Shattered Crown: A Dark Mafia Age Gap Romance (Kozlov Empire Book 4)

An hour later, I track down Konstantin, the head guard on duty, and tell him, ‘I’m locking myself in the bedroom for a movie marathon, and I’m not to be disturbed. Well, except when room service comes up with my food. Send the attendant straight in so they can lay out the meal for me.’ I tip my chin up. ‘I ordered everything on the menu.’

“You got it, Mrs. Belov.” He grins, relief evident in his expression.

He probably thought he’d have to deal with my monster mood all night. Welp, I’m making it easy for him. I won’t even be here.

My eyes dart to the closed door of Maxim’s office, where I can hear a tense meeting with Viktor, Roman, and Pavel taking place. Maxim is speaking quickly and sounds agitated. Good.

“Do you know if my husband will be joining me tonight?” I ask, blinking up at Konstantin.

“Ah, no.” He pushes his hands through his hair like he’s worried about how I’ll react. “He’ll be leaving soon. He has business to take care of off-site.”

“Good. More cake for me,” I say, stomping off.

Soon, my hair is held back in braids and I’m dressed in a form-fitting, black ensemble, complete with a hooded jacket and sneakers.

Right on cue, a knock sounds at the bedroom door. “Room service.”

“Come on in.” I jump into bed and pull the covers up to my neck. “You can set up right there.” I point to the little breakfast table situated by the wall.

“Not a problem,” he responds, getting to work.

Looks like a nice enough kid. I’m almost sorry for what I have to do next. When he unloads the fourteen dishes I ordered with extra fries and a bottle of champagne on ice, he turns to me with a big smile on his face. Most likely expecting a bigass tip.

“What the⁠—”

“Don’t make a sound,” I say to him, holding the pistol in my hand. “I don’t want to use this, Russell,” I add, with a glance at his name tag. “But I will if I have to. Nod if you understand.” Eyes wide and horrified, he nods. “Here is what is going to happen. I am going to crawl into your cart over here, and you are going to cover me up with a tablecloth. Then you are going to roll me out of here, and on your way out, you’re going to say to the guards outside of the door that I’m asleep but you left the food anyway. See how easy that is?” Again, he nods vigorously. “All you have to do after is drop me off at the loading dock and make sure no one sees. That’s it. No one gets hurt, and you live a long life.”

Poor Russell hasn’t stopped nodding, but I’m convinced we’ve reached an understanding.

“Great,” I say with a smile then quickly contort myself under his cart, after which he drapes a white tablecloth over me.

His breathing is heavy, but a stern reminder to calm down does the trick. Impressively, he plays his part well. He informs the guards that I’m asleep, and I overhear what sounds like Konstantin tipping him. Before I know it, we’re in the elevator, jostling through the hotel’s back corridors. We pass the kitchens and then the garbage bins, their odor unmistakable.

Finally, he whispers, “Coast is clear.”

I step out of the cart, offering the kid a smile while keeping my hood low over my face. ‘For your troubles, sir.’ I hand him a thousand dollars in cash. Maxim’s fault for leaving so much money lying around.

Then I tell Russell to scram.

As arranged, a black town car is parked in the shadows across from where Maxim’s chauffeur typically picks him up. The driver of the town car knows me well—he was my driver when I was with the Kozlov Bratva—so he knows better than to make conversation or ask any questions.

Tony nods at me as I enter the backseat, and I nod back at him. ‘When a handsome, dark-haired man gets into that vehicle,’ I instruct him, ‘follow it, but keep your distance. We can’t afford to be spotted, and they’ll be on the lookout.’

“You got it,” he promises.

True to his word, when Maxim slips into his car not long after, Tony discreetly follows at a safe distance.

Twenty minutes later, we pull up in front of a dilapidated building.

What in God’s name is Maxim doing here?

From a distance, we watch him exit onto the street level. Unusually, his driver doesn’t wait for him; instead, he peels off into the night. Maxim glances left and right before heading down the stairs to the basement of the building.

Weird. Really fucking weird. This is not the Maxim I know, the man who wouldn’t be caught dead in anything but a bespoke suit and cufflinks that cost more than most people’s rent. But tonight, he looks more like a member of a motorcycle club than a billionaire, dressed casually in worn jeans and a leather jacket, and damn if that’s not a hell of a turn-on.

“Do you know what this place is?” I ask Tony, leaning forward between the front seats to get a better look. “A club of some sort?”

Maybe a sex club? The thought alone has my molars grinding together.

“I don’t think so. Give me a minute,” he says and types something into his phone.

“No one can know about this,” I remind him.

“I got you.” His eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. “No one will know.”

After we’ve watched a few other men surreptitiously enter into the building, Tony’s phone chimes.

“Well, look at that.” He fully turns in his seat to face me. “It’s an underground fight club.”

Oh.

“Totally anonymous, but no one steps into the ring here unless they’re a top-tier fighter. Only big bets are on the table, cash only, no weapons allowed, and fights stop when one man can’t stand or surrenders.”

“I’m going in,” I tell Tony.

“Want me to come with you?”

I shake my head. “I got this. Don’t wait around. It might take a while.”

I hand Tony my pistol, aware I won’t be allowed in if I’m armed. Unlike Maxim, Tony knows what I’m capable of. He’s seen me in action.

“By the way, maybe you can not mention this to my brothers.”

He winks. “Call if you need me,” he says as I open my door and step out of the car.

“Thanks again.” I give him a final reassuring smile, but I sure as hell hope I don’t need to take him up on that offer.

Following Maxim’s lead, I head down the stairs to the lower-level entrance. A big burly guy that looks like he could be a fighter, broad and with a heavily scarred face, stands guard. A toothpick dangles from the corner of his lips as he gives me a thorough once-over.

I square my shoulders, refusing to be intimidated.

“No,” is all he says to me.

“You can’t turn me away,” I argue. “I’m here to bet.”

“Listen,” he says, twisting the toothpick between his thin lips. “I don’t know what a pretty thing like you is doing in a place like this, but it’s better if you stay away.” He dismisses me, going back to the phone in his hands.

Motherfucker, what’s with all these men underestimating women? It really gets old after a while.

“You clearly don’t know who I am,” I drawl, crossing my arms over my chest.

“A princess?” He chuckles darkly, amused at his lame joke.

I smile widely. “You could say that. The Kozlov Bratva princess. I’m sure you’re familiar with my brother, Andrei. Or maybe you know Daniil or Leonid?”

He freezes in place. His head slowly rises from his phone, his eyes widening in recognition. I don’t give him time to get another word in. I swiftly pull out a thick wad of cash from my jacket, letting the green notes speak for themselves.

“Now, once again… Move over. I’m here to bet.”

With a begrudging nod, he steps aside, granting me entry.

I push through the doors. Bloodlust, testosterone, and the heavy scent of sweat fill my nostrils. The vast, dimly lit area echoes with shouts and the thuds of fists striking flesh. The crowd is thick, lining the walls around the space, and at the heart of the commotion is the fighting ring. A makeshift square bordered by fraying ropes, with a ground stained by blood.

My eyes search the crowd for Maxim’s tall lean frame, but it’s too dark to make out any familiar features without getting in people’s way, and I have no intention of doing that. It’s hard to imagine a man as refined as Maxim choosing to hang out in a place like this, unless he has backroom business, but he didn’t look like he was stepping into a meeting. He was dressed to fit in.

Without warning, a hush falls over the crowd. A massive bear of a man with a shaved head and bulging muscles steps into the ring.

‘Tonight,’ a voice bellows, ‘a special match for our regulars and anyone who’s got the balls to bet against our reigning champion. The Butcher is taking on … The Russian.”

My head snaps up, searching the ring as a chill seeps into my bones. There he is, standing at one corner of the ring. No fanfare, no pomp. Only raw power and a look that would make the bravest man cower.

My thighs clench at the sight of him because … wow. It’s the first time I’ve seen him shirtless, and he steals my breath away. Maxim’s ripped muscles stand out against his golden skin. He turns around, and his back is a canvas of tattoos and scars—not what I imagined was hiding under his ten-thousand-dollar suits. He’s not covered in tattoos, but the ink he does have on his back is simple and evocative—a broken chain and a chess knight, rendered in bold, black ink.

I push to the front of the crowd, desperate for a closer view. One thing is clear: Maxim is a born fighter. He appears completely at ease in the ring, every inch the predator on a hunt, unfazed by the beast of a man standing across from him.

A prickle of worry skitters across my skin. I mean, his opponent is named The Butcher! The bell clangs, and the fight begins.

I hold my breath as both men circle each other like gladiators in an ancient arena. The Butcher makes the first move, and it’s on. They clash with the ferocity of a storm. The Butcher uses his sheer size, aiming heavy punches and trying to corner Maxim, but each time he lunges, Maxim dodges, countering with precise, calculated strikes to the giant’s head and torso.

Like a bear that’s been poked, The Butcher charges forward, delivering a swift and punishing blow to Maxim’s exposed side. Maxim winces, a flash of pain crossing his expression. He recovers quickly, his focus lasered on his opponent.

Maxim moves like a panther, striking with a roundhouse kick to the gut that lands with surgical precision. He isn’t a brawler; he’s a tactician.

Watching him is doing funny things to my insides. The crowd is in a frenzy, matching the intensity inside the ring.

Maxim’s eyes sweep over the crowd briefly, and then stop on me.

Shit! I try to pull up my hoodie, but it’s too late. He saw me, and he looks furious.

On instinct, I turn around to run, but the mass of bodies makes it near impossible to get through. I’m trapped in place.

In a move that has the crowd gasping, Maxim ducks a wild punch from The Butcher, which throws the bigger man off balance. It’s the only opening Maxim needs. He counters with a devastating uppercut, followed by a swift kick to the side of his knee, and The Butcher goes down hard, groaning in pain. With a snarl, Maxim pounces, pressing an elbow into the other man’s throat until he hits the mat three times, admitting defeat.

Maxim stands victorious, but there’s no joy in his expression, no triumphant roar. Only a look of raw fury, directed straight at me.

Fuuuuck.

A chill sweeps through me, and now I run in earnest. Screw the crowd still buzzing from the adrenaline of the fight—I elbow people out of the way as I beeline for the door. I have enough sense not to look back, to keep moving towards the exit. When I’m out of here, I’ll get in a cab and go straight to one of my brothers’ homes.

Just as freedom is within reach, an unyielding arm snakes around my waist, yanking me back into a hot, muscled chest.

“Where do you think you’re going, wife?”