Precious Legacy (The Notorious Legacy #1)

Chapter 8

EIGHT

I pride myself on keeping a level head most of the time. In our line of work, you can’t afford distractions because in the wrong hands, they can be dangerous. It’s why I use boxing as my coping mechanism—to keep me in check, disciplined, and focused.

Unfortunately, now that I’ve had a taste of Alanis, it has the direct opposite effect. Every time I focus on something, I’m immediately brought back to her, coming all over my dick as I sank deeper and deeper into her. Her moans, the way she threw her head back, biting her lip… fuck, she’s a beautiful, feral creature when she comes undone like that.

Not even the issues at The Laundromat can dampen my mood, and that was a bitter pill to swallow at four o’clock in the morning. It’s something I need to address later. For now, I’m just going to revel in the fact I’ve just knocked out a brick in Alanis’ metaphorical wall. Eventually, she’s going to cave, and I can’t wait for that moment.

Call me a glutton for punishment, but her hatred just spurs me on. This push and pull we’ve got going on is a fucking turn on, and despite what she may claim, we’re definitely not over. She just needs to be reminded—over and over—of that. And if she needs convincing, my dick’s up for the challenge.

“So, what d’ya think?” Haldon asks as he gives me the grand tour of the empty factory building.

I snap out of my little daydream and focus on our footsteps clicking against the concrete. The sound echoes through the vast open space, the tempo bringing a subtle calmness over the expansive room.

I take in the peeling paint and rusty pipes, wrinkling my nose at the stench that clings to the spray painted walls. Rotten garbage is strewn across the ground, decorated with the heavy sprinkling of cigarette butts and discarded needles. Despite the state of the venue, I can already envision the potential. The carnage, the blood and sweat, and hopefully, tears. The place could do with a decent clean up first though, that’s for sure. But then again, it’s only going to get destroyed in the chaos anyway, so what’s the fucking point?

“Yeah, this could work,” I tell my best friend, slapping his shoulder.

“Good,” he laughs. “Because the other one was in worse condition.”

“Worse than this?” Alvaro asks, blowing out a low whistle as he takes in the state of the interior. “That’s a bold statement.”

Haldon rolls his eyes, shoving Alvaro playfully. “When are you thinking about opening, Ro?”

“A month,” I murmur, narrowing my eyes on the balcony that overlooks the floor. It’s high enough to see the entire layout below, but it’s set back, giving plenty of room to provide a VIP section. The factory floor itself isn’t in too poor of a condition. Once we get some cleaners in to take out the bulk of the trash and discarded furniture, this place will look a hell of a lot better. All it needs is a bar, some seating and tidying up of the changing areas, and I’ve got myself a venue.

A smile curls my lips at the potential of this place. With a few good men supplied by Alvaro and some decent liquor provided by Haldon, we’re going to have a profitable business on our hands.

“A month is long enough to get a guest list together,” Haldon comments in agreement.

I nod in acknowledgment. Since I’ve only just returned to the city, I’m relying on his connections to get this fight club seen by the right people; gamblers and fighters alike. The rest will fall into place, so for now we don’t need to worry about cleaning money or getting drugs through the door. If it happens, then so be it. But we’re going to focus on the fights until it runs itself.

The sound of footsteps joining us has me spinning around, abruptly cutting off our conversation. A relieved sigh escapes me when I see it’s only my Uncle Cillian. Since my chat with my dad the other day, I was wondering when he would make an appearance. He’s difficult to get ahold of on the best of days, so I’m surprised to see him so soon. Then again, he always shows up when you least expect him to. It’s what makes him good at what he does.

Cillian O’Sullivan is a ghost. Well… most of the time. His talent is finding out information you never knew you needed and exposing information that you do. He flies under the radar unsuspectingly, which is surprising considering his appearance. He always looks like he’s about to attend a motorcycle rally, dressed in his typical leather jacket and dark jeans, with tattoos covering most of his skin. Yet even though he looks like a thug, he still manages to get the job done undetected.

For the past twenty years, he’s been a valuable asset to The Five, and now it’s my turn to ask for my uncle’s services.

“About time,” I remark, giving him a fist bump.

“Is that all you’ve got for your uncle?” He barks a laugh. “Come here!”

Before I can step out of his reach, he yanks me in by my suit collar, his thick arms suffocating me in a hug.

That’s the other thing about my uncle. Despite his appearance, he’s every bit the hugger.

Me? Not so much.

“Your dad said you needed me?” Cillian drawls, offering both Haldon and Varo a nod of acknowledgement.

“Yeah,” I reply, clearing the dust from my throat. “I’m having issues with The Laundromat.”

“Issues?” He quirks a brow.

“We paid them a visit,” I say, glancing over my shoulder to where my best friends are pointing at the rafters and discussing some shit about decor and layout. “Someone was skimming from the profits, which I had handled, but now the shop’s been closed down.”

I don’t really care about the business closing. If anything, the host is the one losing money and not me—but the fact I paid a visit only a few days ago and now the cops are crawling all over the place is making me question the loyalty of others.

Uncle Trigger left the dens to me so he could… fuck, I don’t even know. But it’s my job to ensure that the city knows who’s handling shit and what happens if you don’t comply. The owner of The Laundromat will be bankrupt—if he isn’t already—while this inconvenience won’t even dent our bank account.

Still, I need to find out what happened, and I know Cillian is just the man to investigate that for me.

“Cops?” Cillian asks, pulling out a cigarette from his jacket before lighting it.

“All over the place,” I reply swiftly.

“Host?” He puffs out a cloud of smoke.

“Alive.” Though I don’t say for how long I want it kept that way. If the asshole has information, I’m certain my uncle will be able to obtain it.

When Alvaro and I visited, we were only there to remind the host that we’re watching. We didn’t need to manhandle or torture the asshole because he knew his card was marked as soon as our toes crossed the threshold. It all just seems too much of a coincidence that the moment we ask for what’s owed to us, the place gets shut down.

“Either someone leaked the location of the den, or we have a mole,” I supply, grinding my molars in frustration.

“Leave it with me,” Cillian smiles, slapping a hand on my shoulder hard enough to make me jolt.

“Thanks.”

My uncle playfully salutes me silently, stamping his cigarette out on the ground with his heel. It’s rare I get much out of him verbally, so I accept his farewell gesture and toss him a wave as he turns and leaves.

“What do you wanna do about the Russians?” Haldon asks when I turn my attention back on him.

Alvaro rubs his palms together like he’s conjuring up a plan already. “I say we do some intel ourselves.”

I turn to him, eyes narrowed in question. “What do you have in mind?”

T he smell of sweat and violence stains the air. Blood sprays, along with spittle and the groans of fully grown men beating the shit out of one another. The thick heat of the underground fighting ring we’ve come to visit and the roar of a thirsty crowd is both suffocating and invigorating.

Fighting is what I live for. More to the point, boxing. Only tonight there are no gloves; no judges sitting on the sidelines to tally points, and certainly no referee to contain the fight. No, this is bare knuckle fighting at its best.

The ring sits in the center of an oversized basement, surrounded by exposed brickwork, with spotlights shining down on the blood-stained surface of the raised platform. The whole room is veiled in darkness, but the energy in the atmosphere is palpable. To the far right is a makeshift bar constructed from stacked crates and empty barrels, highlighted by the naked bulbs overhead. The bar top is curated from a discarded door, sticky from liquor and adding to the rundown aesthetic this place boasts.

“I’ll get us a drink,” Varo shouts over the cheers of the crowd.

I nod in response, though I’m barely listening since I’m so captivated by the violent atmosphere. The place is electric. The screams of excitement pierce my ears and have me itching to dive into the ring to cause carnage.

In the background, ‘Break Stuff’ by Limp Bizkit plays, providing a harsh beat that seems to coax the fighters into their element. Close to the ring, three semi-clad girls circle the ropes, snapping their hips with every step to garner the attention of the crowd. Their asses peek out from beneath gold hot pants in an attempt to lure the crowd closer. I’d be impressed if my thoughts didn’t immediately go to Presh because these women have nothing on my girl.

I have to admit, the Russians have done a good job with the fight night. The right people are here; gamblers. The fighters are on point, too—most likely professionals at some point in their lives. And they’ve got the girls to distract the crowd if shit goes sideways. All in all, I have some stiff competition.

Taking note of the venue and patrons, I head over to the bar with Haldon. Varo is just placing his order as we arrive. It was his idea to come here, not only to gather intel but to keep an eye on the Federov brothers, the current leaders of the Bratva that have infiltrated New York City. They approached my Uncle Hunter for licensing a while back. In exchange for their permitted presence in the city, they would supply all the Gambino businesses with liquor. That was over twenty years ago, though, and it seems they’ve been pushing their luck with Haldon’s authority recently.

I’m not saying that my best friends haven’t been pulling their weight, but all of our upbringings have been different. We all have our strengths and weaknesses, and it just so happens that enforcement is one of my strengths.

Taking my beer from Alvaro, we head to the back, where the chaos of the crowd is less volatile. There’s still the heavy rumble of discontent gamblers, but we’re away from the spray of blood, sweat, and alcohol.

So, it looks like the brothers only run these nights once a week,” Alvaro tells me. “One fight a night, one winner.”

“I can see why it’s so busy now,” I reply, taking a sip from my bottle. Everyone seems thirsty for this fight, and if there’s only one fight, the bets are going to be coming in fast.

“That, and it’s high stakes,” Varo adds.

I snap my head to my best friend, brows furrowing. Did he just insinuate what I think he did?

Without me even asking the question, he nods, a grimace forming on his lips.

I heave a sigh. This is what I was afraid of. When it comes to boxing, there’s only one thing you have to maintain once you step in the ring; discipline. If you have the ability to control your emotions in the ring, you’ve already won. But as soon as you lose control and let that discipline slip, things can quickly turn messy.

There’s fighting, and then there’s fighting. Trust the Russians to create a brand of violence that only ends in death. It’s actually impressive how they’ve come up with this idea. I never would have thought of it myself, but then again, I’m not as sadistic as some of the Bratva members are known to be. Sure, I can torture the truth out of my enemy with nothing more than a rusty spoon, but I’ve always skated close to the side of morality. There’s an equal measure of black and white when it comes to what we do. A lot of the time, it blurs into the gray area, but that’s what separates us from evil. We have rules. The Russians don’t.

“We’ve got a lot of work on our hands,” I tell my friends. “We need a strategy, because it’s going to be hard pulling the crowd away from this type of fighting.”

“Have faith, bro!” Haldon shouts, slapping my shoulder.

That’s the problem, though. Competing against the Russians comes with a lot of risks. This might be our city, but the Russians are ruthless. Faith won’t do me any good if this shit goes sideways.

I turn my attention back to the ring. Both fighters look like they've taken equal beatings, though one is favoring his right leg while the other is clutching his ribs. It’ll only take one of them to spot his opponent’s weakness and use it to his advantage for the whole fight to shift. We watch with rapt fascination as, blow by blow, the fighters wear each other down.

It’s enthralling to watch, making my skin itch and heat up. I’ve always enjoyed the thrill of a fight; being able to use raw power to bring your competitor to his knees. I’ve got over a hundred fights under my belt—more wins than losses—but with those losses, I learned to better myself. That’s what a proper fight is about; improving your technique and strengthening your weaknesses.

“You talked to my sister yet?” Alvaro asks over the booming cheers of the crowd as one of the fighters takes a brutal blow to the face. He rocks and sways, losing his footing only for a split second, but it’s long enough for his opponent to throw his fist into the other side of his face, sending him crashing to the mat.

The roar of the crowd envelops us, the ground practically shaking with the rumble of cheers and applause.

I turn my attention back to my best friend. “I’m trying,” I supply, shrugging nonchalantly. The last thing I want to say is that I fucked his sister in the shower before she tore me down and admitted it was just a mindless quickie. Alvaro and I are close, but nobody wants to hear the details about their twin being railed by their best friend.

“I told you!” Haldon bellows, pointing his sweaty beer bottle in my direction. “You just need to fuck her out of your system!”

“Dude!” Alvaro snaps. “That’s my fucking sister.”

Haldon smirks, shrugging at me like we both know I’ve already done that.

Rolling my eyes, I finish off my beer and set it down on the discarded crate that we’ve been using as a table.

“Fuck,” Varo grumbles, just loud enough for me to hear.

“What?” I frown, but it’s too late for him to answer because someone is coming over to join us, and from the look on Varo’s face, he’s not welcome.

“Bonanno!” The guy greets with a sly smile, holding his hand out for my best friend to shake.

He doesn’t, which only makes the encounter more awkward.

“You know Gambino,” Varo grunts, then points at me. “This is Genovese. Roman, this is Milo Kyrovsky, the Federov’s second-in-command.”

I reach my hand out to shake his, despite my best friend’s reluctance. It’s something I was taught from an early age—always show respect, no matter who it’s to, because you never truly know your enemy from your friend. Right now, Milo is technically the enemy, but nobody said we can’t be friends. Keep your enemies close and all that.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” Milo asks, shaking my hand. He’s wearing an all black suit, thick gold jewelry decorating his fingers. His dark blonde hair is slicked back, the shadows from the spotlights behind him sharpening his jawline as he surveys me carefully.

“Just scoping out the competition,” I reply, rolling my shoulders back. Something about this guy makes me feel uneasy. It’s not that he’s just approached us unexpectedly or that he’s Bratva. No, this feels far more dangerous than that.

“You interested in fighting?” Milo quizzes, throwing a thumb over his shoulder. His smile turns less intimidating as he raises an inquisitive brow at me.

“Something like that,” I smirk.

“Is that alright with you, or do we need your permission to enter an open venue?” Varo snaps.

My gaze shoots towards him, surprise and shock leaving me speechless. I can practically taste the venom in his words, but there’s a hint of something else there, too.

I’ve known my best friend long enough to recognize when he’s being rubbed the wrong way, but it’s unusual for him to let anything affect him to this degree. Varo is usually so cool and calm. He collects himself in a way that makes his old man proud, but the presence of Milo has shifted his personality to the point where he looks obviously aggravated, almost flustered.

What the fuck is going on?

“Chill, Bonanno,” Milo grins. “Have another drink.”

“Get fucked, Kyrovsky,” Varo growls.

Damn, something has really pissed him off.

“Hmm…” Milo hums in thought, leaning toward Alvaro and dropping his voice an octave. It’s meant for Varo’s ears only, but I hear it just as clearly as he does. “Such dirty words coming from a pretty mouth.”

The change in the atmosphere has suddenly gone from electric to verging on explosive. The muscle in Varo’s jaw flickers with irritation, his fists clenching right before he shoves Milo back and grumbles, “I need a drink.”

“Put it on my tab!” Milo calls after him, laughing as he leaves Haldon and I gaping after our best friend.

“What the fuck just happened?” Haldon mutters dumbfoundedly.

“I don’t know,” I smirk. “But if I had to wager, I’d say I’m not the only one who needs to fuck someone out of their system.”