Page 3

Chapter 3

The Devil’s Homecoming

Vasiliyi

N ew York hits me like a fist to the face—loud, ugly, relentless. The city doesn’t welcome. It devours. Horns scream like sirens in a war zone, and somewhere beneath the concrete heartbeat, I swear I can hear Siberia laughing.

Twelve months in a frozen tomb taught me how to breathe in silence. This place? It chokes me. The chaos, the stench, the heat pulsing off strangers who look too long or not long enough—it’s all wrong. Every sound feels like a warning. Every person, a threat. Civilization peels at the edges, and beneath my skin, the beast twitches.

Even in Nikolai’s luxury sedan, wrapped in stitched leather and air-conditioned opulence, I feel trapped. Caged in something that smells like wealth and weakness. The suit I’m wearing is armor, but it doesn’t stop the blood memory. My body still knows how to kill with nothing but hands and hunger.

The phone vibrates. One glance, and my pulse slows—not from relief, but recognition.

Igor.

The man I bled for. The man whose family I buried pieces of myself protecting.

The message is simple. Cold.

Igor: Meet me at The Velvet Echo. One hour.

No welcome back, brother . No thank you for enduring hell . Just an order, like I’m on the leash.

I stare out the tinted window as the skyline slashes into view. Arrogant steel and glass pretending at permanence.

“Brighton Beach,” I mutter to the driver.

As we shift lanes, the city blurs into something older, meaner. The Velvet Echo rises in the distance—still standing, still dressed in borrowed power. Olenko blood built it. My blood bought it. A monument to betrayal, now stamped with my name.

And Igor?

Igor wants a meeting.

Which means he wants something.

And I already know I’m not going to like it.

The driver cuts through Brighton Beach’s neon-stained streets, and I study my reflection in the rearview mirror. A stranger stares back, wrapped in Italian wool like borrowed skin. The suit fits perfectly, but it can’t disguise what Siberia carved into my bones—the predatory stillness, the way my shoulders brace for violence even in silence. My FSB training feels like a half-remembered dream, replaced by instincts honed in darker places. After a year in the wild, my soul speaks a language of frost and iron, of empty white horizons where mercy goes to die.

Galina’s ghost haunts my flesh like a fever dream, her presence an infection beneath my skin. I force the memory down, but her scent clings like gun smoke after a kill. My knuckles are white around the phone, joints aching with phantom pressure. One night of weakness was enough—I need to remember why I’m here.

Family. Protection. Power. Everything else is just blood in the water.

The Velvet Echo rises from the street like a dark promise. It’s changed—someone’s draped elegance over its bones while I was away. Igor’s been busy playing architect with Olenko’s blood money.

Inside feels like stepping through a membrane between worlds. Quiet luxury drapes the space in shadows and suggestions, minimalist European decor a mask for older sins. Money and power hang thick in the air like incense in a demon’s church.

It all feels hollow. Like prison walls painted gold. There’s too much polish. Too much silence. The kind that comes when people are trying not to step on landmines. And the staff—too courteous. Either Igor hired new blood, or someone’s scared. Either way, it stinks of something I haven’t smelled since the FSB times.

A waitress materializes from the gloom, stopping just outside striking distance. “Can I help you, sir?”

Without the calculated gleam in her eye, I might have missed her purpose here. Her runway-ready appearance and tasteful dress are camouflage, like my own expensive armor. I let my gaze dissect her before offering the ghost of a smile.

“Is your boss in?”

She tilts her head, one perfect eyebrow arching. “And who should I say is asking?”

“Vasiliy Volkov.”

Recognition flickers across her features before her gaze catalogs my suit’s worth, measuring threat against presentation. She’s collecting intelligence—name, appearance, the particular quality of danger I carry.

“Follow me, Mr. Volkov,” she says, turning gracefully.

“Your name?”

“Rebeka.”

She leads me through the club’s hollow heart to a corridor lined in polished wood that gleams like old bones. Halfway down, she stops at a black door heavy enough to stop bullets.

“I’ll let him know you’re here,” Rebeka murmurs before slipping inside.

I’ve played this game long enough to know what waits behind that door isn’t a welcome or reunion. My prison marks burn, each scar and tattoo a testament to survival. Whatever he wants, I’ve paid for the right to demand more. Power sits in my palm like a loaded gun. Yet my mouth tastes of copper, and my heart pounds prison rhythms against my ribs.

Everything changes.

Everything stays the same.

Life in an echo chamber of our own making.

The door swings open. Rebeka barely looks me in the eye. “He’ll see you now.”

I don’t respond.

My boots hit the floor like threats, not footsteps. I start toward the left—where the old office used to be—but Rebeka cuts in, voice cool, clipped. “This way, sir.” She opens the door on the right, revealing a new space dressed in white, gold, and too much self-importance.

I step inside, and the stench of curated wealth chokes me. Clean lines. Designer furniture. Soulless perfection. This isn’t an office. It’s a facade—just like everything Igor touches.

A second woman stands near the bar, posture stiff, obedient. Another doll polished and posed to impress. My jaw ticks.

Rebeka lingers, watching me like she’s trying to gauge if I’m about to snap. Smart. She should be afraid. Everyone should be.

I stalk across the room and drop onto the farthest sofa. My silence is intentional. My stare, a warning.

She offers the usual pleasantries. “Would you like a drink?”

My eyes cut to her without warmth. “Your name.”

A beat. “Helena.”

“Helena.” I let the name hang in the air, tasting it like blood on my tongue. She’s too composed. Too poised. Igor’s creature. But even caged animals bite when cornered. I catalog her tension, the way her hands twitch just before she hides them. I could break her in half before she blinked.

Then the doors open.

Igor walks in like he’s never missed a night of sleep. Clean-shaven. Tailored to perfection. Groomed like this city bends for him.

It makes me want to put my fist through something.

He meets my gaze, and for a fraction of a second, his Bratva mask slips. That faint smile cuts through the noise, just enough to remind me who he is. Who I am. And what we’ve both done to survive.

The monster inside me stirs, pacing just beneath the surface.

This is home.

But make no mistake.

The beast didn’t stay in Siberia.

It came back with me. And it’s hungry.

Igor Sokolov rises from his seat, stalking toward me, his blue eyes burning with that ruthless intent that ensures he’ll go down in our city’s history.It’s the kind of stare that built empires and buried bodies. He moves in with the casual dominance of someone who knows exactly how much power he holds—and how many people he’s broken to keep it.

He pulls me into a tight hug. But nothing about it fools me. I check his hands on instinct, fingers brushing his jacket for hidden steel. No blade. No blood. Doesn’t mean he’s not dangerous—just that today, the knife’s metaphorical.

When we pull apart, he gestures toward the whiskey like it’s a peace offering and not the start of a transaction.

“Welcome home, Vasiliy,” he says, voice low, almost fond. “We’ve been counting down the days.”

I grunt. “Feels like hell followed me home.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Thirteen months in our worst pit, and you walk out a myth. You didn’t just survive—you made Siberia your hunting ground.”

I don’t bother with modesty. “Should I assume the city rolled out the red carpet?”

Igor smiles, all teeth and polished menace. “You’ve come back to a city dripping with gratitude.”

I raise a brow. Gratitude? From who? The ghosts I made? The enemies I left bleeding in the snow?

Then he says it.

“I have a gift for you.”

He reaches into his jacket like it’s nothing, like he’s not about to upend my entire life again, and drops a thick envelope onto the table between us.

“What is it?” I don’t touch it.

“Your new kingdom,” he says smoothly. “The Velvet Echo. It’s yours now.”

For a second, the room tilts. Not from shock. From fury I can’t place. I came back expecting nothing. Not control. Not legacy. And sure as hell not this.

I pick up the envelope like it might bite. “What’s the catch?”

Igor’s laugh is quiet, but there’s steel in it. “There’s no catch, brother. Just respect. You protected what mattered. Now you get to build something of your own.”

I slide the papers into my pocket without blinking. “I’ll take it.”

He turns, motioning to Helena and the other girl. “Leave.”

They vanish instantly—like prey scenting a shift in the wind.

The door clicks shut. We’re alone now, just two wolves in a den soaked with old blood and new power.

Igor pours vodka but doesn’t sit. He stays standing—a classic play for dominance. Let the ex-con feel small while the Bratva boss holds court.

Doesn’t work on me.

“There’s one thing,” he says, tone cooling.

Of course there is.

“What?” I ask, already done with the games.

He lifts the glass but doesn’t drink. “When I got the club, I found something. Boris Olenko built tunnels under the place—secret ones. Used them to move product. People. Deals too dirty for the front door.”

Figures.

“What do you want from me, Igor?” My voice is flat.

He meets my eyes. “I want you to keep the tunnels operational. Quietly. Selectively. They’re part of the ecosystem now.”

My blood simmers. “If this is about selling women, I’ll burn the whole place to the ground.”

His jaw tightens. “I’m not asking you to traffic bodies. I’m asking you to understand the tools we’ve inherited. If you run the Echo, you run all of it. That includes the shadows.”

I lean back, letting his words settle like lead in my chest. He calls it a gift. But what he’s handed me is a battlefield—with my name on the bullets.

“Fine,” I grit out. “But I want the ledgers. All of them. I’m not walking blind into your mess.”

Igor nods, satisfied. “Then welcome to your new war, brother.”

He paces slowly, letting the weight of the conversation breathe. “We’ve reinforced the tunnels. Upgraded security. Streamlined their use. No flesh trade, no bullshit—just movement. Quiet, clean, necessary.”

I study him. I’m not naive. I know exactly what kind of business the Sokolovs run. And I know how easily lines blur in the dark.

My FSB instincts scream at me to shut it all down. But the FSB sold me out. Tossed me to the wolves and watched me bleed. The only thing I have left is loyalty, and Igor—like it or not—is Bratva.

“How often?” I ask. Already thinking about containment. About minimizing exposure. About how far I’m willing to bend before I snap.

“Whatever number you’re comfortable with,” he says easily.

“Then I want to see the books. Top to bottom. I need to know what I’m stepping into.”

His steady gaze holds mine. “No problem. But I’ll warn you now—something’s off. I’ve already been through the numbers. There’s movement I can’t trace. Skimming. Shifting. Maybe worse.”

So that’s the real gift. A kingdom that’s already fractured.

I nod slowly. The game changes in real time.

“I’ll handle it,” I say, fingers curling into fists. “Whatever’s wrong, I’ll find it. And I’ll gut it.”

“Good.” Igor sets down his glass. “Then my job here is done. Make yourself at home.”

He offers a final handshake. I take it—firm, silent, full of ghosts.

Then I’m alone.

I shut the door. Pour a glass.

The silence hits harder than expected.

I drink anyway.

The burn chases away the edge just enough to keep me still. Just enough to keep the beast quiet a little longer.

I’ve lost a year in hell.

I won’t lose another second.

With the ledger open, I begin.

This club isn’t a reward.

It’s a test.

And I’m going to pass it the only way I know how.

By surviving it.

By owning it.

By becoming worse than the men who came before me.

Because survival’s not enough anymore.

Now?

I want control.