Mikhail had barely taken two steps when his father spoke.
"Сядь. Sit down." The command cracked through the room, Mikhail stopped but he did not turn.
"You don't have a choice," his mother added calmly, her voice carrying the kind of quiet menace only families like theirs perfected.
"Ty nikogda ne imel vybora. You never did."
Mikhail slowly faced them then. His expression remained composed, but something lethal flickered behind his eyes.
"I said no."
His father rose to his feet, towering over the table, hands braced against the polished wood. "And we're telling you your answer is irrelevant. Eto ne diskussiya, Mikhail."
Dylan Volkov smiled again, this time without warmth. Lydia watched with open interest now, like someone observing a chess match nearing its end.
"You think this is about dinner?" Mikhail's father continued. "This is about survival. About leverage and about keeping bloodlines protected. Krov' dolzhna byt' zashchishchena."
Mikhail's jaw tightened. "Don't."
His mother folded her hands neatly in front of her. "Your sisters are getting older," she said conversationally. "Visible and desired." A pause. "Opasno krasivyye. Do you know how dangerous that makes them?"
The room went cold, Mikhail's breath slowed
"You leave them out of this," he said, his voice low, and deadly. "Ne smeyte."
His father's gaze hardened. "You brought them into this the moment you chose to defy us. Semya eto otvetstvennost'. Family is responsibility."
Dylan leaned forward, elbows resting casually on the table. "Your sisters are… exquisite," he said smoothly. "Truly. Prekrasnaya krov'. They would be perfect additions to the Volkov family."
Jennifer stiffened. "For my first son," Dylan added, almost pleasantly. "Strong blood, Proper upbringing. A shame to waste that potential."
Mikhail moved then the chair he had pushed back earlier slammed into the wall as he crossed the space in a heartbeat, hands flat on the table, leaning forward just enough for everyone to feel the threat radiating off him.
"Say their names again," Mikhail said softly, "and I will forget every rule that keeps this room standing. Ya vse slomayu."
Lydia finally spoke, her tone amused. "Temper, Mikhail. Spokoyno. We're merely discussing alternatives."
"There are always alternatives," Dylan said, unbothered. "This agreement will happen one way or another. You can walk into it willingly… or we take what we need through your family. Do kontsa."
Silence fell thick and suffocating.
Mikhail's parents did not intervene neither did they deny it. They let the threat stand because it was real.
Mikhail straightened slowly, hands curling at his sides. The fury inside him was no longer restrained "You touch my sisters," he said evenly, "and there won't be a Volkov empire left to negotiate with."
Dylan chuckled, "That's the spirit. Passion. Loyalty. Khoroshiy syn-in-law."
Mikhail met his gaze, unblinking.
"This isn't over." That made Dylan smiled wider.
"No," he agreed. "Eto resheno. It's just been decided."
Mikhail walked away from the dining room with his jaw locked and his shoulders tight, rage coiled so deep in his chest it felt like it might crack his ribs from the inside. He could have summoned someone to fuck, he could have drowned the anger in skin and heat but that kind of release wouldn't touch this. It wouldn't be enough. So he went underground.
The fight venue was buried beneath an abandoned industrial block, concrete sweating with moisture and age. The moment Mikhail stepped inside, the noise swallowed him whole shouting, laughter, snarls of anticipation. The air was thick with sweat, iron, smoke, and adrenaline. Bodies packed the space shoulder to shoulder, men and women alike, all hard muscle and sharp edges, scars worn like trophies.
Somewhere near the edge of the crowd, Darren leaned against a rusted support beam, arms crossed, eyes sharp. Beside him, Ayomide stood a little straighter, gaze sweeping the room with open curiosity. They'd heard the stories. Seen the photographs passed around in tight circles. But none of that prepared them for this place or for him.
Everywhere were fighters. Some rolled their necks, others wrapped their knuckles with practiced calm. Bruises bloomed across ribs and jaws like violent art. This place didn't reward beauty it stripped it down and reforged it into something brutal. The pit dominated the center of the room. A rough circle bordered by chain fencing and dented steel posts. There were no ropes and padding. The floor was stained dark in places where blood had soaked in and never quite come out. People pressed close, shouting out bets, pounding metal, and hungry for violence.
A fight was already underway when Darren's attention snapped toward the gate. "Is that him?" he muttered. Ayomide followed his line of sight and froze.
Mikhail stepped into the light, shedding his jacket as he moved, rolling his shoulders.
The crowd reacted instantly heads turned, voices shifted. The energy in the room tilted toward him, and Ayomide hated that his body reacted before his brain did. He swallowed hard, his jaw tightening.
Descriptions hadn't done Mikhail justice that was the problem. Mikhail didn't just look dangerous he radiated it. Broad shoulders, controlled movements and a presence that rolled off him in waves, heavy and suffocating. He was manly and unapologetic and definitely the kind of man people followed into hell without being asked. The realization hit like a slap.
Ayomide scowled, forcing his gaze away even as it dragged back against his will. He shouldn't be noticing this. Shouldn't be thinking anything except Enemy. Threat. Instead, his pulse betrayed him, loud and traitorous.
"Damn," he muttered under his breath, the word tasting like failure. He hated it. Hated that his mind supplied admiration where there should've been disgust. Hated that Mikhail wore power like it belonged to him, like the world bent a fraction just to accommodate his presence.
Here, no one bowed and no one cared about bloodlines or empires. Strength was the only currency and Mikhail walked like he owned the fucking market. The gate clanged shut behind him. His opponent stepped forward, built like a wall, his eyes feral with anticipation.
Ayomide folded his arms tighter across his chest, nails digging into his own skin.
Doesn't matter how good he looks, he told himself grimly. Doesn't matter how he moves.
He was still the enemy.
And that made the unwanted heat in Ayomide's gut all the more infuriating.
The first blow landed hard Mikhail took a brutal hit to the jaw that snapped his head to the side making a ripple went through the crowd. Ayomide's breath caught despite himself but Mikhail didn't go down.
He absorbed it, hid eyes sharpening as something feral woke behind them. He rolled his neck once, spat blood to the side, and went right back in.
Fists crashed and bodies collided, the sound of impact echoed through bone and metal. Mikhail took another hit then another but he held his ground, adjusting, learning. He fought like he owned the ring, like pain was just information. Ayomide hated how much that did something to him. Beside him, Darren shifted. His gaze slid from the pit to Ayomide's clenched posture, the way his shoulders were rigid, the way his eyes never left Mikhail.
Darren said nothing at first he just watched, and assessing.
"You good?" Darren asked casually, too casually
Ayomide didn't look at him. "I'm fine."
Darren hummed, unconvinced. "Funny. You look like you're about to either jump the cage or stab someone."
Ayomide's jaw tightened. "Shut up."
In the pit, Mikhail surged forward. He slipped a punch, drove an elbow into his opponent's ribs, then followed with a ruthless combination that sent the man staggering.
The crowd exploded. The final blow came fast and brutal, his opponent hit the ground and didn't get back up.
Mikhail stood there breathing hard, blood on his mouth, his knuckles split, chest rising and falling like a war drum. The noise around him blurred into something distant and all Ayomide could do was stare at him.
Darren exhaled low. "Yeah," he murmured. "That's a problem."
Ayomide tore his gaze away at last, anger burning hot and sharp in his chest. "Doesn't change anything," he said. But even as he said it, his pulse told a different story.