Page 1 of Forced to Marry the Bratva

Chapter 1 - Damien

Colors and shapes distort. I blink my eyes a few times, trying to wince away the burn from the blood and sweat that drips down into my eyes. Within seconds, I see a clearer picture and narrowly dodge his attempt at the uppercut and hook. My formidable opponent is a rogue brute, one I haven’t fought before but seen in action. He’s lasting longer than I thought he would. He’s deft, nimble, and has a rare endurance for a man his size.

I counter quickly, landing a punch that sends him stumbling back. Despite my lean frame, there’s power beneath the surface. Plus, I’ve got stamina from the hours I run every week. He flicks back his hair and gets back on his feet. My styled hair never moves out of place, even in the boxing ring. It’s my way of maintaining control, a subconscious intimidation tactic that puts me forward as a man who left the battle without having a hair on his head touched.

“You got lucky, Zolotov,” my opponent grunts, trying to catch his breath.

“Or maybe you’re just all brawns and no brains,” I reply with a smirk.

He grunts, roars, and lunges at me again. I use footwork to keep him chasing me, dodging every hook. He’s getting breathless—and I? I could go on for another hour. This ring is my playground; always has been and always will be. This is where I find solace, where I relieve my stress and indulge in the thrill of the fight.

“Your father would be proud,” he taunts, jeering in my face, attempting to rile me up. “A true heir to the throne. Oh, wait. You’re not good enough to run the family business either, are you? It’s that brother of yours who bosses you around, don’t he? Now let me show you who’s boss in ‘ere.”

“Enough talk,” I snap, launching another attack. My fists fly to his torso, fueled by the fire within me. I won’t let anyone undermine what I’m capable of, not out there in the real world, nor here in this underground one. Both are dangerous, both are sinister, and both I aim to conquer.

“Time’s up,” I say as I deliver a huge blow to his chin, knocking him backward to the floor. The crowd roars around us, but it all fades into the background as I prepare myself for the next round.

The referee clears us for the next round.

My opponent charges, eyes blazing with fury, but I’m faster. I dodge his punches with ease, using my agility and quick reflexes to counterattack with precise strikes. The excitement and suspense grow with every hit and parry; the crowd’s cheers roar louder as we dance around each other in a deadly battle of strength.

“Is that all you got?” I taunt, ducking beneath a wild swing and landing a powerful uppercut to his jaw. Blood splatters on the floor, but he doesn’t go down. He staggers back, regains his footing, and comes at me again.

“Bravo, Damien!” someone shouts from the sidelines. I frown at the praise, eyes still on my opponent, angry at having lost my focus for that millisecond.

“Focus,” I remind myself, shutting out the distractions and turning my full attention back to the fight. My opponent lunges once more, desperation etched across his bruised face. But I’m already two steps ahead.

I sidestep his attack and deliver a swift, brutal blow to his temple. He crumples to the ground like a rag doll, unconscious. Silence falls over the crowd as the referee counts down, followed by thunderous applause when the fallen fighter doesn’t get back up on his feet.

As I stand there in the middle of the ring, sweat dripping down my face and adrenaline coursing through my veins, I feel that rare high I only feel after a win. I smile at the crowd and pump my bloody-knuckled fists in the air.

I might be 33 years old. I might have been fighting since I was just a young teenager in Russia, but decades later, in Philadelphia, I feel just as alive after a win. For me, this is only the beginning.

I could never give this up. Winning in this ring is the only thing that truly makes me feel alive.

Chest heaving, I make my way out of the ring. Hands reach out to shake mine. Some who don’t know me spit at my feet. They probably lost a ton of money betting on the wrong guy tonight. I’ve seen this a dozen times before. By the time I’m in the ring again, they’d all be waging for me to be victor.

At last, I find my way to the one man I’ve done this for—Alexai. He’s still sitting on his seat, a thin smile crossing his lips as he notices me approach. He’s probably mad he lost an asset for a fight. I can sense the shift in power already taking place.

“Your performance tonight was impressive,” Alexai says, extending a hand for me to shake. “I must admit, I had my doubts about your ability to handle this level of competition.”

“Never underestimate the Zolotovs,” I reply, grasping his hand firmly and locking eyes with him. “Our deal starts now.”

“Indeed, it does.” He releases my hand and nods. “You’ve proven yourself more than capable, Mr. Zolotov. Your victory was well-earned, and hopefully, you’ll give me another chance to win back what’s mine.”

“It’s a leveled playing field, and you can find me here every week,” I say, my voice cold and business-like. This man is just another pawn in the grander scheme of things, a means to secure a business of my own, away from the radar of my family’s purview. I need to keep him interested, to make it on my own, away from Boris’s clutches.

Before I can say anything else, my phone buzzes in my pocket, the screen flashing with Lev’s name.

“Looks like we’re in business,” I say under my breath, not looking up from my phone, before making my way out of the arena and into the changing rooms.

“Lev,” I say, picking up the call.

“Where are you, Brother?”

I don’t respond. In the background, people walk in, chattering and discussing what just went down.

“Are you fighting?” Lev asks incredulously. “If Boris finds out…”

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