Vitali
The chandelier above the table looks like a frozen explosion. Glass and crystal, glittering shards suspended mid-blast. The kind of thing people call beautiful while pretending they don’t know how sharp it would be if it fell.
We sit beneath it anyway.
My uncles. My cousins. My brothers. The Dubovich bloodline arranged around a polished slab of black marble like a council of predators. The room is private, soundproofed. Outside, the countryside howls. In here, it’s quiet enough to hear ice crackle in crystal tumblers and the soft tick of the old clock on the far wall.
My uncle, the Pakhan sits at the head of the table.
He’s not a large man, not in the way most people expect of a Bratva king. His power isn’t in his size. It’s in the way he doesn’t need to raise his voice. In the way the room bends around him, every chair angled, every gaze drawn and held like gravity.
His suit is charcoal. His tie is blood red. His hands, resting lightly on the table, are steady. No tremor. No visible weakness. I’ve watched for years and never seen one.
Even now he is married and has a newborn, it seems to have made him stronger than ever.
“We are not immortal,” he says finally, the words cutting through the low murmur of conversation like a scalpel.
The table falls silent.
I straighten in my chair. Not because I’m anxious, but because discipline is habit. Muscle memory. My brothers and cousins shift, clear their throats, trade glances. They’re not stupid, but they’re softer around the edges. They still believe there’s time to play.
The Pakhan’s gaze moves along the table, touching each of us in turn. We are five nephews. Five potential inheritors. Five possible disappointments.
“You think because you are young, you have years to waste.” His voice is calm, almost mild. “You take your pleasure. You build your reputations. You bleed for my empire, yes. For this, I reward you. But you forget one thing.”
He lifts his glass, studies the clear liquid like it might confess to something.
“Line,” he says. “Legacy.”
My jaw tightens. I don’t look away from him. My father did that, looked away, and he died begging for forgiveness he didn’t deserve.
“When I go into the ground,” the Pakhan continues, “there must be no question who stands in my place. No scramble. No war between my own blood. The Dubovich name will not be fought over like scraps. I know I left it too late. My children are only now being born.”
He sets the glass down with a soft, decisive click.
“One year,” he says. “Twelve months from tonight, each of you will have produced an heir.”
A ripple runs around the table. One of my cousins chokes on a laugh and quickly smothers it when the Pakhan’s gaze slices toward him. Another shifts in his seat, fingers tapping the stem of his glass.
“Yuri,” one of my brothers, Avros, starts carefully, “this is… a short time frame.”
The Pakhan’s brows lift a fraction. “Is your seed so weak it needs more than twelve months?”
A few of the older men chuckle. Avros’s face flushes dull red.
I don’t smile. I don’t react. My mind is already moving, cataloguing. Dates. Timelines. Logistics. One year is enough. Tight, but sufficient. Conception. Confirmation. Medical proof. Documentation. All can be obtained. A problem has been placed on the table; it requires a solution. That’s all.
The Pakhan leans back, folding his hands loosely.
“I want legitimate heirs,” he says. “Wives, or contracts that might as well be. You are Dubovich men. Your heirs will be born from women who understand loyalty.”
My cousins exchange glances. I see the exact moment their imaginations light up: models, ballerinas, politicians’ daughters. Pretty trophies in diamond collars. I can almost hear their thoughts from here.
Idiots.
The Pakhan’s eyes reach me last. Linger.
“Vitali,” he says, voice smoothing out. “You understand what I am asking.”
