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9

Viktor

The buzzing of my phone shatters the silence of my dimly lit room. I glance at the screen and see Alina's name flashing at me. My pulse quickens as I answer.

"Viktor," she sobs, her voice laden with thick grief. " Otets is dead," she whispers as if afraid to say it out loud.

What! Hell no! I scream in my head.

My heart plummets into an abyss, and a fierce chill envelops me. Grief wraps its icy fingers around my throat, but I do my best to stay calm.

"What happened?" My words are steel; they have to be. I listen, each detail etching deeper into my soul. He had been attacked, and his final moments were a brutal assassination.

"Who did this?" I demand, anger fueling my voice and the need for retribution burning in my chest.

"We don't know yet, but—" Yelena's voice comes through the line, her breaths coming in sharp gasps as Alina sobs.

"Stay strong. I’m coming." I cut them off before emotion can overwhelm us all. "I will find them. Whoever they are, I will end them."

The line goes dead. I stand, my resolve is as cold and hard as the Russian winters of my youth. Igor Makarov was more than my father; he was the Bratva's backbone. Now, it's on me to protect our legacy.

My phone rings again, and this time it is Nikolai.

"I’m aware," I say tightly.

"You need to come back immediately."

I end the call and turn to Lev and Zasha. They have gathered the gist of the calls from my conversations. Without a word, they spring into action, ensuring everything is in place for our departure.

Hours later, the wheels of the privately hired jet touch down on the tarmac of a secluded airport, far from prying eyes. I step out into the biting Russian cold, and there he is—Nikolai, standing like a sentinel in his well-tailored suit. Despite his stoic exterior, his eyes betray a hint of relief at my arrival. His gaze, full of unsaid words, meets mine. He knows what my return means—for the Bratva, for our enemies.

" Pakhan," he gives a little bow, showing his respect. A silent acknowledgment of the weight now resting on my shoulders. There's no warmth in our reunion—there can't be. Not when we are in the middle of a war.

"Tell me everything," I demand, keeping my voice level despite the storm raging inside me. Our breaths form clouds in the frigid air, but the chill is nothing compared to the ice that has settled where my heart used to be.

We walk briskly toward the car waiting to take us to the heart of Bratva territory. As we walk, Nikolai fills me in on what he knows.

"Whoever did this will pay," I say, my fingers curling into fists.

" Da, they will," Nikolai replies, and I can hear the unspoken pledge in his words. Together, we will avenge my father and secure the future of the Makarov Bratva.

"Let’s go," I say, my tone leaving no room for questions or condolences. We have work to do. My father's legacy demands it, and I will deliver—no matter the cost.

The sleek black sedan snakes through the heart of Moscow. I sit in silence, watching the city pass by, its colors muted by my thoughts. Memories of my father flood my mind, each one a sharp blade cutting deeper into my grief. He was the Bratva's rock; he commanded respect with every step he took. And now, he is gone. The weight of it is suffocating, but I refuse to let it crush me. We pull up to one of the Bratva’s safe houses. It’s been standing for decades but is still firm like the Bratva itself.

Memories of my father flood my mind, each one a sharp blade cutting deeper into my grief. He was the Bratva's rock; he commanded respect with every step he took. And now, he is gone. The weight of it is suffocating, but I refuse to let it crush me.

As we roll to the iron-clad gate of the huge estate, Nikolai rolls down his side of the tinted window, and security nods and lets us through.

I grind my teeth in fury and frustration as memories surge through me. I left this place due to an assassination attack that claimed my mother, and now, two decades later, I am back because of another assassination that has claimed my father.

I hope the construction workers in hell can speed up their expansion project because I will be sending people down there in droves.

The huge oak doors of the stronghold swing open, and we step inside, carefully examining every face present. A deathly hush descends upon the gathered gentlemen, and disbelief and confusion are written on several faces. Murmurs erupt as though they've seen my father's apparition, but I walk onward, flanked on each side by Lev and Zasha. My strides are sure, and my heart is an iron fortress.

"Impossible ..." A whisper snakes through the assembly.

“What is going on here?”

“How the hell …?”

I stand before them, a specter from the past, yet flesh and blood beneath these tailored threads. They stare, eyes wide, jaws slack, their disbelief a tangible shroud in the air.

"Viktor Makarov?" The name cuts through the silence, laced with disbelief.

Before I can respond, the faces I have been dying to see again materialize at a doorway " starshiy brat" they say in unison. Several emotions fleet across their faces as they approach. Their blue eyes, so identical to mine, pool with raw emotions. Alina reaches out, trembling fingers brushing my cheek, unable to believe I am finally here. At my nod, she flings herself into my arms. They were only three when our father shipped me out and was eighteen when he told them that I was still alive.

"Yelena," I breathe, my voice a low rumble, betraying no crack in my armor. Our embrace is a silent storm. She clings to me, her sobs muffled against my chest. Even my warrior sister is shattered by the demise of our Otets .

There is no fucking rock big enough for whoever did this to crawl under.

The murmurs halt as every eye fixes on me. Faces etched with time and crime, members of the clan stare as if seeing a ghost. They remember a boy laid to rest, whose grave they had stood right next to, and witnessed him lowered into mother earth. They did not expect me to be carousing among the living. How did a buried boy turn into the man standing before them now? Whispers of disbelief curl in the cold air.

"Viktor Makarov is dead," an old voice rasps from the crowd, conviction seeping through his tone.

"Dead men tell no tales. But they make excellent legends," I respond my voice a calm contrast to the anger brewing around me. My gaze doesn't waver; it can't afford to.

The clan watches a silent audience to our reunion—some with hesitant eyes, others with jaws set. Loyalty and suspicion dance a delicate tango in their minds.

Nikolai steps forward, his silhouette cutting through the throng of skeptical faces. The murmurs die down as he raises a hand, commanding silence more effectively than a gunshot could.

" Druz’ya ," he begins, voice gravelly with authority, "I stand before you not just as Igor's right hand but as a witness to the truth."

He turns to me, an unspoken signal that I'm the topic of discussion. His gaze holds respect, and in this moment, his word is gospel.

"Viktor Makarov stands with us today because fate has deemed it so," Nikolai continues. "Years ago, a boy was rushed to the United States, escaping death by a hair's breadth. He survived. He thrived. He became a force within the Columbian Cartel and rose among their ranks to become an enforcer."

A collective breath is drawn. Whispers weave through the room like wayward spirits. They know the Colombians are ruthless sons of bitches.

"Proof," one elder barks, the word slicing through the charged air.

"Proof has been kept," Nikolai asserts, pulling out documents from his inner coat pocket. He displays them—photos, letters, official duties within the cartel—all chronicling my life away from Russia. I never knew Thiago had been filling my father in on my life steeped in blood and shadow.

"Look," he urges, spreading the evidence on a nearby table. "See for yourself the journey he's weathered."

The elders press in, eyes scanning the papers with predatory intensity. Their disbelief hangs heavy, a tangible thing I could slice through with my knife.

"While his abilities are commendable according to these documents, we insist on DNA testing," someone says stubbornly, his challenge a thorn amidst the quieting unrest.

“ Da ,” another agrees. “We will not have a stranger foisted upon us when there are people who have been loyal to the Bratva from birth.”

"Of course," I reply, my voice steady. My heart doesn't skip a beat. "But remember, while blood confirms lineage it is loyalty and bravery that confirms leadership."

I meet their gazes, one by one, an unspoken duel playing out in the silence. I don't back down. They need to see the iron in my spine, the steel in my soul.

“Perform whatever test is required to prove my identity.”

The group nods in satisfaction with my agreement and proceeds to arrange for it.

It’s been two weeks since my return and the results have proved my identity. I stand beside my father’s fresh grave. The biting cold seeps through my tailored suit as I stand before the open grave, a silent sentinel amidst the sea of black-clad mourners. The freshly turned earth waits to claim its own, and the weight of the Bratva's eyes is upon me—some searching for weakness, others seeking guidance.

"Pakhan ," the priest intones in a voice heavy with sorrow and reverence. "Your words."

I step forward, my boots crunching against the frost-hardened ground. The murmur of the crowd hushes to expectant silence. I gaze at the polished wood of the coffin, a stark contrast against the grey sky, and find I have no need for flowery speeches or empty promises.

The picture of my papochka in the morgue dances before my eyes. His body had been riddled with bullets and a bruise to his left knee indicating he had hit the floor with it. The killer shot was to his head and the bullet is still lodged there.

I let that picture propel me as I speak.

"This is an act of war," I declare, my voice a low growl that carries over the assembled. "And we are at war."

Those last five words hang suspended: a declaration, a vow. I feel Alina and Yelena's presence close by, their strength bolstering mine. A collective shudder ripples through the ranks of the Bratva, a shared realization dawning upon them. There will be no peace until justice is served.

As the funeral concludes, whispers swell into murmurs, like the wind that whips across the tundra, carrying tales of vengeance and blood. I remain unmoved, a rock amidst the storm, until the last mourner pays their respects and departs.

Only then do I allow myself to retreat from the graveside, making my way to my father's office—a sanctuary of dark woods and heavier memories. The door closes behind me with a sound that echoes too loudly in the silence.

I sink into his chair, leather creaking under my weight. My fingers trace the lines of the desk, worn smooth by his hands, now still and cold in death. Mementos of our shared past line the shelves: photographs, rare books, and trinkets from travels long since ended.

A mix of sorrow and anger boils within me, a tempestuous concoction threatening to burst free. But I harness it and channel it into resolve. They took him from us—from me—and for that, they will pay.

"Father," I whisper to the emptiness, "I will find them. I will tear the world apart thread by thread."

Vengeance burns bright, a raging fire ready to consume everything in its path. I will uncover the truth behind his murder, and retribution will be mine.

"Justice will be done," I vow, my voice resolute in the stillness of the room. "For you, for the Bratva, for us."