“Drive,” I tell him, voice still carrying that edge of command.
Padraig doesn’t ask questions. He pulls smoothly into traffic, the city lights washing over the windshield in streaks of neon and gold. I pull out my phone, William’s number already saved from the message I sent myself, and type quickly.
KANE: You’re free to move now. Fix your clothes. Go home. I’ll be in touch soon. Be a good boy for me.
I hit send and lean back, a dark smile tugging at my lips. The thought of the boy scrambling to obey, cheeks flushed, ass stinging with every step as he gathers his things… it’s delicious.
William loved it. The fear in his eyes when that ruler swished through the air, the way he bit down harder on the apple with every crack, the pure ecstasy when I finally touched him. He’s a natural. A sweet, bookish Little who’s been starving for a real Daddy—one who doesn’t play pretend.
A Daddy who takes what he wants and leaves him aching for more.
I pocket the phone and exhale slowly, letting the satisfaction linger for another moment. But reality always creeps back in. The high from dominating William fades as my mind shifts gears, back to the weight that never really leaves me.
Padraig glances over. “Where to, pakhan?”
“Anywhere,” I mutter. “Just drive. I need to think.”
Padraig nods and turns toward the river district, the streets growing wider and the buildings taller as we cut through downtown.
The silence between us is comfortable. Padraig has been with me long enough to know when to speak and when to shut the fuck up. I stare out the window, watching the city blur past, but my thoughts are on Viktor Volkov.
That second meeting at Shotgun Corner changed things. He wasn’t playing games. No muscle, no power plays. Just two men talking real shit. His stories about Eddie, about how being a Daddy forced him to reassess the endless cycle of violence…it hit closer than I want to admit. There might be something to this coalition idea…
Less blood in the streets.
More money flowing cleanly.
Stability I could use while I consolidate power and figure out who killed my brothers.
But Viktor isn’t the only piece on the board. Ivan Zorin and Kirill Antonov are the wild cards. I’ve only met them in passing. Cold eyes, hard reputations, but something about them doesn’t sit right. Too quiet. Too calculating.
My intel says they like to unwind at a Daddy’s-only bar across town called The Den. Private. Exclusive. The kind of place where powerful men let their guards down and talk too much.
“Take us to The Den,” I say suddenly. “Across town. You know the one.”
Padraig’s hands tighten on the wheel. “That a good idea? Zorin and Antonov hang there. If they spot you?—”
“That’s the point. I need to figure them out. I’ll observe from a distance,” I cut in. “Stay in the car. I just want a handle on them. See how they move when they think no one’s watching.”
Padraig exhales, clearly unhappy but loyal enough not to argue outright. “Fine. But if shit goes sideways, I’m pulling you out. Pakhan or not.”
We drive in silence for twenty minutes. The city changes around us. Glittering high-rises giving way to older, grittier blocks lined with discreet entrances and bouncers who know how to keep secrets.
My mind churns.
Working with Viktor could give me the breathing room I need to hunt my brothers’ killers without a war on every front. But if Zorin and Antonov are snakes, I need to know before I tie my family’s future to theirs. One wrong alliance and the Kamedov name ends with me.
The Den comes into view soon enough. A nondescript brick building with a single red door and no sign. Just like the intel said. Padraig parks across the street in the shadows, engine running low.
“I’ll go in,” Padraig says before I can speak. “They might recognize you. I’m just another face. I’ll listen, observe, get a read on the vibe. You know I’m right on this, pakhan. You stay here.”
I study him for a second.
Fuck. Padraig is right. My face has been making the rounds more since I became pakhan. And even then, with my reputation on the streets, it’s not like I’m an unknown face either way.
“Alright,” I concede. “Eyes open. Don’t engage unless you have to. Text me if anything feels off.”
Padraig nods, checks the concealed piece under his jacket, and steps out. I watch him cross the street with that easy, unassuming stride he’s perfected over the years. The bouncer gives him a once-over and lets him through. The red door swallows him.
