Brawler's Baby: An MMA Mob Romance (Mob City Book 1) (7 page)

C
onor

A wheezing, yet still somehow imperious Russian-accented voice rang out above the foreboding sound of boots scraping against an old stone floor, and the rustling of my jeans as my legs dragged against the cold, hard flagstones.

"You can drop him there."

Brain still fuzzy from being knocked out, I had barely a second to process my the fact that my knees were no longer smashing against uneven pieces of rock before my arms were relinquished without warning by the two burly halfwits who had dragged me into their master's presence. I fell unceremoniously to the floor, with a thud that knocked the wind right out of my lungs.

"Lads," I groaned, grabbing my midriff and massaging it tenderly with my thumbs. "You don't have to take everything so literal, like. You could have put me down nice and gentle, no harm no foul – you didn't need to drop me like that."

My guards stared attentively straight in front of them, as if whatever lay in their eye line was every bit as interesting as the Mona Lisa in Paris, or the latest exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art in New York, instead of an old, dirty brick wall.

Idiots

I hauled myself to my knees, my body not shy about protesting every one of the indignities that had been heaped on it over the past few hours – from fighting in the octagon, regaining consciousness while being shoved in an old, rickety haulage truck with old pots of paint and other construction supplies which then drove here, wherever
here
was, at top speed across what seemed like the entire town, if not further, and then finally being dumped on my ass, on this solid stone floor.

Oh, and that's without even accounting for the fact that I was wiped out from what had been one of, if not the best, fucks of my life…

"Mr. Regan," the Russian voice rang out. "So good of you to join me in my humble home. Don't be upset with my boys – they did as they were told. You will too, soon enough."

Now that I couldn't hear the shuffling of my guard’s boots dragging against the rough floor, I couldn't help but notice that the room – it had to be a basement, judging by the gloom and bone-chilling cold – was creepily quiet. There wasn’t even a hint of street noise, or even the normal creaks and groans which formed the familiar, comforting soundtrack to most old houses. It was the kind of place, I thought, that men went to die.

I blinked a couple of times, allowing my eyes to acclimate to the basement's lack of light. The foreboding scene in front of me slowly came into focus, but as I waited for it to clarify, I spent the time cracking my neck and stretching it out. I was sore as hell, half because getting tied up and thrown in the back of a moving truck is never a comfortable way to travel, even at the best of times; and half because I figured that if I'd been brought here to die, then one thing was for sure: I was going to put up one hell of a fight.

Mikhail Antonov, unsurprisingly, came into focus in front of me. I'd known that the fat, dumpy Russian gangster was behind this from the moment his half-witted henchmen had turned up at my door – well, my neighbor’s door – to pick me up. One thing was for sure, though – I hadn't expected Maya to be standing next to him. Shit, I was just impressed she’d made it back at all.

Just my luck, I finally find my dream girl the day a mobster decides he wants to off me…

Whether he'd intended it or not, her presence threw me off my game. I'd spent two years searching for the girl, and when that failed, another two years drinking to forget her – so her turning up out of the blue like this was still more than a little confusing – and a little more than I could handle. Just because we'd fucked didn't mean we'd actually resolved anything.

I still had dozens of questions racing around my brain, like: "
since when was her dad a Russian mobster,"
"
why did she lie to me about her name?
"

The blood drained from my cheeks, and for a few seconds I was grateful that the lack of lighting in the dim, gloomy basement meant that the mobster was highly unlikely to notice my reaction to his daughter's presence. Whatever Antonov's plan here was, I was pretty sure that I needed to avoid giving him any more bargaining chips – and fast.

I knew Antonov, or more precisely, men like him. I'd grown up on the streets, surrounded by petty gangsters and mob muscle, and they all had one thing in common – they preyed on weakness. Like sharks sensing blood in the water, they not only smelled uncertainty from a mile off – they took advantage of it.

"Mike!" I grinned, going on the offensive. "Buddy! You don't call, you don't text – and then, out of the blue, you send two thugs to pay me a visit. What's that about?"

I kept my gaze fixed on Mikhail's eyes as I needled him, but secretly I was paying almost as much attention to Maya's response. Her eyes darted around wildly, as though she was deathly afraid that she was being watched, and when I started to mock her father, her mouth formed an ‘O’ of shocked surprise – almost fear.

My mind was roiling, and I wasn’t even close to making sense of what it all meant. Why was she in here? Was Maya on her father's side? No – that didn't make sense, not in the slightest. There was no way Maya could have faked her reaction when we'd been startled by the banging earlier on – not unless she'd suddenly become an Oscar-winning actress. I could still smell the scent of pure, unadulterated fear on her, and if she could fake that, then, hell, I was in a whole lot more trouble than even
I
could handle.

"Don't call me Mike." He grunted, gruffly, as if outraged by my rudeness. I almost choked laughing – I could hardly believe that
he
, of all people, could possibly think that
I
was the rude one in this situation! I bit my amusement back down, reasoning that I could only push the man so far before he finally snapped.

"Then how about we make a deal," I joked. "You stop sending morons like those two," I jerked my chin toward my slow-witted minders. "To pick me up, I'll stop calling you Mike. How's that for a plan?"

Maya cringed, her body rocking backward as though my upbeat tone had physically assaulted her.

What happened to that happy, sensual girl I met back home in Dublin?

Because the girl in front of me didn't seem like the same person at all. Oh, sure – all the physical assets were there. She was easily as attractive as the day she'd disappeared from my life – the girl was a freaking bombshell, a dime – but something else had changed, something far harder to quantify but no less significant for it.

The glimmer of light in her eye, that sparkling personality that I'd first fallen for had dimmed, and as I stood in front of her father I was left to wonder whether that flame had been snuffed out entirely – or whether it still smoldered somewhere, deep down, where it could be coaxed back to life.

"Mr. Regan," Mikhail wheezed. "I wouldn't come into your house and insult you, so will you pay me the courtesy –"

"You're a goddamn hypocrite," I burst back. "You've already done that by sending these two goons," I gestured to my side. "To knock my door down."

My outburst sparked another reaction from Maya. I was more worried about her than I was about myself – by a long shot. She'd make a terrible poker player, that was for sure. I still didn't know what was going on, but I knew one thing: Maya wasn’t any better at hiding her emotions than a kid!

Her face was more expressive than any catwalk model – it was partly why I'd once fallen in love with her. More beautiful too. I like my women full and healthy, not gaunt. I like to throw them around in bed, and I don't like worrying that I'm about to break their matchstick legs.

Eyes on the prize, Conor
.
There'll be time enough to let your prick do the talking when you get out of this mess.

If you get out of this mess
…

I refocused, concentrating on the task at hand like I was still in the octagon, and tried to attack the problem from another angle. Perhaps Maya was playing me; perhaps the goal she was working toward was too big for me to even comprehend, but as strange as the situation was, I still couldn't bring myself to believe that she'd changed that much, or that she would – even could – be so callous.

Anything’s possible.

Beside me, my two guards stiffened, glancing nervously at each other. I had a suspicion that one of them, perhaps both, had seen me fight in the cage earlier that night, and hoped that neither had any great desire to get into a confrontation with me.

One-on-one, we all knew there'd only be one winner – me.

Hell, I'd fancy my chances taking on the pair of them with one hand tied behind my back, and if their boss decided to throw his hat in the ring as well, then as far as I was concerned, the more the merrier.

"Sergei," the mob boss called out. "Get in here."

Sergei?

The name sounded familiar, and I realized I'd met the man earlier that night. He was another one of Antonov
's
henchmen. I cracked my knuckles. Apparently the odds weren't going to favor me quite as much as I’d hoped…

And just as disconcertingly, I realized, Mikhail was a far more formidable opponent than I had anticipated. He wasn't as stupid as his pig-like exterior suggested – not by a long shot. Behind those thick, jet-black eyebrows and long forehead lay a mind every bit as sharp as my own.

I heard a door swing open, clattering against the hard brick wall, and I glanced toward the source of the sound. Another black-haired Russian gangster with more muscle than sense waddled through, none-too-subtly cradling a sub-machine gun that looked mean enough to take down an elephant.

I couldn't have guessed what make it was. Guns were a touchy subject back home since the Troubles, and besides – they'd never been my style. I preferred to take down my opponents the old-fashioned way: with my fists.

Three against one? I’ve faced worse odds.

Unfortunately, things didn't stay that way. Another four Russian mobsters filed in behind Sergei, and even I began to accept that my chances of winning against this lot were slim. I loved a fight as much as the next Irishman, but the only way I could see this ending was with me lying in a broken heap on the floor.

I began to seriously contemplate the prospect that Mikhail had figured out where Maya had slunk off to tonight – and that I was about to pay for it with my life.

"Grab him," Mikhail ordered dismissively. He thrust his hands into his pockets and turned to face the wall. I knew it was all an act – he was playing the intimidating bad guy's role down to a tee, but hell if it didn’t work.

My two guards sprang into action, as if finally glad to have something to do. Each grabbed one of my arms and held it tight between their vice like fists, their big, meaty fingers digging painfully into the muscles of my exhausted arms.

I could have chuckled. I knew more than a few fighters who paid good money to have their triceps kneaded out after a bout in the cage – I'd done it myself, in fact, and here I was having my arms massaged for free!

"Hotel?" Mikhail continued, a sly grin on his face at my sudden turn of fortune. "I think you do the Sunset a great favor by calling it that. That's where I have my pimps do their trade – you know that? I sure wouldn't want to sleep on one of those mattresses…"

I screwed your daughter on one of those mattresses
, I thought. I bit back the retort – it was grade school, at best, and wouldn't do anything but inflame the situation I'd somehow found myself in.

Fifty grand
.
It was supposed to be an easy fight
–
fifty grand
,
in and out. What the hell have you gone and got
yourself into, Conor?

"Motel, hotel," I replied. "Who cares. My point stands."

"I don't want to argue with you, Mr. Regan," Mikhail smiled, opening his arms in wide, friendly gesture. "I'm afraid we got off to a bad start. But you know what they say – the night is always darkest just before the dawn."

I eyed his henchmen warily. It
was
a bad start, and it could easily get a whole lot worse. I didn't like where he was going with this dawn stuff.

Oh, great – now I have to listen to a speech, too?

A broad, cheerless smile stretched out across his pig-like face. "So – first things first," Mikhail clapped. "I have to address the small matter of your manners."

"My manners?" I spluttered. "What's wrong with my manners?"

He stared at me, his beady black eyes locking onto mine. He looked psychotic, unhinged. I didn't know what was more disconcerting: the humorless grin stretched out across his fat, greasy face… or what was left behind when it disappeared.

He paced toward me, eating up the few short yards between us in seconds, and thrust his face a couple of inches in front of mine. A foul scent invaded my nostrils."Do you remember what you said to me, Mr. Regan?"

I screwed up my face, racking my brain for any hint of what I might have said. It didn't surprise me that I'd insulted him – people usually took what I said the wrong way, for good reason, but I thought I'd been remarkably restrained. By my standards, at least.

I shook my head.

"You called me a hypocrite, Mr. Regan."

"Only me da is Mr –."

The room echoed with the sound of a violent, stinging slap, the kind I knew from long experience would leave a mark that would last for days. Mikhail waited until the noise stopped bouncing off the walls before he launched into me, talking quickly – his cheeks red and eyes almost closed with anger.

He sounded mad, deranged.

"I need you to understand one thing, Mr. Regan. In this room, and in this whole fucking city, I am the King. What I say – goes. Who I like – lives. And who I don't –?"

He spun away, leaving the question hanging, but his meaning was clear. I was walking a tightrope, and it wasn't at all clear to me whether I was going to get out of this mess alive at all.

"So if I want to call you Mr. Regan,
Mr. Regan
, I will. Understood?"

I wanted to spit right in that fat face of his more than anything in the world. And if Maya hadn’t been five yards away and looking like she was about to faint, I would have.