"Good." Viktor nods as though we just settled on an agreement between countries instead of the two of us. "I will have someone there tomorrow."
The issue seems settled enough for now, but I still have a lot of questions—questions I'm not entirely sure I want to know the answer to or can handle just yet. Am I actually in danger? Or is there just some weird ploy to get me under his control?
11
VIKTOR
The heavy oak door to my private office feels like it weighs a thousand pounds as I push it open, the scent of stale cigar smoke and expensive leather in the air. It’s a familiar smell, one that usually brings a sense of comfort, of control.
Today, it feels suffocating.
I would admit it to no one, but there’s a sour taste in my mouth. It’s a sensation I haven’t felt since the early days, when every move was a gamble, every decision a potential disaster, even a death sentence.
The stakes then were high, but tonight, they’re even higher, the threat more insidious. Now the stakes are about blood, legacy, about the very foundations of the empire I’ve spent decades building.
The long polished-mahogany table sits in the center of the room with my chair at the head, where I belong, the place I fought to make mine over and over and over again. Twelve chairs surround it, each one soon to be occupied by a man who owes me his loyalty, his fortune, and, in some cases, his very life.
But today, not all of them are here out of a sense of duty and respect. Some are here because of the whispered doubts they’ve heard, because of their privately held opinions about the state of affairs in my family. Their minds buzz with whispered doubts made worse by grumblings within the ranks that have grown louder, finally reaching my ears.
I don’t know what to expect from them today. What will I see in their eyes? Will they heed my warnings? Will their fears be put to rest with the newest revelations, thus ending this here and now? Or will I see predatory looks as they each search for a weakness, any weakness, they can exploit and use to take me down?
If it is the latter, I will take this moment to remind them who is in charge and why. I’ll remind them that I fought a bloody battle for this position, and I’ll wage another bloody war to keep it.
This Bratva, this empire, ismine.
Andrei is already here, standing in front of the window, his back to me. He’s a silhouette against the grey New York skyline, his broad shoulders and unyielding posture a testament to his loyalty and his strength—the strength I have relied upon all these years to be at my back during the bad times and the good.
The only one missing from this meeting, missing from all the meetings, is Peter. Clarissa knew exactly what she was doing when she sued for sole custody of him. She knew losing him would hurt me in so many ways. I lost a son I had looked forward to raising. The knowledge that I missed out on all those important moments still rankles me, still bubbles with anger even after all these years, because she also knew she was effectively taking away my ability to claim an heir to my empire.
All these years, my son should have been by my side, learning about the Bratva, earning the stars on his shoulders he was born to, learning how to command, so that one day he could take my place.
Instead, he’s a spoiled man-child, one who hates me and all I stand for, not because he has a different set of morals and objects to what I do to ensure he and his mother can maintain their standard of living, but because he doesn’t know how to face the world without his mother’s shadow to protect him. It was a master plan of Clarissa’s, a diabolical plan to make me suffer and pay in so many ways, because not only can my heir not have heirs of his own due to testicular trauma he sustained in his accident, but he is in no way fit to run my Bratva, and everyone knows it.
It’s a constant, gaping wound, a reminder of what was lost, what can never be. The man my son was supposed to be and the man my son is—spoiled, fragile, easily broken. Even if I named him as my heir, the Bratva would chew him up and spit him out, and all I’d built would be lost within a year, if not months. He’s a symbol of my vulnerability, a point of weakness in my armor. And the vultures are circling.
Andrei turns as I enter, his eyes blue and sharp like mine, rising to meet my gaze. We share a moment of silent understanding, the weight of this moment pressing down on both of us.
“They’re restless, Viktor.” Andrei’s voice is a low rumble of warning.
“Let them be,” I reply, my voice rougher than I intend. I clear my throat and straighten my cuffs. “Let them test me. They need to be reminded who’s in charge here.”
Andrei gives a short, humorless chuckle. “This is not a normal restlessness, brother. This is a fever, a swarm. They smell blood in the water.”
“I know.”
The fallout from Peter’s accident has become a festering wound. It wasn’t just the public scandal, the police reports, the Feds digging into Bratva business. It wasn’t the hushed whispers about the dead woman—Peter is far from the first to be found in compromising circumstances. No, it’s the internal perception. Thepakhan’sson, crippled and unable to produce an heir, is a symbol of weakness. It’s a wound I’ve been trying to patch, to cauterize, but the infection lingers.
A knock on the door, sharp and precise, announces it’s time.
“Come,” I command, taking my seat.
The chair feels cold beneath me, the polished wood as unforgiving as the faces of the men filing into the room one by one. Sergei, with his perpetually suspicious expression, always looking for an angle. Pavel, whose loyalty is as fluid as the market he controls. Oleg, the brute, whose strength is matched only by his ambition. The rest is a collection of wolves, each with their own pack, their own territories, their own hidden agendas.
They take their seats, the scrape of chairs against the floor echoing in the sudden silence. Their faces are masks of deference and respect, but there is tension, the unspoken questions hanging in the air like a thick fog. Some avoid my gaze, some stare at the table, and others stare at the wall. Others stare me down like they expect me to cave. It’s all a tell; they’re nervous but emboldened.
“Gentlemen,” I begin, my voice and gaze steady, calm, chilled, betraying none of the turmoil within. “Thank you for coming.”
A few mumbled acknowledgments meet my greeting. Still, some will not meet my eyes.
