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7

Igor Makarov

I scan the faces before me, each hardened by a life of service to the Bratva. "Gentlemen," I begin, my voice steady and commanding, "we stand at a crossroads, and a decision must be made."

The rustle of expensive suits is the only noise in the room as men shift uncomfortably in their seats. The air is thick with tension, tinged with the scent of leather and fear.

"I sense hostility in our ranks," I continue, locking eyes with one man after another. "Dissension breeds weakness. And if there is one thing I will not condone, it is weakness." The unspoken threat hangs in the balance; they know I demand loyalty or death.

A young lieutenant swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing like a buoy at sea. His hand trembles ever so slightly as he reaches for his glass of water, betraying his unease.

"This Bratva is family. Family means loyalty. Without it, we are nothing." My words are ice; they chill the room. "Always remember that."

Silence stretches, punctuated only by the faint ticking of an antique clock on the wall. It's a reminder that the time has come for this Bratva to move to its next level.

"Are we clear?" I ask, my gaze sweeping over them.

" Da , Pakhan," comes the collective murmur, a chorus of submission.

The unease fades to a hush as I straighten, commanding the space with a presence honed by years of rule. The tick of the clock now seems to echo my heartbeat—steady, unyielding. I survey the room, every pair of eyes locked onto me, waiting.

"Next week," I announce, "I will name my successor." Murmurs ripple through the room like a disturbed pool; the weight of the announcement settles in their minds, heavy as lead. "This is not merely by appointment. It's the future of our Bratva."

A chair creaks as someone shifts, perhaps uncomfortable with the gravity of my words or the uncertainty they carry. After all, a new Pakhan may mean a new way of doing things.

“Is he one of us?” Petrovich, our eye and ear in customs, asks.

“Is he going to be your future son-in-law?” Andrei, who has been obsessed with having his son marry my daughter, interjects.

"Patience," I chide coldly, almost hostile. "In time, all will be revealed."

I lock eyes with each man, letting my confidence seep into the room. "He will be one of us, molded from our iron, sand, and blood."

They nod, slowly at first, then with growing conviction. They see it in my eyes—the unwavering belief in my decision, in the future I envision for us all.

"Remember," I conclude, my voice resonating with the power that has kept me at the apex of this complex world, "We adapt. We conquer. We thrive even in the face of adversity."

Nods turn to murmurs of agreement. The atmosphere changes from trepidation to anticipation. They sense it—the rise of a new era for the Makarov Bratva. And behind my steeled gaze, I allow myself a rare moment of satisfaction. My legacy will continue, and it will be unbreakable.

I shrug into the darkness of my car, the streets of Moscow a blur as I race to the airport. Secrecy shrouds this journey like frost on the windows. Apart from my daughters, only my second-in-command knows I’ll be taking this solo trip and why. He knows it's vital and urgent.

The plane awaits, looking every bit the symbol of power and wealth that it is. I settle into the leather seat, my mind already crossing continents, reaching out to New York, where my son has lived away from his own Bratva for the last twenty years.

The pain that always hits me whenever I think about the evening of his eighteenth birthday has my heart beating rapidly. And for the zillionth time, I wonder what I could have done differently. My wife Helen had insisted on riding with him to the venue as she wanted to have those few moments alone with him. But minutes before the party, my phone rang. It was Helen, frantically saying they had been ambushed. Just as she was telling me their location, I heard a gun go off and then several others. “Finish him off,” was the last thing I heard before the deafening silence.

At forty-five, I lost the love of my life and, somehow, my son too. Viktor had survived the attack, but his existence has been kept a secret.

Well, that is all about to change now.

Hours dissolve into the distance, eaten up by the jet. The city lights of New York glitter beneath us as we descend, a mosaic of lives oblivious to the machinations of the world I command. It is Viktor's world now to command.

My phone pings, indicating a new message. I pick it up, and a message from my mistress, Irina, flashes on the screen.

Irina: I am on my way to see you.

Me: Not tonight.

Irina: This is so unfair.

I imagine her sulking. She has been a loyal mistress for the past twelve years, even when she knows there is no love between us.

Me: I am away at the moment and will let you know when I get back .

Irina: ?? ??

I smile at the sad emoji.

Me: I’ll make it up to you when I get back.

Irina: When will that be?

Me: It’ll be when you see me.

With that, there are no more messages. She knows better than to push.

"Mr. Makarov," the pilot, a member of my clan, announces, "we have landed."

"Good," I respond curtly, gathering myself for what must be done.

A car waits, its privacy tint hiding my presence from prying eyes. We slice through the city, heading to the safe house on the east side. I pick up my phone and inform Viktor of my presence in the city and where to meet me.

As I journey back, the meeting with my son has me battling with several emotions. I have led the Bratva for more than forty years and am now ready to retire. Well, partially retire. Even though Viktor will now be in charge, I’d still be there to guide him on who to trust and how to navigate the waters. The engines of the private jet hum in a comforting baritone as we ascend into the dusk and head back to Russia. My heart beats with an urgency that matches the revolutions of the propellers. Every mile closer to home coils my anticipation tighter, like a mainspring ready to snap. Somehow, I manage to fall asleep.

"We are approaching Moscow, Pakhan ," Oleg informs me.

I nod and put my things together in preparation for our landing. Going through immigration was hassle-free as I never have to go through the checkout process. Perks of having men in every sphere of society.

After bidding Oleg a good night, I step into the discrete black sedan and message Irina to come to the mansion before driving off. I will surprise her with a proposal to become my wife. At sixty-five, marriage should be off the table for me, but this feels like the right time.

After Helen was taken from me, I became too focused on keeping Viktor and my girls safe. I also did not want to subject another woman to the same fate as Helen. However, now that Viktor will take over the Bratva, I will have enough time for Irina. She has been faithful and patient. Never once complained about coming second to everything else in my life. At forty-seven, I’m sure she, too, would want the security that comes with marriage and the comfort of a steady companion.

A loud noise pulls me from my thoughts, and the sudden vibration of my steering wheel tells me that I have just taken a hit.

Something's wrong. There is no doubt that I am under attack. How the hell did this happen? Only four people, including my pilot, know about my trip. This is when I realize there is a snitch inside my immediate circle.

"Betrayal ..." I gasp, the realization hitting harder than the impending impact. How? Whom?

The world explodes in a cacophony of screeching metal and shattering glass. Pain, white-hot and searing, punches through me. Then, darkness swallows everything.

As I come to, I feel the cold muzzle of a gun pressing against my temple. The world has narrowed down to this one, all-consuming point of contact. Four pairs of hands grip me, yanking me from the twisted wreckage of my car. My ears ring with the echo of shattering glass and crumpling metal, the aftermath of the crash still playing out like a distant symphony.

"Move," one of them growls, his voice muffled behind a mask.

I stumble, forced forward by unyielding grips on my arms. Each step is a battle between compliance and resistance. But even as they drag me toward the roadside, I refuse to be subdued. Kneeling? That's for men who bend to others' wills. Not Igor Makarov.

"Kneel," again, the command comes across as sharp as a knife's edge.

I plant my feet, refusing. A fist slams into my gut, stealing my breath. Again, they demand. "Kneel!" Again, I resist. I am still the Makarov Bratva. I do not kneel. Not even before death; death should kneel before me.

A bullet rips through my shoulder. Agony blooms, hot and fierce. I’ve been shot in the shoulder, no doubt to subdue me. Yet, it's not enough to break me. I stagger but remain upright. They shoot again, this time to my right leg. My leg betrays me, folding beneath the onslaught of pain.

I'm on one knee now, but it's not in submission. It's defiance in its purest form. Another shot, and another. My vision blurs, each bullet a punctuation mark in the final moment of my life.

Amidst the chaos and in the face of certain death, a strange calm settles over me. My legacy is secure; Viktor will lead the bratva now. With this thought cradling my consciousness, a hint of a smile plays across my lips.

The final bullet pierces my skull. Darkness rushes in, but I face it as I have faced every adversary—with an indomitable spirit. And as I fall, I carry with me the satisfaction of knowing that I leave behind a son who will rise from the ashes of this treachery.

Chaos erupts. voices fill the air, mixing with the sound of screeching tires and panicked footsteps. My assailants hurry away, leaving me to pour out my life force on the roadside. I feel myself slipping into oblivion, leaving behind my daughters and my son, a legacy and an empire veiled in uncertainty.

Who ordered this hit? Will Viktor uncover the truth? Or will it go unsolved like that of his and his mother? Who is this person who is always one step ahead of us?

The Bratva is a beast of many heads, and today, it has lost its master.