It’s not a question, but I answer anyway. “Yes, Pakhan.”
He studies me like a man inspecting a blade for nicks. “Explain.”
I meet his gaze. “You want the line secured. Clean succession. No external contest. You want heirs raised within the system, not outside it. Wives and eirs who understand the cost of power.”
He nods once, satisfied. It matters to him, this obedience. The capacity to translate his will into action without needing it explained twice.
“You follow orders,” he says. “You always have. Having spoken with your uncles, we have agreed you will be the next in line, once I’m gone.”
I’m surprised, but I don’t let it show on my face.
“I will obey,” I say simply, hating the formality of the words, but knowing it’s needed.
A faint smile touches his mouth. “I know you will.”
My brothers fidget. One of them mutters something under his breath about not being a breeding stallion. The Pakhan doesn’t look his way, but the air shifts. A warning, subtle and lethal.
“Children,” he says, “are not indulgence. They are insurance. If you have not produced an heir by the time the year ends, certain privileges will be reconsidered at best, removed at worst.”
Estate income. Control over territories. Positions close to him. The message is clear. Fail, and you’ll still be family, but you won’t be trusted with the work. And a Bratva man without work is hardly Bratva at all.
I incline my head. “Understood.”
Others murmur their assent, some confident, some annoyed, some nervous. A few already pull out their phones under the table, thumbs moving fast. Calling mistresses. Making plans that taste like desperation.
The Pakhan lifts his glass again, signalling the end of the matter. “Good. Eat. Drink to our long lives. And pray your sons will be here to celebrate yours.”
I take my drink but don’t bring it to my lips. I don’t dull my edges with alcohol when important tasks have just been given. That’s what my father did, celebrated first, thought later.The poor bastard died with his liver in worse shape than his reputation.
“Always so serious, Vitali.” One of my cousins, Zakhar, claps me on the shoulder as the conversation breaks into smaller streams. “You look like you’re already planning the christening.”
“I’m planning,” I say, “to succeed.”
He snorts. “You make it sound like a board meeting, not a bed.”
“Both require strategy,” I reply.
He laughs, too loud, and moves on to flirt with a woman pouring wine at the end of the table. She giggles, leaning just close enough to bait him with a flash of cleavage. He’ll have her against a wall before dessert, if history is any indication.
I sit back slightly and watch the room.
Men who think with their dicks. Men who mistake chaos for passion, who tumble from one mistake to another and call it living.
Emotion is a weakness. A fracture line. Apply enough pressure, and it breaks wide open. Enemy leverage. Sloppy decisions. Regret.
I’ve never had time for any of those.
The order is simple. Produce an heir. Secure the future. There’s no requirement for affection. No demand for love. Love is what my father claimed when he hit my mother and begged for forgiveness afterward. Love is what made her stay until it killed her.
If that’s love, then I am better off without it.
My gaze drifts to the windows. Beyond the tinted glass, I know the Dubovich mansion glows against the winter night, a column of light and glass. Inside, staff move in practiced circuits:cleaners, maids, kitchen hands. Invisible people in pressed uniforms, carrying trays and laundry and secrets.
Invisible. Obedient. Necessary.
The perfect kind of person.
Charlotte
