The road stretched ahead, empty and bright. I should've felt lighter—free, even. No complications. Just a day with Marcus and Lucy, like the old days. Simple.
But my mind kept circling back to Alena straddling my lap on the balcony. Her weight pressing down on me. That casual "I know your dick by heart" like it was nothing. Like she wasn't destroying me one cigarette at a time.
My phone rang through the car's Bluetooth.
Unknown number. US area code—New York.
I almost let it go to voicemail. But something—instinct, years of learned paranoia, dread I'd carried since childhood—made me answer.
"Yeah?"
A pause. Static. Then a voice I didn't know but somehow recognized anyway. Older. Gravelly. Mid-Atlantic accent with faint German underneath—the kind you only get from growing up in two worlds at once.
"Hello, son."
My blood turned to ice. My free hand clenched into a fist at my side, but I kept my voice level. Calm. "Who is this?"
"You know who it is." A low chuckle—wet, sick, triumphant. "Your father."
I didn't react. Didn't give him the satisfaction. "You're dead to me."
"Not yet." Another cough—deep, rattling, like his lungs were full of broken glass. "But soon. Cancer. Stage four. Doctors give me months. I want to see you before I go. Meet my boy. The one I made."
I stayed silent. Waiting. In the pit, I'd learned to read opponents—when they talked, when they moved, when they showed their hand. This was no different.
"Beautiful day, isn't it?" His voice shifted—casual, conversational. "England looks lovely in the morning. Clear roads. Quiet countryside. Easy to see things clearly."
My spine straightened. I turned slowly, scanning the road. Cars passing. Fields. Nothing.
"You're on your way to play paintball," he continued. "Marcus and Lucy are waiting. Good friends. Loyal. They've been with you since the beginning, haven't they? Since those bridge days."
He was watching. Right now. Somewhere.
My jaw tightened, but I kept my voice flat. "What do you want?"
"Smart boy. Straight to business. I raised you well, even from a distance." Another cough. "I want to see you. Make peace before I die. I've made arrangements. Private jet leaves Heathrow the day after tomorrow at eight AM. Terminal 5, private gate. Car will pick you up at six. Come alone."
"And if I don't?"
"Then I'll come to you." Simple. Matter-of-fact. "And I won't come alone. You know who I work for, Drogo. You looked into me years ago. Hired that sad little PI in Manchester. Did you really think I wouldn't notice?"
Fuck.
"The Bratva doesn't like loose ends," he continued. "And you're a very loose end. My son. My blood. My liability. If I die without settling accounts, they'll come for you. For everyone you love. Those friends waiting at the paintball field. That horror writer in her flat in Bow—number forty-seven, blue door, leaves the kitchen light on when she writes at night—"
My hands tightened on the wheel, knuckles going white. My breath caught in my throat. Alena. He knew where she lived. What she did. When she was vulnerable.
"—They'll burn it all to protect themselves. Unless—"
I forced myself to breathe. To stay calm. To not give him the satisfaction of hearing me break.
"Unless what?"
"Unless you come. Meet me. Hear what I have to say. And then—if you're smart—you'll take what I'm offering and walk away clean. No debts. No obligations. Free."
"You don't get to make deals with me."
"I'm not making a deal. I'm giving you a choice." His voice hardened. "Come willingly, or I'll send people to collect you. And when they come, they won't be gentle. Not with you. Not with Marcus or Lucy. Not with Alena in her flat. Do you understand?"
