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After seeing the excitement on Leo’s face, I know I won’t be losing.
“Yes!”
Roman arches a brow but climbs back into the ring. I toe off my boots and shrug off my jacket. I take my time rolling up the sleeves as I approach the ring and swing over the ropes.
“Sure you want to get your ass kicked in front of your kid?” Roman teases.
“He doesn’t know.”
Another eyebrow arch. “He doesn’t?”
I shake my head and adopt an offensive stance.
Roman is wearing gloves, but I don’t bother. He’s shorter and stockier than I am.
His first punch is hesitant, feeling out how seriously I’m going to take this. I slip easily, avoiding the hit and sweeping his feet out from under him with a well-placed kick.
I don’t miss the higher-pitched shout that echoes through the massive space along with the murmurs from the men watching.
Roman grimaces when he stands. “Fucking knew this was a shit idea.”
I land an uppercut to his jaw. He staggers but stays upright.
Fighting a friend is an art form. It’s walking a fine line before incapacitation turns to injury.
There’s a determined set to Roman’s jaw as he comes at me again. His pride is on the line, but so is mine.
I mirror his movements, rolling and then blocking his next maneuver.
Once he attempts an attack, I let him draw closer. Then, I use his momentum against him, darting to the side and behind. Before he can react, my arm is around his neck, choking his windpipe.
Roman splutters and kicks for a few seconds before he goes limp with defeat. “Fuck,” he growls.
I grin and release him. He coughs twice, standing and glaring.
I glance out of the ring. We’ve captured the attention of everyone in the warehouse, but I’m only focused on one person. I climb out of the ring and return to Leo’s side. His eyes are wide, swallowing half of his face.
I’m a little worried he’s freaked out, but as soon as I’m next to him, he asks eagerly, “Can you show me how to do that?”
I ruffle his hair. “We can start with a few practice punches,” I say. Then, I reconsider whether most children should be taught fighting. “But don’t…you know you don’t, uh—violence isn’t—”
Roman snorts from his spot a few feet away before he sips some water.
“Let’s head into my office,” I say, abandoning the ironicviolence isn’t the answerspeech.
“All right,” Leo agrees happily and then follows me.
I might be fucking up the father thing, but it’s also hard to imaginenotbeing one now.
CHAPTERFIFTEEN
NICK
Roman stomps on the butt of his cigarette, then glances at me for the sixth time in fewer minutes. I keep my gaze on the shipment being unloaded and the chill slowly saturating my bones.
The air smells like snow.
Viktor ambles over, the little of his face not covered by a cap or beard ruddy from the cold.
