"To the end," Marcus adds.
I look at them—my family, my found siblings, the people who have been through hell with me and still stand strong—and I know with absolute certainty that we're going to win this.
Because love is stronger than fear. Loyalty is stronger than violence. And Drogo—our Drogo, the boy who offered me stolen flowers and grew into a man who would burn the world for me—is stronger than any monster Klaus ever tried to create.
Klaus made one crucial mistake: he thought breaking Drogo would make him controllable.
But you can't break someone who's already been broken and rebuilt themselves stronger. You can't control someone who fights not for themselves but for the people they love.
And you definitely can't win against an army of people who have chosen their leader not out of fear, but out of respect.
Klaus's days are numbered. And when the end comes, it will be swift and brutal and absolute.
Then Marcus turns to me. “Babe, don’t forget where we all came from. We are kids of the pit. Let me make some calls.”
Fuck. He is right. We are.
We grew up in a family that’s burned down from society. Forgotten, judged, and forgotten. We are called many things but fuck… we are one. I look at Marcus.
“Make the call.”
He smiles back.
“Yes, babe.” And then he dramatically bows. “How can I say no to a mafia bride?”
I can't wait.
47
DROGO
The car hums through London's underbelly, rain-slick streets blurring into gray nothing as Alexei drives in silence. The quiet gives me space to think, to process Klaus's voice still echoing in my head from that phone call—proud of you, become what I knew you could be.Proud, like a father praising a son for his first kill, like this is something to celebrate rather than mourn.
I flex my hand on the leather seat, feeling my knuckles throb where the skin has split raw and red. Dried blood flakes off when I curl my fingers, evidence of what I had to do to Mikhail, the accountant who thought he could steal from Klaus and get away with it. He wasn't talking at first—stubborn prick tied to that warehouse chair with his lips sealed tighter than a vault—but one punch cracked his jaw, two more loosened his teeth, and by the fifth he was spilling everything. Hidden accounts, laundered routes, the five million he'd skimmed thinking Klaus was too sick to notice.
He talked eventually. They always do.
My phone buzzes with a text from Viktor: Shipments secured. All three crates accounted for. Estonian guns clean. Good—collected without a hitch, no customs snags, no rival intercepts. One less fire to stamp out today. But time is bleeding away fast, and Klaus is stronger now, his remission buying him months or maybe years. If I don't climb these ranks soon, get close enough to drive a blade through hisheart, he'll sniff out my play and turn the tables, and then he'll come for her.
Alena. Her face flashes in my mind—pale skin, dark hair, that fire in her eyes when she slapped me last night. You left me. I did leave her, but only to become this, to become the monster with red knuckles and blood under his nails who can protect her from worse monsters.
To kill Klaus, I need loyalty—not the surface kind that cracks under pressure, but the bone-deep shit that holds when everything goes to hell. The men around me like Konstantin, Alexei, and Viktor are Klaus's first, but I need to know who bends, who breaks, who might flip to me when the time comes. I need to test them carefully without tipping my hand.
I stare out the window as city lights smear in the rain, my mind already planning the tests I'll run, the loyalty I'll forge or break. Alena is waiting at home, safe for now, but Klaus's pride in me is my window, my opportunity. I text Konstantin: Meet me at the docks. Alone. We need to talk.
The climb starts now, one test at a time.
• • •
The house is dark when I slip inside, silent in the way I like it. The new couch sits in the living room—deep charcoal velvet, exactly the one she'd been eyeing in that catalogue for months—and the dining table is sleek black oak with no trace of where that prick Oliver once sat. Good. No reminders of him, no ghosts of his presence to haunt this space.
I climb the stairs slowly, unbuttoning my shirt as I go, blood still under my nails from Mikhail's face though the knuckles have stopped bleeding. The shirt hits the flooroutside the bedroom door, and I push it open quietly to find her there—Alena, curled in the middle of the bed with her hair spilled across my pillow like ink on snow, breathing soft and steady, peaceful in a way the world never lets her be when she's awake.
I stand over her for a long moment just watching, and this—this right here is the life I want. Coming home to her every single night, no more cameras from three houses down, no more pretending I'm somewhere else while she breaks alone. Just this. Just us.
I strip off my trousers and head to the bathroom where hot water hits my skin, washing away warehouse grime and gun oil and the faint metallic scent of someone else's blood. I close my eyes under the spray and let myself imagine it—every day ending like this, her waiting, me crawling into bed beside her, no ghosts and no Klaus, just us building a life together.
I step out with a towel low on my hips, water still dripping down my chest, and sit on the edge of the bed. Her eyes flutter open slowly, finding me in the darkness.
