I didn't answer.
He gestured toward the couch opposite his chair. "Sit, Drogo. Or stand if you prefer. But listen."
I sat. Not because he told me to. Because I wanted to see his face clearly. Wanted to read every micro-expression, every tell. Know when he was lying. Know when he was threatening. Know when to move.
The guards stayed by the door, silent and watchful.
Klaus leaned forward slightly, oxygen tubes shifting against his chest with a soft plastic whisper.
"I'm dying," he said simply. "You know this already. Cancer. Stage four. Doctors give me months at best. But the work doesn't die with me. The family doesn't die. Blood calls to blood, and you—" he smiled, cold and satisfied, "—are my blood whether you like it or not."
"I'm not your family."
"You are." Simple. Final. No room for argument in his tone. "Your mother… she was weak. Thought she could hide you from me. From what you are. What you were always going to be."
"Don't talk about her."
He smiled wider—small, sick, deeply satisfied with my reaction. "She tried to kill you both rather than let you be mine. Brave, in a way. Stupid, certainly. But you lived. Survived being cut from her corpse. Strong. Like me."
I felt the rage rise in my chest—hot, familiar, the kind that made my hands want to close around his throat until the light went out of those cold blue eyes.
He saw it. He liked it. Damn.
"That fire," he said, leaning back with obvious pleasure. "That's exactly why I need you. The Bratva needs new blood. Clean blood. You built something legitimate—architecture, money, respect in circles that matter. Perfect cover. Perfect heir to what I've built."
"I'm not joining your war."
"It's not a choice." He coughed—deep, wet, rattling in his chest like dice in a cup. When he pulled his hand away from his mouth, there was blood on his palm. He wiped it casually on his white shirt. "Refuse, and I die unhappy. And when I die unhappy, my lieutenants clean house. Tie up loose ends. Your friends in London—your penthouse, your writer.Alena." He paused, savoring her name. "Pretty name. Pretty woman. Lives alone. Very… vulnerable."
My hands clenched into fists on my knees.
He noticed. Of course he noticed. Smiled again.
"Come willingly. Take your place in the family. Learn the business. Inherit what I've built. And they live. All of them. Free. Untouched. Forever. You have my word."
"Your word means nothing."
"My word," he said coldly, "is the only thing in this world that still has value. I keep my promises. Always. Ask anyone who's worked with me. Ask anyone who's crossed me. They'll tell you—if they're still alive to tell."
"Or?" I asked.
"Or I burn it all before I go." He said it simply, like he was discussing the weather. "Starting with her. The writer. Alena. I'll make sure it's slow. Make sure you know every detail. And then your friends. One by one. Until there's nothing left of the life you tried to build away from me."
Silence filled the penthouse. Heavy. Suffocating.
Below us, the city moved on—cars honking, people rushing to work, life continuing like we weren't sitting here discussing murder and legacy and blood.
Klaus leaned back in his chair, exhausted but triumphant. He'd made his offer. Laid out the terms. Now he waited.
"Think, son," he said quietly. "You have my eyes. My blood. My enemies whether you want them or not. You can't outrun what you are. Better to embrace it. Use it. Build an empire instead of hiding in the shadows pretending you're clean."
I looked at the stars on his chest again. Faded black ink against pale, dying skin.
Earned through violence and loyalty and years of choices I'd never had to make.
And I wondered if I already had them too. Not in ink. But in my soul. In the way I'd fought in the pit for money. In the way I'd hurt people to survive. In the rage that lived in my chest like a second heartbeat.
Maybe he was right.
