He thought he’d found solitude in his office when Knox barged in. “You have got to keep me in the loop on some of this shit, Ronin. There’s this big dude out there who swears he has an appointment with you.”

“Be nice if one of these kids actually made an appointment,” he muttered. “Send him in.”

Knox returned with a young man nearly Knox’s height, which put him close to six foot three. He was solidly built, but not excessively bulked up like some gym rats who equated brawn with strength. He’d dressed appropriately—khaki pants, short-sleeved polo, shined shoes. His hair and eye color were all Max.

Ronin stood and offered his hand. “Ivan?”

“Yes, sir.”

Manners too. “I’m Ronin Black. That’s Knox Lofgren. He also runs the MMA club. Knox, this is Ivan Stanislovsky. He’s a prospect.”

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” Ivan said.

“Same. We do use formal titles at Black Arts, so as Sensei’s second-in-command, call me Shihan.”

“Yes, Shihan.”

Ronin pointed to the chair for Ivan and the edge of the desk for Knox. “I spoke to your father Friday night. I wasn’t expecting you so soon.”

He frowned. “Really? He assured me I had an appointment with you first thing this week. I’m sorry if I misunderstood.”

Not the kid’s fault that his father was a pushy bastard. “Luckily I have time right now. He mentioned your interest in training in an MMA program. What is your athletic background?”

Ivan blushed. “My mother put me in dance when I was four years old. She had visions of me becoming the next Baryshnikov. I trained in classical ballet in Denver, New York, and Russia until I was sixteen.”

“Ballet training is incredibly rigorous and requires a lot of dedication. Why did you quit?”

“I got tired of defending myself. I’m not homosexual—I have nothing against those who are—but there is that perception from outsiders. I ended up in many fights. Got my butt kicked, so I asked my father if I could learn to fight. When I was in the US, he signed me up for tae kwon do. When in Russia with my mother, I studied sambo. Sambo,” he repeated, “not samba, the dance.”

“Thanks for the clarification. Any amateur fights?”

“Besides getting called out in the nightclubs? No, sir.”

“The reason you want to become an MMA fighter? To have the skills to win those nightclub fights?” Knox asked.

Ivan shook his head. “I want to train to become the best fighter in my weight class and have the chance to earn a world title.”

He’d said that without cockiness—bonus for him. Guys who showed up, claiming to be good enough to win a world title, were promptly shown the door.

Knox commented, “You sound confident.”

“I know how to train and can push my body beyond normal physical limits. Some assume because my father raised me with the advantages he didn’t have that I would act privileged. I do not. I learned my work ethic from my father.”

His English wasn’t as accented as Max’s, but it held the same Russian inflections. “You’re proud of your father?”

“Yes. He is a great man. We have philosophical differences, but I know he expects me to run his businesses when I’m ready, at least a decade down the road. Those are his words, not mine.”

“Well, Ivan, if you’ll sit tight for a moment, I’ll get Deacon to show you around the dojo, the training rooms, and go through requirements, expectations, and costs.” Ronin hit the intercom to the training room and asked Deacon to come to the office.

“Thank you, Sensei, for this opportunity.”

“You’ll earn it; trust me.”

Deacon strolled in. Introductions were made, and they exited the office.

Of course Knox stayed. He plopped in the chair Ivan had vacated and propped his feet on the desk. “Didn’t know we were actively building up our MMA roster.”

“I meant to talk to you about it first. It came up Friday night, and the meeting was supposed to happen later this week.”

“He seems solid.”

“I hope so. We need a heavyweight fighter, and I plan to use him as an interpreter.” Ronin gave Knox a sly smile. “I wouldn’t mind getting a couple of those other Russian fighters on our roster.”

Knox grinned back. “You sneaky dog. I bet you played it cool with Max too, acting like you’re doing him a favor. But damn, Ronin. That’s Max’s kid. Does he know the kind of shit his dad is into?”

“I assume that would be the genesis of the ‘differing philosophies’ comment.”

“Why don’t you ever talk about your old man?”

Ronin’s gaze sharpened. Where had that come from? “Why would I? He’s been dead thirty years.”

Knox shrugged. “He started you in jujitsu. It impacted you enough you’ve made it your career.”

“So?”

“So, like Ivan, you have a family business that you could join anytime you wanted. Have Black Arts be a . . . hobby.”

A hobby? What the f**k? “If you have something to say, Shihan, spit it out.”

“Whoa, don’t bite my head off. It’s just I’ve noticed you’re different since Amery came into your life. And before you fry me with that deadly stare, different in a good way. Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“Except for the reverting back to fighting shit, but I think you’re done with that now. Anyway, you want to spend time with Amery, so you’ve relinquished some of your control. You’ve delegated, which needed to happen, but it wasn’t like any of us were gonna bring it up with you.” He mock shuddered.