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Viktor

Vovka steps into the makeshift arena, his every movement deliberate, exuding menace. His cruel smile widens, and the wicked glint in his eyes is a promise of pain. He rolls his shoulders back, flexing his muscles as though savoring the destruction he intends to unleash. Behind him, his men stand like shadows, their presence a silent testament to their loyalty.

Scarlett’s voice slices through the charged air, trembling with dread. “Viktor, don’t do this!” Her words are filled with desperation, her hands gripping his arm as if her touch alone could pull him back from the brink. “You don’t have to fight him! You don’t have to prove anything to him! We can walk away and start afresh.”

I turn to Scarlett, my chest tightening at the sight of her tear-filled eyes. Her love for me shines bright. “This isn’t about proving anything,” I say, my voice low but resolute. “This is about ending it.”

Her grip tightens. “You could get killed, Viktor. Please, think of the babies—think of me!”

My jaw tightens as her words pierce through the cold armor I’ve built around myself. For a brief moment, I consider her plea. But this isn’t just about me or even us. It’s about justice for my parents, Keeping the Bratva safe, and ensuring that Vovka’s reign of terror ends tonight.

I place a hand over hers, my touch firm yet gentle. “I’ll come back to you,” I promise, meeting her gaze with unwavering determination. “But I have to do this.”

Scarlett’s lips tremble, her hand reluctantly slipping from my arm as I step into the arena.

As I walk toward the center of the circle, I can still feel the weight of Scarlett’s plea lingering in my chest. Her love and concern are a tether pulling me back, a warmth I never thought I’d feel. But the image of my father, his lifeless body riddled with bullets, flashes in my mind, hardening my resolve.

Vovka stands there, watching me with that smug grin, his posture casual yet predatory. Every step I take solidifies my decision. Scarlett’s plea is etched into my mind, but so is my father’s voice—the man who taught me that weakness invites chaos.

I glance over my shoulder at Scarlett one last time, nodding to reassure her, then focus entirely on Vovka. The air between us crackles with tension. He may think he’s won before we’ve begun, but he’s underestimated the depths of my fury and resolve.

The men on both sides form a circle, their expressions a mixture of anticipation and bloodlust. The ground beneath their boots crunches softly as they shuffle into position, their faces illuminated by the faint glow of the dork lights filtering through towering stacks of containers.

The makeshift arena feels oppressive, the weight of the crowd’s silence pressing down on me. I roll my shoulders, loosening the tension that’s coiling there, and crack my knuckles. My gaze locks on Vovka as he bounces on the balls of his feet, his grin widening with each passing second.

“Do you feel that?” he sneers, his voice dripping with mockery. “That’s fear.”

“No,” I reply evenly. “That’s the sound of your downfall.”

A murmur ripples through our men at my words, but I don’t take my eyes off Vovka. He’s the predator at this moment, but I’ll make him prey soon enough.

Without warning, Vovka lunges at me, his speed is surprising for a man of his size. His movements are precise, his body coiled like a serpent ready to strike. The glint of his blade catches the light, and I brace myself, stepping aside at the last second.

But I don’t retreat. Instead, I counter with a calculated strike—a hook aimed at his ribs. The impact reverberates through my knuckles, a satisfying confirmation of my aim.

Vovka snarls, more annoyed than hurt, and lunges again, his blade slicing through the air. This time, I duck low, my instincts taking over as I dodge his attack. I can feel the heat of the blade as it narrowly misses my skin, but I don’t flinch.

This time, I don’t give him a chance to recover. Instead of retreating or dodging, I charge straight at him, catching him off guard. The force of my punch slams into his chest, knocking the air from his lungs.

His eyes widen in shock as he stumbles backward, but he quickly recovers, his lips curling into a feral snarl.

“You’re going to regret that,” he growls, his voice low and venomous.

I meet his gaze, unflinching. “Not as much as you’ll regret targeting my family.”

“Your father also put up a pathetic fight.” An evil smile coils his lips as he leers at me. “You are not doing too bad yourself.”

Ignore the fucking idiot. He only wants you to lose focus.

As Vovka lunges forward again, I drop low, extending my right leg in a sweeping motion. The maneuver catches him off balance. I finish the move with a kick to his spine. His feet slip out from under him as he crashes to the ground.

A collection of gasps escapes his men, but I don’t let it distract me. Vovka recovers quickly, his fury evident as he scrambles to his feet.

Now he’s mad. Good. An angry opponent makes mistakes.

He slashes wildly, the blade catching my upper arm. Pain flares and warm blood trickles down, but I don’t let it slow me. Instead, I smile—a tight, humorless smile that I know will only infuriate him more.

“Think that’s funny?” Vovka growls, his eyes burning with rage.

He comes at me again, both knives aimed with deadly precision—one high, one low. When he is just inches away, I execute a quick pivot and he staggers past me.

This guy is fucking weak. His strength lies in guns. He has zero fighting skills and I could dodge him all night until he gets tired of chasing me around the makeshift arena. However, I sadly must bring this play to a close.

Vovka regains his footing, his eyes narrowing with predatory focus. He feints left, then darts to my right, his knife glinting dangerously. Before I can fully evade, I feel the sting of the blade slicing across my other upper arm.

Blood gushes from the wound, warm and sticky, trickling down to my elbow. Vovka smirks, his satisfaction evident as he holds up the bloodied knife. "You’re not untouchable, Makarov," he taunts, his voice filled with malice. “I’ll kill you and go on to have the autonomous power that I’ve always wanted.

I glance at the cut, acknowledging the pain but refusing to let it show on my face. Pain is a constant companion in this life—a reminder of battles fought and survived. I lock eyes with Vovka, letting him see the calm in my expression, the unshakable resolve that comes from years of hardship.

“You think that makes you dangerous?” I say, my voice steady, almost amused. “It makes you careless.”

His smirk falters for just a moment, doubt creeping into his eyes. I know his kind—men who thrive on fear and domination.

When they encounter someone who doesn’t flinch, their confidence wavers. And I intend to exploit that.

Vovka lunges again, this time with both knives aimed at my midsection. His movements are wild, fueled by anger and a desire to draw more blood. But anger makes him predictable, and predictability is a death sentence in a fight like this.

I time his approach perfectly, capturing his wrists in a firm grip just as the blades come within inches of my ribs. His eyes widen in surprise, and before he can react, I drive my forehead into his temple with brutal force.

The impact reverberates through my skull, leaving my vision momentarily blurred, but it’s worth it. Blood gushes from the gash in Vovka’s temple, trickling down the side of his face in crimson rivers. His grip on the knives slackens, and they clatter to the ground.

The crowd erupts with gasps and murmurs, the energy of the fight reaching a fever pitch. I don’t let up.

With Vovka disarmed, I seize the moment to drive my fist into his left rib with all the force I can muster. The sound of the impact is satisfying—a dull thud that reverberates through the space. Vovka stumbles backward, his body folding slightly as he clutches his side.

He tries to straighten, his breaths coming in ragged gasps, but I don’t give him the chance. I advance, delivering a punch to his jaw, sending him sprawling to the ground.

“Get up,” I command, my voice low and dangerous. “This isn’t over until I say it is.”

Vovka glares up at me, his face a mask of pain and fury. But his struggle to rise is evident; his movements are slower, less coordinated. The fight is slipping from his grasp, and he knows it.

Desperation flashes across Vovka’s face as he looks past me to his men. “Kill them!” he roars, his voice raw and guttural. “Kill them all!” he shouts again at his men, his hand pressed to his ribs as he struggles to remain standing.

I expected this. I knew from the beginning that he wouldn’t honor the rules. Before the fight started, I gave Zasha a signal to be ready for anything.

Vovka looks around, waiting for gunfire that doesn’t come. His face twists in confusion, then panic, as he realizes his men are kneeling with their hands on their heads, surrounded and disarmed by mine.

“You cheat!” he screams, spittle flying from his mouth.

“No,” I say evenly, my voice cold. “You’re the cheat, Vovka. I know you’re an untrustworthy fellow, so I took precautions.”

He roars in frustration and lunges at me with his bare hands, but he’s slow, his movements clumsy with anger and pain. I sidestep easily and deliver a hard punch to his jaw. Blood and spit spray from his mouth as he stumbles back.

“That’s for my mother,” I say, my voice steady.

The weight of his defeat is palpable. His men exchange uneasy glances before lowering their heads in respect to me, their allegiance shifting in an unspoken acknowledgment of my dominance.

Vovka’s rage boils over, and with a guttural scream, he lunges at me one last time. His movements are wild and uncoordinated, a stark contrast to the precision he displayed earlier.

I sidestep his attack effortlessly, grabbing his arm and twisting it behind his back. The sound of his shoulder dislocating echoes through the space, followed by his howl of pain.

“Enough,” I say coldly, my voice cutting through the chaos like a blade.

But Vovka doesn’t relent. His defiance only fuels my determination. I deliver a series of calculated blows aimed with precision to incapacitate him. Each blow is a reminder of the pain he’s caused, and the lives he’s taken.

Before he can recover, I land another blow to his jaw and grab his neck. Wrapping my arm around his throat, I tighten until I feel the snap of his jugular. His body goes limp, and I let him fall to the ground.

The circle of men watches in stunned silence as their former leader lies motionless. I pick up the gun Vovka tossed aside earlier, walk back to his body, and aim at his blank, lifeless stare.

“Unlike me,” I say, my voice calm and deliberate, “you’ll stay dead, Vovka Sidorov.”

The shot is muffled by a gun silencer, but the bullet that goes through his skull tells me it is finally over.

I turn to Scarlett. She’s already rushing toward me, her now swollen face streaked with tears of relief. She crashes into me, wrapping her arms around my neck. Pain flares from my wounds, but I don’t care.

“It’s over,” she whispers, her voice choked with sobs as she kisses my face, my lips, anywhere she can reach.

“Yes, it is,” I say, pulling her closer. One arm wraps around her while my other hand strokes her hair.

“You’re hurt,” she whispers, her voice trembling as she touches the cut on my arm.

“It’s nothing,” I reply, though the pain is a dull throb. “It’s over now.”

Her tears wet my shirt as she clings to me, and for the first time tonight, I allow myself a moment of vulnerability, holding her close and letting her presence ground me.

As Vovka’s lifeless body is dragged away, his men bow their heads in submission, one by one kneeling before me. The power shift is complete. I have not only avenged my parents but solidified my place as the unchallenged leader of the Russian Mob.

But my thoughts are not on victory, or the submission of my enemies. They are on Scarlett—the woman who risked everything to love a man like me.

I lift Scarlett into my arms as I do not want her exacting any more pressure on herself. “It’s done,” I say softly. “You’re safe now.”

Her lips tremble, but she nods, her trust in me evident. I gently kiss her forehead, a promise of protection and love.

The night may be over, but the journey ahead is just beginning. Together, we’ll face whatever comes next. For the first time in years, I feel the weight of the past lifting, replaced by the hope of a future worth fighting for.