"I've got time."
"Not here." Drogo glances at the guards, at Lucy and me. "Inside. Coffee. Then I'll explain everything."
Marcus nods. "Okay."
They walk toward the house together—brothers reunited. Lucy grabs my arm. "Did you know? About any of this?"
"He told me last night. About his father. The Bratva. Everything."
Her eyes go wide. "The what?"
"Russian mafia."
"WHAT?!"
"I'll explain inside. Come on." We walk inside together, and I think: this is going to be a very long morning.
45
DROGO
We all walk inside together—me, Alena, Marcus, and Lucy—and the house feels both familiar and strange with all of us here after two years of separation. Marcus keeps looking at me like he's checking to make sure I'm real, and Lucy hasn't stopped crying since she saw me on the walkway. I pull her in a hug and he punches my stomach. We all laugh except her. Damn, she was always the sensitive one.
We reach the kitchen, and Alena immediately moves toward the coffee maker. "Okay, I'll make coffee and—"
"No." The word comes out sharp, almost harsh, and she freezes mid-step.
She turns to look at me, confused. "What?"
"What do you have me for?" I cross to her and gently but firmly guide her toward a chair. "Sit down. I will make it." The audacity of her trying to do something, to get tired, to perform such a human task when I'm right here. No. Absolutely not. I'll be damned if I let this woman make coffee when I can do it for her. When I should be doing everything for her.
"Drogo, I can make coffee. It's not—"
"Sit." I point at the chair, and something in my tone makes her sit without further argument. Marcus raises an eyebrow but says nothing, and Lucy just watches with wide, tear-filled eyes.
I move around the kitchen efficiently, filling the coffee maker, getting cups, doing the mundane tasks that feelsacred somehow because they're for her. For them. My family. The people I've been protecting from a distance for two years, and now I can actually take care of them properly.
We all sit around the table once the coffee is ready, steam rising from our cups, and the morning light streams through the windows making everything feel too bright, too exposed. Silence stretches between us—heavy and waiting.
Marcus's eyes land on my collarbones, on the eight-pointed stars—black ink that marks me as something I never wanted to be. His eyes darken because he knows what they mean. He's seen enough crime documentaries, heard enough stories. He looks at Alena, then back at me with a question in his gaze.
I nod. Yes.
He looks at Lucy, then back at me, and nods silently. Understanding passes between us without words—we'll talk later, alone, brother to brother, about the things that can't be said in front of the women we love.
"So, speak!" Lucy demands, her voice sharp with tears she's been holding back. "Two years, Drogo. Two fucking years. Where were you?"
I take a breath and feel Alena's hand slip into mine under the table. The contact is so unexpected, so gentle, that I almost flinch. But then I grip her hand tightly, threading our fingers together, and the support gives me the courage to tell them everything.
"My father called me two years ago," I begin, my thumb stroking circles on the back of Alena's hand. "The night after our last night together. He told me he knew where Alena was, what she did every day, where she went, who she talked to. He had files, photos, schedules—everything. And the same information he held, for you two."
Marcus's jaw tightens, and I continue. "He said if I didn't come to New York, if I didn't work for him and do what he wanted, he'd send men to both of you." I look at Marcus, then at Alena, feeling her hand squeeze mine tighter. "So, I went. To New York. Started working for the Bratva—doing jobs, collections, enforcement, whatever Klaus needed."
I touch the stars on my collarbones with my free hand. "These are how they mark you. Stars. Each one represents a rank, a commitment, blood you've spilled for the brotherhood."
"Jesus Christ," Marcus mutters, running his hand through his hair.
Alena's grip on my hand never wavers, and when I look at her, expecting to see fear or disgust, I see only understanding. She already knows this—I told her last night—but hearing it again in front of Marcus and Lucy seems to make it more real somehow.
