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8

Vovka

The shadows cling to me like a second skin as I sit in the back of my armored Mercedes, a silent specter amid the chaos of Moscow’s nightlife. My phone vibrates against the laminated console, and I pick it up without hesitation.

"Yes?" I demand with forced calmness into the device, my voice low, expecting the report that will set my plans into motion.

The voice on the other end cackles humourlessly with delirious joy. "Igor Makarov just flew out of Moscow." The voice cuts across.

“And where is he headed?”

“I do not have that detail. But you should have at least one man at the airport that can divulge that information.”

"And his security detail?"

“I know his second in command and guards did not take this trip with him. So, he should have little to none.”

“How did you come about this inside knowledge?”

“I told you I have my ways. Now you need to make sure you uphold your end of the bargain.”

A smile, cold and devoid of joy, creeps onto my lips. Igor, alone in my city, is like a lamb straying into the wolf's den. “And yes, the crime world here in Moscow is mine to control. That is as soon as I take out Igor Makarov.”

"We have a deal." I terminate the call with a press of my thumb, knowing that patterns can be broken and security can be breached. The Makarovs have been a thorn in my side for too long, their existence a constant stain upon my ambition.

Ever since the day they buried Igor's wife and son, the man has surrounded himself and his daughters with an impenetrable fortress of guards and bulletproof glass. But even fortresses have their weaknesses, and I've been waiting, watching for the slightest chink in his armor.

"Drive," I say to my driver, my voice barely above a whisper, yet it carries the weight of iron-clad resolve. The car pulls away from the curb, gliding silently through the streets.

The city buzzes outside, oblivious to the storm brewing within its underbelly. People laugh and live while I plot death in the darkness of my mobile command center.

"I’ve waited for this opportunity," I murmur to myself, visions of power and fame fueling the fire in my veins. My time is now. My time to rule it all has finally come. I feel it in my bones. I know my father will be in his office and I head straight to him.

“Igor Makarov,” I snarl. “Your time just ran out.”

Last Month

The leather of the chair creaks under my weight as I lean forward, resting my elbows on the thick polished desk that has been the command center for my father's reign. His eyes, once sharp as a hawk's, now hold the milky sheen of age and hesitance.

"Patience, Vovka," he says, voice raspy with years of whiskey underworld rule. "Igor will die one day, and his empire will crumble without our intervention."

"Patience is a luxury we can't afford," I counter, fingers drumming on the polished wood. "Every day he lives eats into our time."

Can’t my father see the opportunity we have here? Taking Igor out without a successor would make us unrivaled in the country.

My father sits back in his chair, steeped in the old ways, the old fears. "A war would bleed us dry. We must not act rashly."

"Rashly?" My voice rises like the tide before a storm. "This is strategy. Precision."

"Or folly," he retorts with a dismissive wave. "War invites chaos."

"Chaos can be controlled," I insist, feeling the frustration churn in my gut. "Controlled and directed at our enemies."

“We got away once and have set the ball in motion. Without a biological heir, their Bratva will die of internal war once Igor passes on.” He explains but his words sound like jargon in my ears.

“Papa, I just clocked forty, and you want me to wait for Igor to die a natural death!” I ask vehemently. “Does it look like that is going to happen anytime soon?”

He shakes his head, the silver strands of his hair catching the dim light. "You have much to learn, my son."

I stand abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor. "No, Father. It is you who must learn. The world does not wait for any man to die naturally."

"Vovka ..." He starts, but I cut him off.

"We will discuss this no further." My words slice through the tension in the room. I turn on my heel, leaving my father in his fortress of caution and restraint.

It is obvious that if I want things done my way, I need to make sure I am the one calling the shots in the Sidorov Bratva.

As I walk away, the plan takes shape in my mind. Igor Makarov's days on the calendar are numbered, and I am the one holding the pen. Ticking off his time.

Days after the discussion with my father, I stand in the shadow of his study, eyes fixed on the tarnished frame that houses our family legacy. Three generations of Sidorov men stare back at me from behind the glass, their expressions as hard as the lives they led. I can almost hear the whispers of the past urging me to seize what is rightfully mine.

"Vovka," my father's voice cuts through the silence, "you're brooding again."

"Am I?" I step into the light, casual in demeanor but coiled tight inside. "Or am I contemplating?"

"Contemplating what? Patience? Strategy?" He chuckles, thinking he knows me.

"Destiny," I reply, voice steady.

"Your destiny lies with patience," he says, the words of a man who has gone soft, blind to the rot within his empire.

"Patience is for the weak," I murmur, my gaze lingering on the photo.

"Careful, Vovka. Wrongly chosen ambition can drain a man’s soul."

"Or it can bring him everything he desires." My fingers twitch, itching for action. No more waiting. No more discussions. I need to act now.

I glance at the photo once more, and then, without warning, I grab the edge of the frame and smash it against the wall. Glass shatters, scattering shards across the rich carpet. Before my father can react, I snatch a large piece of broken glass.

"Vovka, what—"

"Sorry, Father," I say, though I don't feel sorry. I move fast, stepping close, and drive the jagged edge into his throat. Blood blooms like a crimson flower, staining his white shirt. He gasps, hands clutching at the wound, eyes wide with shock and betrayal.

"Power waits for no one," I whisper as he collapses. “You have to seize it by force.”

He gurgles something unintelligible, reaching out. His fingers graze my shoe before falling limp. I watch as the life fades from his eyes. I've just killed my father. The last obstacle to my Pakhan position. My birthright.

With the deed done, I feel nothing but a cold satisfaction. I am now the undisputed leader of the Sidorov Bratva. The throne is mine. Bending down, I pull off the signet ring from his finger and slide it onto mine.

"Clean this up," I command, addressing the shadow that materializes from the corner. Alek nods, accustomed to my decisiveness.

"Of course, pakhan ."

"Good," I say, stepping over my father’s body as though it’s just a log. "And send word to the goons. Igor's plane lands in six hours. Make sure he doesn't arrive at his home alive."

"Understood," Alek replies with a respectful bow.

I turn away, already thinking ahead. Igor Makarov will die today, and with him, any threat to my rule from the Makarov clan will fall, and the Sidorov name will reign supreme.

As I walk out of the room, the weight of the Bratva crown settles on my shoulders. Heavy, yet fitting perfectly. with the old fools out of the way, It's time to show the world the strength of young blood. The strength of Vovka Sidorov.

Feeling too excited to wait, I decide not to sit out the demise of Igor. It’s a scene I need to witness for myself. I watch from a distance, the tinted windows of my SUV shielding me from the unforgiving cold outside. Igor Makarov's car approaches, headlights piercing through the twilight haze. I lean back in my seat, an evil anticipation coiling in my gut like a serpent ready to strike.

"Are we ready?" I ask Alek, who sits next to me, his eyes fixed on the unfolding scene.

"Ready, Khan," he confirms, his voice steady as steel. The phone in his hand is a silent lifeline to the men lying in wait.

"Make the call."

Alek presses a button and speaks into the phone with lethal calm. "Now."

The attack unfolds like a brutal ballet choreographed to perfection. My men burst from their hiding spots, guns blazing, shattering the silence. Igor's car swerves, and the tires squeal in protest as they are forced off the road. There's a sickening crunch of metal as it collides with a tree.

"Out! Out!" I hear them shout over the noise.

The mighty Igor is dragged out from the wreckage, bloodied but unbowed. Even from this distance, I can see the fury etched on his face. He fights like a cornered animal, his fists connecting with jawbones, his legs kicking out with desperate strength.

"Come on, old man," I murmur, almost admiringly.

But Igor is outnumbered, and even the strongest lion cannot fend off a pack of hyenas forever. They swarm him, relentless and cruel. Every blow they land is an echo of my rage against the Makarov dynasty.

"Finish it," I command through gritted teeth, though only Alek hears me.

Alek nods once, solemnly, before stepping out of the vehicle. I remain seated, watching the final act unfold. He fires several shots and Igor Makarov—the great pakhan— falls under the weight of his attackers, his legacy crumbling with him.

"Is it done?" I ask when Alek returns, but his expression is unreadable.

"It's done, Pakhan. I buried one in his skull to make sure of it."

"Good." My voice is ice. "No loose ends."

"None," he assures me.

The darkness grows around us, swallowing the remnants of twilight. The Makarov's time has ended. And mine? Mine has just begun.

Ah, life truly begins at forty.