. “But she doesn’t listen to me anymore.”
I didn’t say anything.
Not yet.
He exhaled like he knew what I was about to suggest, but he wanted to see if I had the balls to say it out loud.
I did.
“She needs a husband.”
There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line, then silence. Tension swirled around the quiet like smoke.
“Christ, Morozov.”
“She doesn’t want a leash. She wants someone who can hold the line. Someone who’ll meet her energy and bring her to heel when it matters. You know damn well she’s not gonna end up with some quiet trust fund banker or some prissy dentist.”
“She was supposed to have options,” he muttered. “Not end up locked in the Bratva’s house like some kind of damn—”
“She won’t be locked anywhere. You know me better than that.” I let the words hang. “I don’t cage women. I keep them. Safe. Satisfied. Loved, when they earn it.”
There was another pause, this one heavier.
“Look,” I continued, quieter now. “You and I—we built something together. We had an arrangement. You keep your seat, I keep the streets clean. You keep the cops off my back, I make sure no one’s running bloody fights in your district. You let me do my thing, I help you get elected. We both know someone worse than me would’ve taken over the fight circuit if I hadn’t stepped in.”
“And in return,” he finished, his voice softening, “you promised no deaths, no trafficking, nothing that would bleed into the headlines.”
“And I’ve kept my word.”
“You have,” he admitted.
“And now, I want her.” I said it flat. No threat in it, just truth. “Not to punish you. Not to corner her. I want her because she needs someone like me—and you know I’m right.”
He said nothing, but I heard the war raging inside his head.
He was a father, but he was also a survivor. He knew the kind of world his daughter was flirting with. Hell, he came from it. He was a DA who made backdoor deals with men like me. He leveraged sting ops to get to where he was—and he knew which devils were better to shake hands with and which were better to avoid.
“I can’t make her do anything,” he said finally. “You want her, convince her. I won’t stop you.”
“That’s all I needed to hear.”
“She won’t make it easy.”
“She’ll pout,” I said, smirking. “Probably throw something. Run her mouth.”
“You say that like you’re looking forward to it.”
“I am.”
“God help us all,” he muttered. “If you hurt her—”
“I won’t,” I cut him off. “She’ll be better with me. You’ll see. Eventually she’ll stop fighting it. She’ll end up happy. I promise you that.”
There was a hoarse sigh on the other end. It wasn’t laced with approval, but tired acceptance.
“This is going to be a goddamn mess,” he sighed.
I grinned. “She’s worth the mess.”
