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Viktor

My footsteps echo on the polished marble floor as I enter Thiago's office. The door closes behind me with a definitive click, sealing us in a room that smells of leather and power. The faint hum of city life outside is silenced, leaving only the weight of the conversation we’re about to have.

"Marcus's death has been successfully staged as a drug overdose," I announce, no preamble needed between men like us. The words are delivered with a tone that brooks no question, only confirmation.

Thiago leans back in his chair, a chess master observing the board after a decisive move. His lips curve into a satisfied smile, the kind that only comes with eliminating a threat to his empire.

"Efficient as always, Viktor," he says. His voice is deep and calm, like the eye of a hurricane. "Your skills are invaluable."

I nod once in response. We understand each other, this man and I. Not bound by blood but by unspoken oaths that run thicker. Thiago’s approval is a calculated move as much as it is genuine; this is the game we play.

"Taking out a government snitch, especially one with ties to your wife, is a bold move," I add, letting the words hang between us like a veil of smoke. It’s both a statement and a salute to his ruthlessness.

"Peace at home and in my business?" Thiago replies with humor and gleaming eyes. "Worth it. I’d do it again without a second thought."

"Indeed," I agree, my voice devoid of any emotion. He’s chosen the lesser evil—a rare thing in our world. This is how you separate business from pleasure without spilling unnecessary blood.

Thiago's fingers tap a rhythm on the mahogany desk, a silent drumroll before he speaks. "You have my word, Viktor. Whenever you need a favor, all you have to do is ask, and I promise it’s yours."

"Understood," I reply with a crisp nod. Promises are currency in our world, and Thiago's word is as good as gold—blood-stained though it may be.

He steeples his fingers, gaze narrowing slightly. "I value our partnership," he begins, his words deliberate, "and I want to strengthen it further. Marry my daughter."

Damn, this cunning man.

The proposition hangs in the air like smoke from a snuffed-out cigar. I've declined this before; why is he pushing now? My refusal must be tactful so he doesn’t feel insulted.

"Thiago, your daughter is grace personified," I say, truthful in my praise. "But marriage? It’s not a path I’ll be walking. Not with anyone."

His pride bristles visibly like feathers ruffled by an unwelcome wind. I watch as he masks his displeasure with a practiced smile, though tension lines his jaw.

"Love is a luxury I cannot afford," I add, hoping to soothe the sting. "My life, as you know, is bound by different loyalties."

"Indeed," he says after a moment, the forced smile slipping. “But you will be missing out on this beautiful thing I have with my Lola.”

His eyes soften at the mention of his wife. It never ceases to amaze me how a callous man like Thiago, a ruthless crime lord, can be mushy with this flimsy emotion called love.

“I’m truly happy for you, but thankfully I am fine the way I am.”

“Of course you are, you bloody loner.” He smirks without malice. “My Xio is too delicate for a man like you anyway.”

Walking into my dark apartment, I savor the solitude this sanctuary offers. My eyes are accustomed to the darkness; I navigate without issue. This comfort in shadows is a habit forged by necessity and survival.

I pull out my phone to call Lev and Zasha, my two right-hand men, but the device vibrates before I can dial. The voice that greets me is unmistakable—coarse, like gravel, yet powerful in a way that commands immediate respect.

"Viktor." The thick Russian accent reaches my ear.

" Da, papochka ," I answer, switching to my Russian roots. My voice is steady despite the tightness gripping my chest.

"New York treats you well, I hope," he states rather than asks, a subtle check-in that bears weight in our coded language.

"Feels like my kingdom," I reply, matching his tone, offering respect to the man who carved his legacy into my skin.

"Good. I'm arriving tonight. We need to talk face-to-face."

Anticipation coils within me. Seeing my father is a rarity even when he visits New York frequently. While our connection remains unbroken, it’s always charged with unspoken expectations. My exile—my death—was a sacrifice for the Bratva, a cost I’ve paid every day since.

"Understood. I'll meet you at the mansion."

"See that you do." And with that, he disconnects, leaving me with thoughts better left in the dark.

The city shrinks behind me as I weave through traffic, my black SUV prowling like a beast on these concrete streets. Manhattan's towering monuments blur into gray smudges; they’re insignificant compared to the weight pressing on my mind.

I press harder on the gas, urging the vehicle faster. The storm brewing within me remains steady as I approach the Lower East Side safe house. It looms ahead, a fortress holding secrets and the ghosts of a legacy.

Punching in the code, the black gate slides open, granting me entry. The house is one of many Makarov properties, a symbol of our dynasty’s reach. Yet, it’s not where I reside; my safety for now demands anonymity.

The door swings open as I approach. Standing there is my father, Igor Makarov—a king among thieves, a Pakhan in every sense. His embrace is firm, his voice a deep rumble that resonates with authority and affection.

" Moy syn ," he greets, holding me tight.

" Otets," I respond, kissing him on both cheeks before entering the luxuriously furnished foyer. The air inside carries the weight of our shared bloodline.

"Let’s sit," he offers as we get to his office. I comply, taking the seat across from him. His gaze never wavers, probing for weakness where none exists.

"How are Yelena and Alina?" I ask, breaking the silence.

"Yelena is trying to send me to an early grave while Alina, ever the peacemaker, tries to keep the peace," he says with gruff fondness. We both smile, knowing we’d die to give them the world.

"I’m sure Yelena gets her fire from you," I tease.

He chuckles. "I thought she’d settle down once she becomes an adult, but no, she still finds ways to bring chaos."

"Why aren’t they with you this time?"

"Because I won’t be spending time here, and they’re manning the fort," he replies.

My disbelief is palpable. "Females don’t run Bratvas. No one will listen to them."

"You underestimate your sisters," he says, his tone leaving no room for argument.

After our chuckle dies, an air of seriousness descends into the room. "It’s time for the Makarov name to reclaim its rightful place.” My father says, looking at me. “It’s time for you to come back home."

Shock waves run through me, though I’ve always known this day would come. I nod, my resolve hardening. "I am ready, otets . The Makarov dynasty will rise even higher."

A ghost of pain flickers in his eyes as he mentions my mother’s killers—the one failure he’s yet to reconcile. I place a hand over his, a rare gesture of comfort. "We’ll leave the past where it belongs and carve our destiny together."

His gaze sharpens. "You are no longer just my son. You are the Bratva’s Pakhan."

The weight of his words settles over me. The Bratva is a living entity and will now look to me for sustenance.

"Expansion. Consolidation. Retaliation," I repeat, the words forming a battle cry in my mind.

"Exactly," he says. "Make our clan thrive."

My resolve crystallizes; I am ready. The energy of the challenge courses through me—a lightning bolt that sears away all doubt. I am the storm that looms on the horizon, the harbinger of a reckoning that will reshape the underworld.

"Consider it done," I vow, my voice firm, unyielding as iron. "The Makarov dynasty will not only thrive—it will reign supreme."

Rising from my seat, I give a nod, the pact between father and son sealed in ambition and mutual goal. As I turn to leave, the future unfolds before me—a tapestry woven from shadows and power. I am Viktor Makarov, and I will lead the Bratva to glory. There is no middle ground.

Back in my house, I stand alone in a room that holds no warmth or memories. It’s just a place to sleep and store my things. The weight of my father's expectations is heavy on my shoulders. The silence is thick, suffocating as if even the walls are holding their breath for what comes next. I'm about to step into a world that thinks me long dead, a ghost returning to claim his throne. Revenge is a dark seed germinating within me, fed by twenty years of shadows and whispers.

My reflection stares back from the mirror. I trace the scars crisscrossing my torso, now covered in tattoos. Each one is a brutal narrative of survival. Raised skin meets my touch, a map of pain carved into flesh, a reminder that I am no stranger to violence. It was a baptism by fire, a rain of bullets—the day my mother's laughter was silenced forever, the day I should have died.

A finger hovers over a particularly nasty scar, the memory of a blade slipping between my ribs, a desperate attempt to finish a young boy who refused to yield. Mother was gone in an instant, her warmth fading against my side while chaos reigned outside the shattered windows of our limousine.

These scars are more than the remnants of an assassination—they're a testament to resilience, to the life I've clawed back from the brink. They fuel the rage that simmers beneath my calm exterior, the relentless drive that propels me forward.

A memory from two decades ago surges, unbidden, a torrent of images and sounds from a night cloaked in celebration and tragedy. My mother's voice, light with humor, fills the space around me, an echo from the past.

"Viktor, you're practically scowling. Smile! It's your birthday, not a funeral."

Her words wrap around me, a teasing reprimand that softens the rigid lines of my face. I remember turning to her, the corners of my lips tugging into the semblance of a smile. She wears joy like a second skin, and her laughter is a melody that dances through the air.

"Mother, after tonight ..." I begin, but she cuts me off with a wave of her hand, her eyes glinting with mischief.

"Ah, yes, after tonight, you become the Bratva's puppet, all strings, and somber duties. But now, live a little!"

The city blurs outside the tinted windows, neon lights streaking by in vibrant defiance of the darkness. The traffic ebbs and flows, a river of steel and rubber, and we are adrift on its currents, moving toward my destiny. It is my eighteenth birthday and my official induction into the Makarov Bratva.

"Tonight, you are still my little boy," she insists, her tone laced with a gravity that belies her earlier levity. "Because tomorrow, Viktor, you won't be just my son—you'll be the Bratva's."

I nod, understanding the weight of her words, and the mantle of responsibility that awaits me. It's a future etched in shadow and blood, one I cannot escape.

"Of course, Mother." My reply is a whisper, barely audible over the hum of the limousine's engine. “You will have my first dance tonight, but also know that even if the Bratva is absorbing me fully from tomorrow, I’d never stop being your son,” I assure her.

“Hmmm, my dear son,” she says, caressing my cheek in her palm. “You are now the embodiment of the organization, and I’d only get whatever of your time is left from serving them. This is why I insisted on taking this ride with you,” she says, her eyes shining with unshed tears and love.

Suddenly, the world lurches, hurling us forward with the shriek of screeching tires. The scent of burnt rubber assaults my nostrils—the car in front of us has stopped without warning. Our driver slams on the brakes; the momentum thrusts us forward in a violent embrace with inertia.

"Viktor!"

The seatbelt catches me, a harsh grip across my chest that steals the breath from my lungs. I'm jerked back into the leather seat, the impact a sharp reminder of mortality's fragile thread.

"Mother!" Panic edges my voice, a rare crack in the armor I've built over years of discipline.

She's beside me, held fast by her seatbelt, her eyes wide with shock but alive, alive—

"Are you—"

"Fine," she breathes out, regaining her composure with the grace that marks the Petrova of the Makarov Bratva. "Just ... unexpected."

She presses a button and rolls down the separating barrier between us and the driver. We see the driver and bodyguard draw their guns as fully masked men jump down from the car in front of us.

My mother and I exchange a look. "Viktor," she says softly, rolling the barrier back up and reaching over to squeeze my hand, "Be strong." She says, pulling out her phone and dialing my father.

Just then, the glass shatters. Time fractures, a slow-motion waltz of splintering reality. My ears ring—no, they scream—with the cacophony of gunfire, an unholy symphony that rips through the car's once-impenetrable shell.

"Down!" It's all I can manage—a single-word command to my mother as instinct overrides thought. The two guards, men sworn to protect us, slump lifelessly, their blood painting the upholstery in grim strokes.

"Viktor! Down!" My mother's voice, laced with willpower and something fiercer, commands my attention even as my world narrows to the barrel of a gun pointing at her head.

The air compresses, a prelude to pain. A bullet burrows into my chest, an intruder intent on destruction. I gasp, disbelief mingling with agony, yet I live.

"Stay down," I rasp, clawing at consciousness. My mother's face swims above me, etched with the lines of a warrior queen.

Then I see a finger pull the trigger of the gun pointed to her head. Her head drops next to mine, blood oozing from her gun wound but her eyes stayed defiantly open, watching over me even in death.

A shadow looms above me with the scent of metal and hatred. It produces a glinting blade that descends on my flesh. Its kiss is cold at my side, promising finality. Pain erupts and a fire threatens to consume my will to live.

"Finish him off," hisses a voice that should belong to the Reaper himself.

With that command, I feel several other slices to my flesh. But death is not ready to claim me, not tonight. However, my assailants hurried away, thinking they'd succeeded in killing me. My father had buried two caskets, one containing my mother’s remains and the other empty.

He had whisked me away to safety, leaving me under the watchful eyes of Thiago. While the whole Bratva world believes me dead, here I am, preparing to come back with the fury of the underworld.

I stand before the mirror, the ghost of my old self staring back with a challenge. My fingers trace the scars that map out my survival, each line a road traveled through pain and persistence. I'm not the boy who was bundled out of Russia; I am a man sculpted by betrayal and hardened by loss.

"Time to go home," I mutter to my reflection. It's a whisper of war, a battle cry for the storm to come.

"Russia," I murmur to my reflection, the word tasting of both home and hell. "You will not bury me again."

With each beat of my heart, the pulse of retribution grows stronger. I am the storm incarnate, the prodigal son returning not to beg forgiveness but to demand restitution. The Bratva's future is etched in these wounds, and I will carve our destiny with unwavering resolve.

So let them whisper their tales of the ghost of Igor Makarov’s dead son. Soon enough, they'll feel the full force of the tempest they thought they'd weathered. And this time, there will be no shelter from the fury I bring. I will avenge my mother.