Page 61 of Watch Me, Daddy

The Kozlovs would find out I was a force to be reckoned with very soon.

“This will be a fight between myself and Aidan. None of you are to interfere, no matter the circumstances,” Anton dictated. He met the hardened gaze of each of his men, waiting until they nodded with understanding before moving onto the next.

“Now why don’t we get this show started?” Anton said softly, his tone dropping to a venomous level.

I took a step away from him and turned around, facing him with my chin lifted confidently.

Without warning, Anton lunged forward, his fist aiming for my jaw. I sidestepped his attack, the rush of wind from his punch brushing against my cheek. I countered with a quick jab to his ribs, the impact reverberating through my knuckles. He grunted, his movements fluid and calculated, evading my next blow with frustrating ease.

But the fight went on.

Our fists clashed over and over again, each blow landing with a satisfying thud. His soldiers had stopped speaking entirely, their attention now solely on the spectacle unfolding before them. I blocked a punch aimed at my abdomen, using the opportunity to land a solid hit to Anton’s jaw. He staggered back, a hint of surprise flashing in his eyes.

He hadn’t expected me to be good at this.

I smirked, letting my skill speak for itself. The room seemed to close in around us as we continued to trade blows, the rhythm of our fight intensifying. It was a raw, brutal dance, a presentation of strength and skill that tested the both of us.

But I knew this couldn’t go on forever.

With a calculated move, I spun away from Anton and drew a knife from my belt, the cold steel glinting in the dim light. He mirrored my action, his own knife gleaming in his hand. The tension skyrocketed, and a silent understanding passed between us.

The true fight was about to begin.

The first blow came swift and fierce, our fists colliding in a clash of raw power. In the heat of the moment, I managed to sidestep one of Anton’s lunges, and with a fluid movement, I managed to nick his forearm with my knife. A thin line of blood welled up from the shallow cut, and a savage fissure of delight raced through me at the sight of it. He gritted his teeth with fury.

I’d drawn first blood.

Our fight continued, a violent ballet of blades and brute strength. Every parry and strike spoke to our years of experience. I could see the fire in Anton’s eyes, his vicious determination mirroring my own. We circled each other, our breaths coming in ragged gasps, the scent of blood and sweat heavy in the air.

Our movements were a blur, a flurry of strikes and parries. I felt the sting of a shallow cut on my upper arm, but I pushed through the pain, my focus unwavering. Anton’s attacks were relentless, but I managed to deflect each one with precision and control. The energy in the room was electric, the outcome hanging in the balance. I chanced a glance around the room, peering at his soldiers’ expressions. They were getting nervous, and that only served to fuel my adrenaline that much more.

As the fight wore on, I could see the fatigue beginning to set in on Anton’s face, and I relished in that knowledge. I dug deep and fought harder, pushing him back one step at a time until he was only a few feet away from the tables behind him.

With a final surge of energy, I lunged forward, our knives meeting with a resounding clash. Our eyes locked, and for an instant, time seemed to stand still. I saw a flicker of uncertainty in Anton’s gaze, a crack in his otherwise unshakable façade. It was all the opening I needed.

With one final, decisive strike, I seized the opportunity and delivered a swift blow to his wrist. The impact sent his knife clattering to the ground, and he staggered backwards, the backs of his legs colliding with one of the tables. He tripped and fell, landing on his back on the floor with a hard thump.

I didn’t waste the opportunity.

I dove on top of him, rapidly dragging my knife across the broad expanse of his throat. Blood welled around the wound.

I’d cut deep.

Death was a part of our world. Sometimes it was necessary to deal the killing blow to send a message.

Sometimes it was to save the ones you loved.

Anton choked on his own blood, and I lifted my knife high into the air. With a decisive blow, I brought it down hard into his chest, meaning to end this as quickly as possible. My knife sunk in deep, straight into his heart.

With a harsh gasp, he stopped breathing.

I stood up, wiping my bloody knife off on his clothes before I flipped it shut. I felt the weight of the room’s gaze upon me. Anton’s soldiers, once loyal and unwavering, now looked at me with a mix of awe and newfound respect. The tension that had hung in the air moments ago seemed to dissipate, replaced by a palpable sense of acknowledgement. It was as if the outcome of our battle had rewritten the dynamics of power in that room.

With a subtle nod, I acknowledged their silent approval.

“My business with Anton is concluded. I will take no further steps against the Kozlovs,” I announced.

One man stepped forward. I recognized him as the bratva’s underboss, Nikolai Kozlov. From what I knew of him, he was a man of honor. He was loyal to Roman, but played both sides, mostly to keep eyes and ears on Anton as he served Roman’s needs.

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