Snow: A Dark Mafia Romance (Underworld Book 2)

If you can’t go back to your mother’s womb, you’d better learn to be a good fighter.

Anchee Min

Krupin has requested—aka demanded—that I be the medic at all his underground boxing matches.

I don’t like boxing. I think it’s brutal and archaic. The fact that men would deliberately expose themselves to facial-cranial trauma and repeated concussions, not to mention broken hands, wrists, ribs, and who knows what else, is more than I can understand.

Of course, I don’t mention any of that to Krupin. I just arrive at the address that Yakov texts me. I’ve learned by now that gold tooth is actually named Yakov. Silver Chain is Alogrin. And the skinny kid I stitched up is named Bebchuk.

I see altogether too much of Yakov for my liking. He’s Krupin’s right-hand man and, apparently, my main point of contact with the Bratva. He hasn’t tried to put his hands on me again since I held the scissors to his throat, but he obviously hasn’t forgotten about it. His attitude toward me vacillates between cold irritation and outright loathing.

That’s fine with me. I don’t want to be liked by these men. I don’t want to be of interest to them. As long as I’m useful to Krupin, I’m assuming they won’t hurt me. That’s the best I can hope for at this point.

When Yakov texts me the address, I see it’s in the warehouse district. I’m assuming it’s going to be a small and dingy place, with maybe a few dozen people inside. I’m shocked to find a blasting, bumping party going on, with hundreds of spectators in attendance.

It’s not just gangsters either—there are all kinds of people here, dressed a whole lot fancier than I would have expected. I can’t help peeking out from the makeshift infirmary so I can look at them all. I’m surprised to spot several people I know—businessmen who used to come into my father’s restaurant.

I see Krupin talking to a tall man, about forty or forty-five, dark-haired with a dramatic streak of gray in the front. Judging from his suit, his tattoos, and the harsh expression on his face, I’m guessing he’s a fellow Bratva boss.

What do gangsters talk about?

I assume it’s not idle chit-chat. They’re probably making plans, making deals. I can see them glancing up at a large chalkboard posted on the wall. It has names and numbers listed on it. The names are mostly nicknames: Hitman. Butterball. The Rowdy Rabbi. Probably the boxers. Beside each boxer’s name is a positive or negative number. I scan down the list, not really understanding it: Hitman -124. Butterball: +347. The Rowdy Rabbi: -1110.

Is it a ranking system? Or is it something for betting?

As I’m pondering what it might mean, I get a prickling sensation at the back of my neck. I feel myself blushing, as I always do when I’m uncomfortable. I turn my head, catching sight of a boxer in a white hoodie. He’s standing still, staring at me intently.

And let me tell you, a look from this guy is intense indeed. He’s got light blue eyes—colder than early morning frost—that seem to cut right through me. His face is stern, rough, unsmiling. He’s got heavy brows, a broad nose, broad jaw, and shoulders that probably wouldn’t fit through a doorway. He’s hunched and defensive, like he thinks someone might hit him any minute.

His skin is quite tan for a Russian, in sharp contrast to the blue eyes. His hair is light brown, cropped short. He’s tall, powerfully built. Rather terrifying, all in all.

I don’t know why he’s staring at me. It makes me shiver, the way his eyes are locked on mine. I feel like I have to tear my gaze away. Once I’ve broken his look, I’m free to dart back inside the infirmary, closing the door behind me.

I stay in there until the fights start. Then I peek out again, drawn to see the boxing, even though I don’t like it.

I’ve never been to a live boxing match before, only watched them on TV. I’m shocked by how much faster and rougher it looks in person. I can hear the gloves hitting flesh and the grunts of the boxers as they’re struck. The crowd is inflamed by it.

I find it hard to look away, myself.

I’m closest to the third ring, but by coming out of the infirmary, and walking a bit along the wall, I can see the fourth ring where the blue-eyed boxer is fighting.

He’s dressed all in white, and he looks young and powerful, compared to his leaner, older opponent.

I’m surprised to see how lightly he moves. He’s so massive, I expected him to charge the other fighter, big, meaty fists swinging wildly. It’s quite the opposite—he’s careful, calculated. And fast. His fists whip out, drilling into his opponent’s body. He sends out a particularly brutal shot to the ribs, and I hear an audible crack even over the roar of the crowd. The other boxer drops like a rock, groaning.

It makes me sick to my stomach. I turn away once more, heading back to the infirmary. I’m sure I’m going to have patients coming in before long.

Sure enough, as the first four matches end, Krupin’s men haul in the boxer with the broken ribs, as well as a guy who’s split his lip open.

I examine them both. The one with the split lip just needs an icepack, but the other guy’s in bad shape. I gently feel his sides with my fingertips, trying to ascertain how many ribs are fractured, and how badly. Then I listen to his lungs with my stethoscope, to make sure they haven’t been punctured by an errant sliver of bone.

I bought the stethoscope, and a few other necessary tools, with Krupin’s blessing. I considered getting a doctor’s coat as well but decided against it because I don’t want to draw any attention to myself.

If my clothes get dirty or stained, I’ll just wash them.

“So? What’s the verdict?” Yakov says impatiently.

“He should get a CT scan,” I say.

“You see a whatever-the-fuck scanner around here?” Yakov says, pretending to look around.

I glare at him. “As far as I can tell, he’s got four fractured ribs on his right side. All we can really do for that is give him pain medication and let it heal on its own.”

“You don’t wrap him up?” Yakov says, surprised.

“No,” I say, “that’s not standard treatment anymore.” Speaking to the boxer, I add, “Once your pain is under control, you want to work on taking deeper breaths. If you breathe too shallowly, you’ll be at risk to develop pneumonia.”

He nods, his face pale with pain, and lightly sheened with sweat.

“If you feel a sharp, stabbing pain in your lungs, go to the hospital,” I tell him, quietly.

He nods, but I don’t know if he will or not. These men are too used to pain—I don’t think they take it seriously.

Another round of fights follow, with another boxer sent to see me for a concussion evaluation. I shine a light in his eyes and ask him questions: his name. The date. The current president of the country.

He doesn’t answer any of the questions right, except his own name.

I ask him if he’s gotten other concussions recently.

“I dunno,” he says. “I’ve been knocked out three times this month.”

“I’d say that qualifies. You know that each repeated concussion is cumulative in its effects . . .” I’m trying to explain the dangers of TBIs to him, but he’s craning his neck, trying to see out the door to know what’s going on in the matches that haven’t finished yet.

I sigh and tell him just to drink some water and lay down for a while.

He ignores me, heading back out into the pounding music with his posse all around him, propping him up.

There’s a short break between fights to allow everyone to visit the bars set up all around the room, or buy drinks from the pretty waitresses roaming the floor.

While I’m waiting, Yakov pokes his head in the infirmary and tells me that Krupin wants to see me.

“Me?” I squeak.

“No,” Yakov says sarcastically. “The other pretty little idiot standing right behind you.”

I haven’t spoken to Krupin in person since the night I went to his house. I’d prefer to keep my distance, honestly. But of course I have to do what he says.

I smooth back the strands of hair that have come loose from my braid, trying to make myself presentable. I rub the sleeve of my blouse where the concussed boxer stained the fabric with a droplet of blood. The blood won’t come out of the silk with a little rubbing, so I leave it alone and head out onto the floor.

I spot Krupin at once, easily visible in his black fur coat. He must be roasting in that thing—the air in the warehouse, despite the cathedral ceiling, is humid with sweat and the exhalations of the packed-in spectators.

Krupin is still talking to the gangster with the streak of gray in his hair. I wonder if I should wait for them to finish their conversation. But Krupin spots me and waves me over.

“Stepanov,” he says. “This is our doctor.”

“This girl?” Stepanov says in surprise. He holds out his hand to me.

Gingerly, I give him my hand. He encloses it inside his own, which is large and rough, with gold rings on two of his fingers. I expected him to squeeze it hard. Instead, he raises my hand to his lips and kisses it. All the while, he’s watching me with his dark, heavily-lidded eyes.

I can feel my cheeks glowing like a sunrise. I’d like to take my hand back, but Stepanov hasn’t released it.

“How long has she been working for you?” he asks Krupin while still looking at me.

“Just a week or two,” Krupin says. “Her father is Oskar Drozdov. He used to own Golod.” Krupin smiles softly. “Until I bought it.”

“I know that place,” Stepanov says, his eyes still locked on mine. “I’ve eaten there before. Did you ever serve my table?”

I give a quick shake of my head. Papa never had us work as waitresses. Perhaps he should have. He always treated us like aristocratic little princesses, but the truth is, we never actually had the money or the name to mingle with the upper class. We only thought we belonged there.

“Soft hands,” Stepanov says, trailing his large thumb over the back of my hand. “Your patients are lucky.”

His intense eye contact and his lingering, appraising touch make me distinctly uncomfortable. I wish there was a way to pull away without offending him.

“It’s good to have a doctor on staff,” Krupin says to Stepanov. “Get the boxers back on their feet and fighting again, as quickly as possible.”

“Oh yes,” Stepanov says softly. “I’m sure Sasha Drozdov is highly useful.”

At last he releases my hand. I drop it down to my side, resisting the urge to rub it against my slacks as if I touched something dirty.

“Very nice to meet you,” I squeak.

Krupin gives me a nod, releasing me. I hurry back to the infirmary, flushed and terrified.

I’m just a little lamb, wandering around a forest full of wolves. How can I hope to survive among these men?