Chapter 15
DROGO
The jet touched down at a private airstrip in New Jersey just after dawn. Gray sky stretched overhead like bruised skin. Cold wind off the Hudson cut through my jacket the moment I stepped onto the tarmac.
Another black SUV was waiting. Same silent driver type—this one with a faint scar across his throat and eyes that didn't blink. Not once. Not when I got in, not when he started the engine, not when we pulled onto the highway heading toward Manhattan.
We drove into the city as it woke around us. Traffic building in slow waves. Lights flickering off in skyscrapers as office workers arrived to replace the night cleaners. I watched the skyline approach through the tinted windows, steel and glass rising like blades against the pale morning sky.
The building was one of those glass towers on Billionaires' Row—anonymous, expensive, impossible to trace unless you knew exactly where to look. The kind of place where oligarchs and crime bosses and tech billionaires lived side by side without ever acknowledging each other's existence.
Penthouse. Top three floors.
The elevator opened directly into the apartment—no hallway, no buffer, just straight into his world.
Dark wood floors polished to a mirror shine.
Floor-to-ceiling windows on every wall—Central Park spread out below like a green carpet meant for ants, not people.
The furniture was heavy, leather, old European style.
Nothing flashy. No gold toilets or tiger skin rugs or the kind of gaudy shit you'd expect from new money trying to prove something.
Just quiet wealth. The kind that didn't need to shout because everyone already knew.
Two guards stood by the door. Big men with Russian features—broad shoulders, flat eyes, hands that stayed very still at their sides. No visible guns, but I felt them anyway. Holstered under jackets, maybe ankle pieces as backup. Ready.
And there he was.
Klaus Müller.
Sitting in a high-backed leather chair facing the windows, an oxygen tank humming quietly beside him like a loyal dog waiting for scraps.
He was thin now—cancer eating him from the inside out, hollowing him the way it always did—but still tall.
Still straight-backed. Refusing to let death make him small.
Silver hair cropped military-short. Face all sharp Germanic bones under pale skin pulled tight like parchment. The kind of face that looked cruel even in repose.
He didn't turn when I entered. Didn't acknowledge me at all for several long seconds.
"Sit," he said finally in English, his accent thick but perfect—German precision wrapped around American vowels. "We have much to discuss."
I stayed standing.
He turned then, slowly, like a king acknowledging a subject who'd dared approach the throne.
Eyes like mine. Cold blue. Flat. Empty of anything resembling warmth or mercy. The same eyes I'd hated in every mirror since I was old enough to understand what they meant—where they came from, what blood ran behind them.
He wore a white linen shirt, open at the collar despite the cold. And there they were.
The stars.
Eight-pointed. Faded black ink but still clear on each collarbone. Bratva stars. High rank. Authority earned not through money or connections but through blood and violence and years in Russian prisons I never wanted to know the names of.
Lower on his chest—cathedral domes. Small, intricate. One for each long sentence served, maybe. Or for each territory controlled. I didn't know the code well enough to read them all, but I knew enough to understand what I was looking at.
A man who'd lived by one rule his entire life: power, or death.
He saw me looking. Saw my eyes trace the ink on his skin.
"Old habits," he said, touching one star lightly with yellowed fingers. "Reminders of who I was. Who I still am, even like this." He gestured vaguely at the oxygen tank. "You'll get yours if you're smart. Earn them properly."
I didn't answer.
He gestured toward the couch opposite his chair. "Sit, Drogo. Or stand if you prefer. But listen."
I sat. Not because he told me to. Because I wanted to see his face clearly. Wanted to read every micro-expression, every tell. Know when he was lying. Know when he was threatening. Know when to move.
The guards stayed by the door, silent and watchful.
Klaus leaned forward slightly, oxygen tubes shifting against his chest with a soft plastic whisper.
"I'm dying," he said simply. "You know this already. Cancer. Stage four. Doctors give me months at best. But the work doesn't die with me. The family doesn't die. Blood calls to blood, and you—" he smiled, cold and satisfied, "—are my blood whether you like it or not."
"I'm not your family."
"You are." Simple. Final. No room for argument in his tone. "Your mother… she was weak. Thought she could hide you from me. From what you are. What you were always going to be."
"Don't talk about her."
He smiled wider—small, sick, deeply satisfied with my reaction. "She tried to kill you both rather than let you be mine. Brave, in a way. Stupid, certainly. But you lived. Survived being cut from her corpse. Strong. Like me."
I felt the rage rise in my chest—hot, familiar, the kind that made my hands want to close around his throat until the light went out of those cold blue eyes.
He saw it. He liked it. Damn.
"That fire," he said, leaning back with obvious pleasure. "That's exactly why I need you. The Bratva needs new blood. Clean blood. You built something legitimate—architecture, money, respect in circles that matter. Perfect cover. Perfect heir to what I've built."
"I'm not joining your war."
"It's not a choice." He coughed—deep, wet, rattling in his chest like dice in a cup.
When he pulled his hand away from his mouth, there was blood on his palm.
He wiped it casually on his white shirt.
"Refuse, and I die unhappy. And when I die unhappy, my lieutenants clean house.
Tie up loose ends. Your friends in London—your penthouse, your writer.
Alena." He paused, savoring her name. "Pretty name.
Pretty woman. Lives alone. Very… vulnerable. "
My hands clenched into fists on my knees.
He noticed. Of course he noticed. Smiled again.
"Come willingly. Take your place in the family. Learn the business. Inherit what I've built. And they live. All of them. Free. Untouched. Forever. You have my word."
"Your word means nothing."
"My word," he said coldly, "is the only thing in this world that still has value. I keep my promises. Always. Ask anyone who's worked with me. Ask anyone who's crossed me. They'll tell you—if they're still alive to tell."
"Or?" I asked.
"Or I burn it all before I go." He said it simply, like he was discussing the weather. "Starting with her. The writer. Alena. I'll make sure it's slow. Make sure you know every detail. And then your friends. One by one. Until there's nothing left of the life you tried to build away from me."
Silence filled the penthouse. Heavy. Suffocating.
Below us, the city moved on—cars honking, people rushing to work, life continuing like we weren't sitting here discussing murder and legacy and blood.
Klaus leaned back in his chair, exhausted but triumphant. He'd made his offer. Laid out the terms. Now he waited.
"Think, son," he said quietly. "You have my eyes. My blood. My enemies whether you want them or not. You can't outrun what you are. Better to embrace it. Use it. Build an empire instead of hiding in the shadows pretending you're clean."
I looked at the stars on his chest again. Faded black ink against pale, dying skin.
Earned through violence and loyalty and years of choices I'd never had to make.
And I wondered if I already had them too. Not in ink. But in my soul. In the way I'd fought in the pit for money. In the way I'd hurt people to survive. In the rage that lived in my chest like a second heartbeat.
Maybe he was right.
Maybe I was already his.
I stood. Slow. Deliberate.
Klaus watched me, amusement flickering in those cold eyes—my eyes.
He pushed himself up from the chair with visible effort, oxygen tank rolling beside him on its wheels. Even dying, even hollowed out by cancer, he refused to sit while his son stood over him. Pride, maybe. Or challenge. I couldn't tell which.
We faced each other across a few feet of polished dark wood.
Close enough to smell the sickness on his breath—metal and decay.
Close enough to see the faded stars inked into his collarbones, the cathedral domes on his chest rising and falling with each labored breath.
I smiled.
Small. Cold. The kind of smile that never reached the eyes because it wasn't meant to.
Klaus's brow lifted slightly, waiting.
I scratched my chin casually, like I was thinking it over. Considering his offer. Weighing my options.
Then I laughed.
Low. Quiet.
Right in his face.
And I headbutted him.
Hard.
Forehead to nose.
The crack echoed through the penthouse like a gunshot. Bone gave way. Blood sprayed—hot, coppery, splattering my face and shirt.
Klaus staggered backward, his chair tipping behind him. He hit the floor with a heavy thud—oxygen tank clattering, tubes yanking free for a second before snapping back.
The guards were on me in a heartbeat—two big Russians, trained, fast. One hooked my left arm, the other grabbed my right shoulder, yanking me back with practiced efficiency.
I twisted—sharp, dirty, the way I learned in the pits.
Elbow to the first guard's throat—cartilage crunched.
Knee to the second's groin—he folded with a grunt.
Grip loosened for a split second. I used it.
Dropped low, slammed my shoulder into the first one's chest—ribs cracked.
He staggered into the window, glass rattling.
The second recovered fast—grabbed my jacket collar, tried to choke me out from behind.
I spun, drove my heel down on his instep—bone gave way.
He howled. I ripped free, breathing hard, blood on my knuckles from Klaus, sweat stinging my eyes.
They regrouped, hands going for guns—slow, because they knew I was fast.
I didn't look at them. Didn't acknowledge them at all.
I dropped to one knee over Klaus, straddling his chest, pinning his arms with my weight before he could react.
"That," I said, my voice perfectly calm, "was for your audacity."
He blinked up at me, stunned for maybe the first time in his life. Blood bubbled at his lips.
Then—he laughed.
Wet. Ragged. Delighted.
Like I'd just proved everything he'd ever believed about me.
I punched him.
Once. Hard. Knuckles to cheekbone.
"That's for my mother."
He kept laughing, blood on his teeth now, staining them pink.
I punched him again. Harder this time. Same spot.
"That's for threatening her."
His head snapped to the side. Blood sprayed from his mouth—hot, red, splattering the polished floor beside us. He coughed, wet and ragged, blood bubbling at his lips. The laugh didn't stop. If anything, it got louder.
Alena's face flashed behind my eyes—sleeping in my arms, trusting me to come back, waiting in that apartment alone while he talked about making it slow.
The door slammed open.
Two more guards—bigger, meaner, fresh—stormed in, guns already drawn. They saw their brothers on the floor. One clutching his throat, gasping for air, the other curled around his shattered instep, saw Klaus bleeding and laughing, and moved on me like wolves.
I was ready.
But there were four now. And they weren't playing.
Klaus lay there, blood bubbling at his lips, oxygen mask askew, and still laughing—wet, ragged, delighted.
"See?" he rasped, voice thick with blood and triumph. "That fire. That's mine. You can't help it. You just proved it."
I smiled again. Cold. Empty.
"We'll see."
I tasted copper in my mouth. The punches had met their mark. Hard. I spat blood on his polished floor—a red stain on perfect black—and let the guards drag me back.
Because I'd made my point.
And Klaus?
He was still laughing—even as his new men pinned me down, even as the blood kept pooling around his head.