Like me.
For the day we're both whole again.
Or for the day we burn everything down trying.
31
DROGO
Two years.
Seven hundred and thirty days since I left London. Since I walked out of Alena's apartment promising I'd be back in a few days.
The tattoo artist finishes the last star. Wipes away the blood. Steps back. "Done," he says in Russian-accented English.
I look down at my body in the mirror.
Eight-pointed stars on both collarbones. Check. Stars on both knees. Check. Epaulettes on my shoulders—rank symbols. Authority earned through blood. A tiger on my right thigh—Bratva elite. The kind of ink you don't get unless you've proven yourself in ways most men don't survive.
My chest and arms were already covered before Klaus—lines and shapes coiling up my forearms, geometric patterns across my ribs, a wolf on my shoulder blade. The kind of ink I'd gotten young and stupid, back when Marcus and I thought tattoos made us look dangerous instead of just broke.
But over my heart, untouched by Bratva symbols, still there under all the new ink: Alena. In delicate script. The one tattoo that matters. The one Klaus pretends not to see.
I'm a walking canvas of violence now. Stars and beasts and symbols that scream Bratva to anyone who knows how to read them. The artist packs up his kit. "You wear them well, Drogo Solberg. Your father would be proud."
I don't answer. Just stand there, shirtless, staring at the stranger in the mirror—covered in ink that tells a story of blood and loyalty and lies. Two years of becoming someone unrecognizable. Two years of earning every star, every rank symbol, every piece of authority that makes grown men step aside when I enter a room.
Klaus enters the room. Walks now without the oxygen tank most days. Cancer in remission—miracle the doctors still can't explain. He looks healthier. Stronger. I look dead.
"Beautiful," Klaus says, circling me like I'm a sculpture he commissioned. "You're complete now. A true vor."
I pull my shirt back on. Black. Expensive. Hides everything.
"Tonight, we celebrate," Klaus continues. "The clubs. The family. Everyone needs to see you. See what you've become."
"Fine."
No fight. No argument. Just compliance. Because two years of this has taught me something: fighting only makes it hurt more. And nothing I do brings me closer to her. So, I stopped fighting. Stopped caring. Just do what's asked. Kill who needs killing. Take what needs taking. Become the monster.
It's easier that way.
Klaus thinks I've finally broken. Finally accepted this life. Finally become his.
Let him think that.
• • •
Late that night, alone in my penthouse, I sit on the edge of the bed with the tablet—not Klaus's tablet. Mine. The one the hacker built for me. Encrypted. Untraceable. Klaus doesn't know it exists.
I swipe through the feeds. Alena's new house. Every room. Every angle. The hacker installed the cameras three months ago when she moved in. High-quality. Hidden. Klaus had his own surveillance network on her old flat, but when she moved, the hacker made sure I got there first.
Klaus lost visual on her three months ago. Didn't even realize it at first—the hacker fed him old footage, recycled clips, timestamps adjusted. By the time Klaus figured out something was wrong, I'd already threatened him. Quietly. Privately. Made it clear that if he pushed to restore surveillance, I'd know. And I'd make him regret it.
He backed off. Didn't insist. Because he thinks I'm fully committed now. Thinks I've finally stopped caring about her. Thinks the surveillance doesn't matter anymore because his son is finally, completely his.
He's wrong.
My phone buzzes. Text from Yuri—one of Klaus's hitmen. The one assigned to watch her. "Boss, checking in. Subject left house 0800. Gun range. Returned 1100. No incidents. Still sober. Still alone."
