Snow: A Dark Mafia Romance (Underworld Book 2)

ST. PETERSBURG, RUSSIA

He can have heart, he can hit harder and he can be stronger, but there’s no fighter smarter than me.

Floyd “Money” Mayweather Jr.

Three hours before the fight, I get a text on my phone:

10:00 p.m., Old Brewery

Knockdown always sends the location at the last minute. Not because the police would actually bother to shut down the fight, but because it adds to the sense of mystery and intrigue.

The spectators like the feeling of being part of something secret and forbidden.

Underground boxing is getting so popular in St. Petersburg that it’s probably making more money than hockey. Not for the fighters, of course, but for the promoters and the Bratva bosses who run the whole thing.

I know exactly where the brewery is. I’ve fought there before.

It’s on the edge of the Primorsky District, at the north end of the city.

I don’t have a car, but Meyer will pick me up.

He’s my coach and trainer. I’ve been working with him since I was twelve years old. He’s older than Moses. Scrawny, bald, always wears these big, square, plastic-frame glasses and a pork-pie hat. His lower jaw protrudes past his top teeth, ‘cause he broke it in a fight and never got it set right.

He doesn’t look like much, but they used to call him Merciless Meyer. He fought legitimate, with a 48-12 record. He never had a knockout punch, but he was a strategist and tough as nails.

He’s a good trainer. He’s certainly merciless with me. I think he missed his calling working as a torturer for the KGB. The workouts he puts me through, they must be against the Geneva Convention.

His skin is leather, his muscles jerky. He can still throw a punch. He’ll pop me one if I let my guard down in sparring.

He picks me up at 9:00 p.m. sharp, honking the horn on his old Fiat from the street outside my flat. I know he doesn’t want to climb the stairs. I pick up my duffle bag and jog down.

I see Boom Boom in the car too, sitting in the backseat. He’s my stablemate. We train together at Golden Gloves. He’s been fighting just as long as I have, but he’s not a contender. Just a solid journeyman, reliable for a middle-card fight, even on short notice.

Honestly, he’s a bit of an idiot, but I like him. He’s what we call a plodder—he fights slow and steady, keeping his hands up, relentlessly moving forward. He’s always getting some awful haircut from his girlfriend, who’s supposed to be a stylist. He’s got jug ears and a tattoo of Donald Duck on his shoulder. And he gets me into trouble with his big mouth. Still, he’s a friend.

“Ello!” Boom Boom says when I wrench open the car door to climb in the front seat.

Boom Boom loves all things American. He tries to talk like his favorite movies, but his English is fucking horrible.

“Ti durak Boom Boom, your English sucks,” Meyer says.

“How would you know?” Boom Boom says.

“He fought in America for three years,” I remind Boom Boom.

“And unlike you, my brain isn’t made of Swiss cheese,” Meyer says calmly. “So I remember a few things.”

“Yeah? Did you remember the spit bucket this time?” Boom Boom teases.

Meyer forgot it at my last fight. He’s been forgetting a few things lately. Boxers don’t always stay sharp in their old age. The hits to the head take their toll, in the end.

I don’t want to think about that happening to Meyer. He’s the only family I’ve got. He needs to stay exactly as he is: irascible, demanding, and too stubborn to die.

“I’ve got everything I need in my bag,” I say, quickly.

You don’t need much for the underground fights. Tape to wrap up your hands. A pair of sixteen-ounce gloves. A mouth guard.

Meyer is a slow driver—not that his ancient Fiat could move any quicker even with the pedal to the floor. It takes us about ten minutes longer than it should to drive to the brewery.

The old brewery has been empty for thirty years, but not because it went out of business—St. Petersburg is still the beer-making capital of Russia. Baltika Beer just built a newer, bigger plant a few streets over. They never bothered to tear down the old one. They rent it out for parties, raves. And sometimes illegal boxing matches.

Though there hasn’t been a single pint brewed on the premises for decades, the smell of stale yeast is still pungent in the air. You can see tiny flecks of hops trapped in the crevices of the broken pavement.

Two bovine-looking bouncers guard the doors. There’s a line of people waiting, because security only lets in three or four people at a time, searching them for alcohol and weapons. Anatoly Krupin doesn’t want any fights breaking out inside—except the ones taking place in the ring. And he wants to make sure that everybody has to buy his overpriced drinks.

It costs 1,200 rubles to get inside, 19,000 if you want floor seats. Meyer, Boom Boom, and I pay nothing, because the bouncers know I’m on the card for tonight. I’ve been fighting underground for two years now. My record is 32-0, with twenty-six knockouts. A few more wins, and I might actually get a shot at the heavyweight belt.

The spectators waiting in line are all eyeing me up and down. They can tell I’m a fighter. It’s not exactly subtle—I’ve got the size, the build, and a faded bruise on my right cheekbone from my last match. They’re probably trying to gauge my mood, my readiness, in case they want to make a bet.

They’re not going to get anything out of me.

The other fighters call me Snow because I’m stone cold.

I don’t give anything away.

Once we get inside, the brewery is already half-full. It’ll be packed to the rafters by the time Knockdown starts. These underground boxing matches are becoming more and more popular.

I’ve noticed a difference in the crowd that shows up. It used to be just thugs and gangsters, but now I see a more upscale element mixed in. Over by the bar, I spot a semi-famous rapper next to a gaggle of tall, skinny girls in sparkly minidresses who have to be models. On the opposite side of the room, there’s a couple of clean-shaven sporty types that I’m pretty sure I’ve seen playing for FC Zenit.

These b-level celebrities like mixing with the rougher element at the fights, because it gives them that sense of “authenticity” or “cool.” It makes them feel gritty.

Since I actually grew up on the streets of St. Petersburg, I don’t find anything “cool” about poverty and violence.

But what the fuck do I know.

I box because it’s what I’m good at.

I suck at talking to people though. I know what I look like from the outside: big. Scary. Inhuman, even. People think I don’t have any thoughts going on in my head, or any emotions. Even the other fighters call me stuff like Ice Man, Snowman, the Punisher, the Granite Hammer. Snow is what stuck in the end.

I wasn’t any good at school, either. I went for a while. I’d try reading a book, and the words would jumble up in front of my eyes. I’d read the same sentence twenty times without any of it sticking in my head.

When I box, it’s totally opposite. I understand everything that’s happening. I even know things that are about to happen, like I can see into the future. I can read my opponent better than any book. Time gets slow, and my brain gets faster.

The only thing I know how to do is fight. So my choices are to hurt people on the street, or in the ring. I’d rather do it in the ring.

Boom Boom, Meyer, and I head back to the makeshift locker room to get ready for the fight. There are six matches on the card for tonight. I’m not the headliner, but I’m in the fight right before it.

I’ve been working my way up through the ranks. If I win tonight, I might get into one of the tournaments put on by Krupin. That’s where the big prize money is.

When you’re just starting out at Knockdown, they throw you in the ring with a brawler. Winner gets 7,000 rubles—peanuts.

But if you do well, if the crowd likes you, they bring you back for a mid-card fight. Then you start making 20,000 to 30,000 rubles. Not bad for a night’s work. Enough money to last you two weeks—a month even, if you live in a shithole flat like I do.

It’s the tournaments where you start to make the real money, though. The prizes are big and gaudy. A twelve-inch twenty-four-karat gold chain. A stainless-steel Rolex—real, not some shit out of China. You win a tournament, and now you’re a headline fighter. Eligible for championship fights.

I sit down on the bench in the locker room, which used to be a cafeteria, packed in with a dozen other fighters, all in the process of taping up their hands, stretching, shadow-boxing, or just listening to music with their heads down, trying to psych themselves up for their match.

Everybody has their little entourage—some guys have only brought one person, a trainer or coach. Others have six or seven friends and fellow fighters massaging their shoulders, checking their gloves for rips.

Meyer ain’t massaging my shoulders, I can tell you that. He’s giving me rapid-fire instructions, muttered at me so nobody else can hear. Stuff we already talked about, but of course he’s gonna remind me twenty more times.

“Now this guy you’re fighting, he’s a headhunter. He’s gonna go for your face, gonna try to ring your bell early. You gotta keep your gloves up, keep your distance from him. You’ve got the better reach, don’t let him get inside unless you want him to.”

I nod.

I’m fighting Bodybag. He’s been around longer than I have. He’s no superstar, but he’s a solid fighter. Barrel-chested, broad in the shoulders. He’s mean and he can take a punch. He works as an enforcer for Krupin.

Krupin is the one who runs Knockdown. Actually, he runs a big chunk of St. Petersburg. He’s one of the big five Bratva bosses. At the top you’ve got Ivan Petrov, with his new bride. Then, below him, with roughly equal territory, there’s Stepanov, Zolotov, Kruzenski, and Krupin. Stepanov runs the heroin trade, Zolotov the guns, Kruzenski the construction contracts, and Krupin the south side of the Admiralteysky district, where I live.

I don’t pretend to know shit about the Bratva. But I don’t think the Krupins are Vors like the rest of them. Or at least, Anatoly Krupin doesn’t seem like old money. He looks like he came up on the streets, like me. Which means that every ounce of respect and power he’s gotten was taken at the point of a knife or the barrel of a gun.

“Hey!” Meyer snaps. “You listening to me?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Of course.”

“They’re about to get started. You’re fifth up.”

I nod my head again, though of course I already know that, too. It makes Meyer feel better to go over things again and again. Hell, it makes me feel better, too.

Boom Boom is wrapping up my hands. He’s a dummy about a lot of things, but he sure knows how to tape. Tight enough to feel secure, but flexible enough that I still have natural sensation.

Meyer checks over my gloves. They’re just standard sixteen-ounce gloves, nothing special about them, except that they’re white. I always wear white. A lot of fighters like black or red—they think it makes them look menacing. Blood shows up better on white. Nobody likes to see their own blood on my hands.

I can hear the MC warming up the crowd. Sometimes they have acrobats or musicians performing to start. Tonight there’s just a DJ, blasting “X Gon’ Give It To Ya.”

I can hear the crowd roaring in response to whatever the MC is saying. It’s a full house, like I expected. On the way in, I saw that they had a proper ring set up. Sometimes it’s just aluminum barricades around a bare floor.

“Feeling good? Feeling strong?” Meyer says to me.

I nod once more.

“He’s peachy Meyer, look how cheerful he is,” Boom Boom says.

“Shut it, Boom Boom, you dopey turnip,” Meyer says. “I know he’s good. If he was jabbering away like you do, I’d think he had brain damage.”

“Eh, might be,” Boom Boom says good-naturedly. “I did take some solid hits last week.”

“You took more hits than a piñata,” Meyer says. “I don’t know how you won that fight.”

“I tired him out with my face!” Boom Boom says, grinning. “I hurt his fist with my jaw. It never fails.”

“It fails plenty,” Meyer says, scowling.

Their bickering is strangely soothing. I don’t talk much myself, but I like to hear other people doing it.

The MC calls out the first pair of fighters. I don’t recognize either of them—the first fight is basically amateurs. It’s a warm-up. Sometimes, for the fun of it, the organizers will pair up a couple of guys who have beef in the real world. Say, a couple of petty gangsters from rival neighborhoods. Or the ex-boyfriend and the new boyfriend of the same girl. Makes the fight more personal, more intense.

The amateur fighters don’t usually have much training. They run in, arms flailing. Sometimes it only lasts a minute, ‘cause somebody gets in a good hit. Other times they end up wrestling around.

Funny thing is, you fight your worst enemy in the ring and you might end up friends. Half the time they end up hugging it out afterward, or buying each other a beer at the after-party, even if they’re both all battered and bleeding. Fighting creates a certain level of mutual respect.

I guess you could call it a public service. Nobody’s gonna get killed in the ring, compared to some nasty brawl in the street. It’s a good place to get the aggression out.

The fights are supposed to last three rounds, three minutes each. Only nine minutes in total, but it can feel like an eternity when you’re inside the ring.

As usual, the warm-up match doesn’t even last a full round. One of the guys gets knocked on his ass and doesn’t want to get up again. In less than two minutes, the MC is calling for the second set of fighters.

Now Meyer is starting to get amped up. He always gets nervous, no matter who I’m fighting. The closer it gets, the more on edge he becomes, though he tries to hide it. He starts snapping at Boom Boom, telling him off for chewing gum too loudly in his ear.

“Spit it out!” Meyer demands.

“But I just put this stick in,” Boom Boom whines. “It’s my last one.”

“Spit it!”

“Alright, alright.”

Boom Boom wanders off in search of a trash can.

The second match is a couple of up-and-comers. The fight goes all three rounds, ending in a crowd decision. In legitimate boxing, if nobody gets knocked out, you have three judges who choose a winner based on points. Here, the MC holds up each fighter’s arm in turn. Whoever gets the loudest cheers is the winner.

It’s actually pretty fair, most of the time. But I don’t like to leave anything to chance. I’m aiming for a knockout every time.

The third set of fighters heads out. Meyer starts pacing.

The Rowdy Rabbi sits down beside me.

“Zdorovo, Snow,” he says.

“Zdraste,” I say.

“Who you fighting?”

“Bodybag,” I tell him.

The Rabbi whistles. “That’s a solid match-up,” he says. “You’re moving on up in the world.”

I shrug.

“You up next?” I say.

“Yeah,” the Rabbi says. “They got me fighting Five Fists.”

“Ah,” I grunt. “You got it, then.”

“Na huy, Snow?” Five Fists says, from right behind me. What the fuck, Snow?

“Well, he does,” I say, shrugging.

The Rowdy Rabbi trains at the Orthodox Boxing Club. He’s about as disciplined a fighter as I’ve ever seen. The Orthodox Club has been in the same place since the 1920s, the heyday of Russian-Jewish boxing when legends like Barney Ross, Benny Leonard, and Ruby Goldstein dominated the sport. About the only weakness the Rabbi has is that he’s on the small side even for a lightweight, and he doesn’t train on Saturdays because of Shabbat.

“Good luck,” I say, bumping his fist through our gloves.

The Rabbi heads out. Five Fists stomps along after him, still glaring at me.

I can hear the MC commentating from inside the locker room.

“The Rowdy Rabbi starting out right and tight. He’s got that classic footwork. Oh! Right hook from Five Fists, but the Rabbi shrugs it off.”

Even without the MC, I know when one of the fighters gets in a good hit, because the crowd roars its approval.

The fight goes to the third round, with the Rabbi taking Five Fists down to the canvas twenty seconds before the final bell.

Five Fists is so dazed and dopey that his coach and his brother have to carry him out. I don’t get to say “I told you so” to him—not that I would, anyway.

Now I’m up. I haven’t seen Bodybag yet. He’s probably on the opposite side of the locker room, keeping his distance. I don’t much care one way or another. I know what he looks like, and I know how he fights. I’ve seen him in the ring three times. Plus I’ve watched a couple of his fights on YouTube. He posts them himself.

He might as well have handed me a manual on how to beat him.

These are my strengths as a fighter: I’m big. I’m strong. I’ve got a devastating right cross, one of the hardest in the game. But most of all, I’ve got timing.

I look for patterns. All fighters have their little tricks, their favorite combinations that they return to again and again. Especially when the fight gets tough. You figure that out, and you know what’s coming. Your opponent’s safe haven becomes their undoing.

The locker room is already noisy and crowded, but when I step out into the main room, the heat and smoke and rabble are ten times as intense. The music is thudding so loud it almost drowns out everything else. The crowd is roaring, already inflamed by the previous matches.

The MC announces me and then Bodybag. I can hardly hear what he’s saying. Bodybag gets a few more cheers, because he’s been in the game longer, and he’s got plenty of friends in the crowd, especially amongst Krupin’s men.

I don’t give a shit. There’s nobody to prop you up inside the ring.

Bodybag climbs in first, waiting for me on the canvas.

He looks thick and truculent, his head lowered bullishly toward me. His neck is so short that his shoulders almost touch his ears. He’s got a Neanderthal brow, and a confident sneer.

He’s a big boy alright—probably 250 lbs, but a little soft around the middle.

Organized boxing has seventeen separate weight classes. Underground boxing has only three: lightweight, middleweight, and heavyweight. At 6’3, 240 lbs, I’m solidly heavyweight. I’ve never fought anything else.

I’m not soft around the middle. I’m carved out of solid ice.

The ref tells us the rules: no kicking, no biting, no shots below the belt.

We’re supposed to touch gloves, but Bodybag refuses.

Bodybag’s friends laugh. From my corner, Meyer yells, “Teach him some manners, Snow!”

The bell rings, and everything else fades into the background.