Snow: A Dark Mafia Romance (Underworld Book 2)

Jealousy in romance is like salt in food.

Maya Angelou

Back in the locker room, I feel an immediate surge of guilt. I didn’t have to go so hard on Black Eye. I could have won by decision—I didn’t have to knock him out.

I’ve never felt guilty after a fight before. But I’ve also never let my emotions get the best of me. I’m usually totally in control.

Even Boom Boom is looking at me weird.

“You okay?” Meyer says to me.

“Yeah,” I grunt. “Of course.”

I keep seeing Sasha’s face looking out at me from the crowd, pale and shocked. I introduced her to the better side of myself. But now I’ve let her see the monster. That’s a part of me too, one that I usually keep tightly controlled.

She’s disgusted by it, that was plain to see.

I don’t blame her.

She’s probably patching up Black Eye right now, dealing with the aftermath of my frenzy.

“Hey.” Yakov pokes his head into the locker room. “Krupin wants you to come out with us. After the fights.”

My anger flares up all over again at the sight of him, with his prissy brilliantined hair and his shiny shoes and his smug strut. That fucking bully. Thinks he’s tough shit, picking on a girl.

He doesn’t even wait around to see if I’ll agree. He assumes I’ll be there.

Unfortunately, he’s right. I can’t afford to piss Krupin off. Not when I’m so close to winning this whole tournament.

The last fight wraps up, with the Beast soundly defeating Thunderdome.

That means that there’re four fighters left in the tournament: me, Big Stacks, the Rabbi, and the Beast.

I’ve only got to win two more matches to take home the top prizes, 400,000 rubles and an Escalade.

I’m guessing I’ll be paired up against The Rowdy Rabbi in the next round. He and I are the lowest-ranked fighters remaining.

Now, as much as I respect the Rabbi, I know I can beat him. I’m not a lumbering oaf like Butterball. His Br’er Rabbit tricks aren’t going to work against me.

I don’t like the idea of having to hit him, since he’s way outside my weight class. It doesn’t seem fair, and I know he’ll be disappointed. He wants the money as badly as I do.

Maybe I can split the purse with him, no matter which way it goes. I don’t mind donating to his new life with Anastasia and the baby.

If I beat the Rabbi and advance to the final round, I’ll either be up against Stacks or the Beast. I’m guessing it’ll be the Beast. He’s never been beaten in the ring yet.

Can I beat him?

The honest answer is, I don’t know.

I’ve always been confident before. But I’ve never faced an opponent like him.

No point worrying about it now, however.

Right now, I’ve got to get cleaned up to go out with Krupin.

I wash off as best I can in the sink and pull on a fresh shirt from my duffle bag. Meyer is watching me, scowling from behind his thick glasses.

“What’s Krupin want?” he says.

“I dunno.”

“You watch yourself,” he warns me. “It’s getting close to the end now. You know these Bratva don’t fight fair.”

He means that the tournament isn’t clean. Even legitimate boxing is rife with corruption. Underground rings vastly more so.

“Bratva don’t,” I tell him. “But I do.”

Meyer just grunts.

Once I’ve cleaned up, I join Krupin at his table. Krupin is looking sour and annoyed. He barely glances at me as he introduces me to Stepanov, who I’ve seen from a distance many times, but never actually met before. Stepanov shakes my hand, grinning.

“You made me some money tonight,” he says.

“Oh yeah?”

Krupin must have bet on Black Eye. That’s why he looks so pissed. It was a stupid bet. It confirms my suspicion that gambling is Krupin’s Achilles heel. Much like how a dealer should never get high on his own supply, you should never bet on your own game. The weight of the wager disrupts the mind, corrupts your decision-making.

“I have a feeling you’re going all the way to the end,” Stepanov says.

“I hope so.”

“You’ll be up against my man, then. You know Borya?”

Stepanov gestures toward the Beast, who’s just finished getting cleaned up himself. Unlike me, he brought a proper suit to the fight, one tailored to fit his massive frame. Dressed all in black, he looks like an undertaker. His head is buzzed, and I can see that his tattoos extend up his neck, all the way onto his scalp.

He’s got a broad, square head, and a brutal, thuggish face. I know better than anyone not to judge based on appearances. Just because you look mean, doesn’t mean you’re actually cruel at heart. But in this case, I think the book might match the cover.

I don’t judge a guy off his face, but I do judge his tattoos. The Beast has the marks of a thief, an enforcer, and a murderer. And that’s just what I can see above the collar of his suit.

I give him a nod of recognition—we’ve never met in the ring, but I’ve seen him around at various fights. He nods back slowly, his dark eyes boring into mine. It’s not often I have to look up at anybody. I’m guessing the Beast has never experienced it at all.

Stepanov is watching us, smiling gleefully. It’s obvious he invited me out tonight because he wants to see us tee off before the actual fight. I don’t think Krupin had any hand in it—he’s annoyed I beat Black Eye, and from what I know about his history, he holds his grudges for a long time.

I just want to get this over with. I’m hoping we’ll leave for the restaurant soon. Actually, I’m not sure what we’re waiting for—until I see Sasha walking toward us.

She’s dressed in a flame-red gown of such a sheer and clinging material that her every curve is outlined as if she’s been dipped in red paint. It’s cut low in the front and slit high up the leg, revealing even more of her smooth, creamy skin. Her blonde hair is pinned back at the sides, hanging down to the middle of her back, still wavy from its braid. She’s put on a little makeup, which is more than she needs to become the most stunning woman in the room.

Heads turn as she walks. Certainly, the eyes of every man at our table are fixated on her—none more than Stepanov’s.

“There she is,” he purrs.

He holds out his hand, taking Sasha’s and pulling her toward him. He rests his other hand on her waist, his thumb sliding across the thin material of the dress.

“Turn around for us,” he says.

Sasha’s cheeks are as red as her dress. She looks extremely uncomfortable. I’m sure she didn’t select this outfit, though whoever did is a goddamned genius. This dress should be enshrined in a museum, alongside the Mona Lisa and the crown jewels of England.

I can fully appreciate the spectacle of Sasha’s beauty, while simultaneously hating Stepanov for forcing her to display it in this way.

Sasha turns around in a circle, her face burning with humiliation.

Stepanov only smiles more. He enjoys her embarrassment as much as her loveliness.

Some men can only feel their power by inflicting it on others.

I’ve seen Stepanov with any number of beautiful young women clinging to his arm. But he wants the woman who doesn’t want him.

The problem is that I want her, too.

We pile into three SUVs to drive to the restaurant. Sasha is in Stepanov’s car. Yakov rides with Krupin. The Beast and I are in the third car, with several of Stepanov’s other men, including Afansi. I’m preoccupied, thinking of Sasha riding alone with Stepanov. Wondering if he’s trying to touch her right now.

The Beast sits sideways in his seat, staring at me.

“What?” I say at last.

“You’re undefeated,” he says.

“Yeah. So?”

“So am I.”

“I know.”

“So. One of us will have a new experience,” he says.

His words send a shiver running down my spine.

It’s true that I’ve never felt what it’s like to be losing in the ring. To try desperately to defend yourself, while failing over and over again.

In facing opponents, I’ve always known ahead of time what their weakness might be. I had a strategy.

The Beast has no weakness that I’ve seen. Not yet, at least.

“Where did you train?” I ask him.

“I trained with my father,” he says. “He won silver at the Sydney Olympics. He was intent that I should win gold. He used to beat me in the ring, over and over. Until I grew stronger and he grew older. Then one day I beat him. I beat him to death.”

He says this with no emotion at all.

I don’t know if he’s lying. He’s certainly trying to intimidate me.

Maybe it’s true, all the same. He wouldn’t be the first Bratva to succeed to his father’s place in that way. The ties of blood and loyalty are always in conflict with the drive for dominance.

He’s watching me to see my reaction. I think the Beast wants to know what lies beneath my surface. If I’m a fighter, or a killer.

I’m not a killer.

Does that mean I’m doomed to lose against him?

Is one inherently superior to the other?

The Beast obviously thinks so. He smiles with satisfaction, looking at me.

My eyes are drawn back out the window, to the car driving at the head of our cavalcade. Sasha is in there. What’s she saying to Stepanov? What’s he saying to her?

I’m burning with jealousy that Stepanov gets to talk to her, gets to sit next to her. Gets to look at her in that sexy fucking dress.

The cars pull to a stop at last. I’m surprised to see that we’re out front of Golod. That’s Sasha’s father’s restaurant. Or it used to be, anyway.

The host holds open the doors for us. We file inside.

I look around curiously. I’ve never been in here before. Sasha told me that she used to come almost daily as a child. She said that the dishes are the original blue and white ceramics her grandparents had made in the village of Gzhel. Her ancestor’s portraits hang on the walls.

I see one oil painting of a beautiful young woman on a gray horse. She has a long sheaf of white-blonde hair that I know all too well. Sasha’s great-grandmother.

A timid-looking man with wire-rimmed glasses approaches us. He greets Krupin respectfully, and Stepanov as well. Then he sees Sasha, and his expression turns to shock. This must be Oskar Drozdov, Sasha’s father. The sight of his daughter dressed like a high-end escort, in the company of these gangsters, is highly displeasurable to him. But he swallows down his misery, leading Krupin’s party to the largest table in the restaurant.

Sasha looks almost as uncomfortable as her father. She takes a seat next to Stepanov, sitting stiff and straight in her chair. I end up almost directly across from them. I’ve got the Beast on one side of me, silently watching everything I do. And Yakov on the other, burning with his own resentment.

I don’t have the time or the inclination to parse out what Yakov’s annoyed about. As far as I can tell, he doesn’t like that Sasha and I have been invited to dinner. He doesn’t like me here because we’ve never gotten along, and he’s a jealous little bitch in general—he doesn’t want anyone gaining favor with Krupin except himself. He’s got no worries there. Krupin is still salty about losing his bet. He hasn’t said two words to me.

I think Yakov is mad about Sasha simply because they loathe each other.

These are only guesses. It’s hard to get inside the mind of a cockroach.

I’m much more fixated on Sasha and Stepanov. He’s slung his arm around the back of her chair so his hand rests on her bare shoulder. With every minute that passes, his hand is inching lower and lower down onto her breast. First his fingers graze the top swell of her breast, above the material of the dress. Then they begin to dip lower, so his middle finger is sliding under the fabric. By the time the waiter pours our wine, Stepanov is blatantly groping Sasha, in front of the waiter and everyone else at the table.

Yakov is watching with a smirk on his face. I can barely keep myself from leaping out of my chair.

Sasha sits forward abruptly, under the guise of picking up her glass of wine. She gulps it down, her hand trembling slightly.

We all place our orders. I order the halibut, because it’s simple and I know that the food is going to taste like cotton in my mouth. I can’t stop staring at Stepanov. He’s laughing and chatting, perfectly at his ease, his handsome face indolent and satisfied. He doesn’t care how uncomfortable he’s making Sasha. He actively enjoys it.

Krupin is snapping his fingers for another refill on his wine. He’s drinking too much too fast, still brooding over his lost bet.

Yakov is sucking up to Stepanov, laughing at all his jokes, asking him his opinion of the fights.

“What did you think of Lights Out and Big Stacks?” Yakov asks. “The crowd always sees the winner, don’t they?”

That fight went to decision, and the crowd voted for Big Stacks. But it was Lights Out who scored more hits, by ten percent or more.

“Lights Out took it,” I say.

My irritation makes me say aloud what I only meant to think in my head.

Yakov scoffs at me, but Stepanov agrees.

“Lights Out was the superior technical fighter,” he says. “Stacks just put on a better show.”

Yakov shoots me a venomous look.

I ignore him. I’m distracted by Stepanov, who’s now sliding his hand up Sasha’s thigh.

My own hand clenches convulsively around my steak knife. I want to jump across the table and plant it in Stepanov’s chest.

Yakov sees me gripping the knife. He frowns.

I force myself to let go of it. I stand up, pushing back my chair.

“Excuse me,” I say. “I need a smoke.”

I don’t smoke at all. It’s just an excuse to get away from the table, because I can’t control myself another minute.

Instead of going outside, I head to the bathroom to splash water on my face.

When I come out again, Sasha is waiting in the hall.

Silently, she grabs my hand and pulls me into the storeroom. She closes and locks the door behind us. Then she grabs me and kisses me ferociously. I lift her up and kiss her back twice as hard.

I know what she’s doing. She’s taking control of her sexual agency. She wants to fuck the man she wants to fuck, and it isn’t Stepanov.

I also know that what we’re doing is pure insanity. With every second that passes, Stepanov or Krupin may become suspicious, and send one of their men looking for us. If they find us in here, we’ll probably end the night with our throats slit, tossed over the railing of the Trinity bridge.

But right now, I’m willing to take that chance, if it means touching Sasha again.

I can taste the sweet remains of the wine in her mouth. Her soft lips are ravenous against mine. She’s clinging to me with all her strength, her arms around my neck and her legs wrapped around my waist. She’s as hungry for me as I am for her.

I wonder if she’s been craving me just as badly the last few days. Replaying our afternoon together over and over in her mind. That’s what I’ve done, a thousand times or more.

My cock is ready to explode, just from the feeling of her in my arms once more. It aches and throbs, longing to be buried inside of her.

I want to rip this dress off her body, but I’m not stupid enough to do that.

Instead, I pull the skirt up around her waist, careful not to tear the delicate material. I pull her panties to the side. Then I release my cock from my shorts and thrust it up into her.

Even though I haven’t had time to prepare her at all, she’s warm and wet and ready for me. Her body is as desperate as mine. Perhaps over the last three days she soaked her panties again and again, thinking about me, at the same moments that I was gripping my throbbing cock, helpless against the thought of her.

Now I’m exactly where I longed to be, deep inside of her. I’m kissing and fucking her with wild abandon, inside this tiny closet of dry goods. We’re surrounded by bags of sugar and flour, packets of spices and pallets of rice. The smell of the food does nothing to overwhelm the intoxicating scent of Sasha herself—her soap, her skin, her perfume, and her wet, eager pussy.

As much as I fixated on the feeling of her, it’s nothing compared to the real thing. I feel like I’m dying and going to heaven, over and over with every thrust.

We’re both racing as fast as we can toward climax. There’s no holding back, no time to stop and savor it. Sasha beats me there by a fraction of a second. She starts to cry out. Remembering how loud she was in my apartment, I clamp my hand over her mouth. She moans against my fingers, as her pussy clenches tight around me. I fuck her harder still, because this woman belongs to me, and me alone. I’ll never give her to Stepanov, or anyone else.

I was her first, and I’ll be her last.

I explode inside of her, filling her pussy with my cum. I’m marking her as mine. If Stepanov tries to touch her again, it will be with my seed already inside her.

The orgasm goes on and on. I’ve built up so much over the last three days that I’ve never had a release like this.

When I finally finish, I set Sasha down gently. I kiss her once more, because I’m already craving her lips all over again.

“You better go out first,” she gasps. “I’m going to the bathroom to clean up.”

That’s all we have time to say to each other. I hurry back to the table, taking the long way round so it looks like I was out smoking. Still, Yakov glances at me suspiciously as I sit down. He probably knows I don’t smoke. And he doesn’t smell it on my hoodie.

Sasha comes back about five minutes later. She’s tidied her hair and reapplied her lipstick.

“What took you so long?” Stepanov asks. He sounds teasing, not incredulous.

“I . . . I’m not feeling very well,” Sasha says.

“Have some more wine,” Stepanov says, pushing another glass toward her.

Sasha drinks, obediently. When she sits back, Stepanov puts his arm around her shoulders once more.

The waiter arrives with his heavy tray of dishes. He hands them around—goulash for Krupin and Stepanov, prime rib for Yakov and the Beast. Halibut for me. Chicken for Sasha. Scallops for Afansi, way down at the end of the table.

Stepanov takes his arm back so he can eat. When he removes his hand from Sasha’s shoulder, I see that it’s lightly dusted with flour. Sasha sees it, too. Her face blanches.

“What is it?” Stepanov says.

“I . . . I’m very sick,” Sasha says. “May I borrow your napkin?”

Stepanov hands it to her, hopefully wiping the flour from his hand. Sasha grabs the napkin, pressing it to her mouth. She runs back to the bathroom. I assume she’s going to get the rest of the flour off her skin. Also, this may be her best excuse to avoid Stepanov taking her home.

Stepanov eats his goulash, heedless of the last bit of flour on his hand. He’s had several glasses of wine himself by this point.

I can see Oskar Drozdov watching our table from across the room. It must feel like a hellish examination, every time Krupin comes here to eat. Oskar doesn’t look like a strong man. Actually, he looks like a stiff wind would blow him over. That’s why he’s given his daughter to these jackals.

After a minute, Oskar disappears in the direction of the bathrooms, probably going to check on Sasha.

When he returns, he approaches the table nervously.

“If you don’t mind, gentlemen,” he says, “I’ve sent Sasha home in a cab. She’s quite ill.”

“I hope it’s not the food,” Yakov says rudely.

“No, no, nothing like that,” Oskar hastily assures him. “She hasn’t been well the last few days.”

Yakov smirks.

Anger bubbles up in me again. I still haven’t asked Sasha what Yakov made her do.

“It’s fine,” Krupin says, dismissing Oskar.

Stepanov frowns, however.

“She’s a skittish little thing, your doctor, isn’t she?” he says to Krupin.

“She’s very innocent,” Krupin says.

“How innocent?” Stepanov says, smiling lecherously.

Krupin shrugs. “Completely, I would guess.”

“That’s so rare in this day and age,” Stepanov says. “I find it . . . highly attractive.”

“It’s quite valuable, too,” Krupin says pointedly.

They’re discussing the worth of Sasha’s virginity, which they’re not aware I’ve already stolen.

“What was her debt to you?” Stepanov asks.

“Seventy-one million, give or take,” Krupin says casually.

“Perhaps she should be part of our negotiations,” Stepanov says.

My flesh goes cold. Stepanov wants to buy Sasha, along with half of Knockdown. He wants her to be part of the deal.

Krupin shrugs.

“She’s proven useful,” he says. “It won’t be cheap.”

“I’m not a cheap man,” Stepanov says, raising his glass.

I want to kill all of them.

They’re throwing Sasha into their bargain like she’s just another kilometer of territory, or a kilo of cocaine. She means nothing to them beyond a stack of bills.

But she means everything to me.

I know it’s madness. We’ve only just met. But I’ve made a career out of studying people. I know who she is. I know her bravery, her loyalty, her intelligence, her compassion.

I won’t allow her to be a bargaining chip.

“What’s your problem?” Yakov hisses in my ear.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, quietly.

“You’re up to something,” Yakov mutters so only I can hear. “Are you trying to get a place with Krupin? He already offered you a job once. He’s not going to do it again.”

“I already have a job,” I say.

“What is it, then? Why’re you so tense?”

I stare at him coldly.

“It’s your cologne,” I say. “It fucking reeks.”

Yakov’s face goes purple with anger. I’m sure his cologne is expensive as hell. He’s the biggest dandy I’ve seen in my life. He took the adage “dress for success” way too seriously, while forgetting the part about not being a horse’s ass.

Before he can say anything back, Krupin interrupts us.

“I want a cigar,” he says. “Snow, come join me.”

Yakov starts to stand as well, but Krupin motions for him to remain seated.

I don’t know why Krupin’s trying to get me alone. He could have easily smoked at the table without Oskar saying a word about it. But he brings me outside. Whatever he wants to say, it can’t be good.

Standing out on the street, Krupin lights his cigar without offering me one. He takes a couple of puffs, then lets out one long exhale. He’s wearing that black fur coat that makes him look bigger than he actually is. It’s coarse fur with a rich, oil smell—Siberian bear, probably.

He looks over at me, his dark eyes glittering.

“You’ve been nothing but trouble for me so far, Snow,” he says. “It’s time for you to do me a favor. You’re going to take a dive in the next fight. In the second round, you go down. You understand?”

I stare at him. I’ve never taken a dive in my life.

He takes another pull of his cigar, then stumps it out roughly against the brick wall.

“You go down in the second round. And you don’t get up again.”

Without waiting for me to answer, he heads back inside the restaurant.