I stilled, all actions suspended by this threat-laden question. Alik’s dick lay in wait at my entrance. His fingers built an almost unbearable pressure on my jaw, his unwavering stare boring, until I said, “You, Alik. You own it.”

His stern expression softened, allowing the softer Alik a brief moment of play before he slammed into my pussy, his finger searching my clit, unrelenting in its movement. My legs stiffened, my back arched, and I came, my channel choking Alik’s cock. I hated that he knew how to make my body react to his touch. I didn’t want such pleasure when he was like this, but I knew fighting the inevitable was pointless.

Alik’s thrusts became furious and he gripped my thighs so tightly that it would definitely leave a bruise. “Fuck, Myshka… FUCK!” he called out and spilled into me. His eyes were crazed with possession… with inert possession.

Alik pressed a consuming kiss to my quivering lips, then abruptly pulled out of me, righting his training shorts as if nothing had happened.

“Get dressed. Our fathers will be here soon,” Alik ordered coldly. Panicking, I jumped from the table, pulled on my skirt, and fastened my shirt just as a loud double knock sounded on the door.

My father. I knew that distinctive double knock.

Alik smirked and dropped down to casually drape onto a chair as I flustered, straightening my long brown hair. A couple of seconds later, the door opened and my father walked through, followed by Abram Durov—Alik’s father. Ivan Tolstoi—Talia and Luka’s father—came through last. He was the quietest out of the group, kept to himself. I always thought it was because of the shame he carried over Luka. For his son to kill the Pakhan’s son, then for him to die too, was like a sentence in itself. Ivan was the finance man, the one who handled the mob’s money. He had little to do with The Dungeon. He handled the books from his home office along with Talia, attended the matches through duty. But he rarely came to the gym, never really took an interest in the fighters. In fact, I was surprised he had even showed today.

Alik stood and greeted each of the infamous Bratva bosses with a triple kiss. Then my father’s—Kirill “The Silencer” Volkov—gaze fell on me and a wide smile spread on his lips.

“Kisa!” he greeted. Smiling at the happy face of my father, I walked around the table and he pulled me to his chest.

“Papa,” I greeted in reply, then moved to greet Abram and finally Ivan, whose hug always squeezed me just that little bit too hard and lasted just that second too long. I had always loved Ivan like a father. He was a kind man, the conscience, the calm of the Red bosses; Luka had been just the same in nature.

But Abram, no, there was always something off about the man. He brought violence to the Bratva. He forgave no one; he ensured dirty deeds got done. Alik was pissed most of the time due to his inability to do anything right to please his father. We were all aware that Alik’s anger came from the violence meted out by Abram to Alik from when he was a kid.

“Please, sit, papas,” I said, gesturing to the chairs. All of the Bratva—my family—took their seats as I moved behind my desk to take mine. Alik pulled his chair next to me.

“So,” my father said as he turned to me, “how are we looking for this season?”

Alik smirked. He ran his hand up my back to rest his grip on the back of my neck. It was a possessive move, a move to assert his dominance, all to show his worth to the Bratva.

“Good, Papa. All the trainers have fighters, except—”

“Who do you fucking think?” Alik interrupted me and laughed. Abram, Alik’s father, smiled in response as Alik added, “The fucking Georgian Albatross! Lost another of his guys in the first warm-up fight. Fucker got his throat slit by Sav’s man at the start of the first round. I’m telling you, the prick’s cursed. Five seasons of first-round losses. No fucker will fight for him this year.”

“He must have a fighter,” Ivan said calmly. “The Dungeon must have all the scheduled fights. We have too much riding on this year for Viktor to fuck it up. Biggest income we’ve ever had. We’re only getting bigger and bigger, which means better fighters, more fighters.”

“We’ll work it out,” I said. Ivan and my papa gave me wide smiles. Papa leaned forward and patted my hand. “You have this place running like a well-oiled ship, Kisa. I know you’ll get it done.”

A knock sounded on the door and Yiv, our head trainer, entered. Although Alik’s personal trainer, he was responsible for all the new fighters who came through The Dungeon’s door.

“Yiv, we were discussing the Albatross,” Abram said smugly. Yiv ran a tired hand down his face.

“Yeah. He already lost this year’s man and his sponsor’s pulled out. Fucking lot of money too,” Yiv explained.

“We got any replacement prospects?” Ivan asked, all business. The Dungeon, the Bratva’s underground gambling ring, was their principle source of income. They had several sources, mainly drug running and arms dealing, but this place was the cash cow. There was too much at stake to mess up. The Dungeon ran all year round, low-level fighters, more dirty street fights than anything else, but for three nights each year, The Dungeon held its championship—it was three nights of nothing but death, money, and only one winner.

Yiv shook his head, then stopped and said, “We had a guy drop in this morning. Said he wanted to fight in the cage. Big fucker too. Russian. Seemed fucking insane.”