Chapter 27
DROGO
Six months.
That's how long I've been in New York. Half a year since I walked out of Alena's apartment promising I'd be back in a few days. Half a year of blood on my hands and lies on my tongue. Half a year of becoming someone I don't recognize in the mirror anymore.
The stars on my knees burn under fresh bandages—two eight-pointed Bratva stars, one on each kneecap. Earned two nights ago in Klaus's penthouse basement, guards holding my arms while the tattoo artist worked and Klaus watched from his wheelchair with that smug, dying smile.
"Klekni," he'd said in Russian. Kneel. "Dokazi chto ty gotov." Prove you're ready.
I'd answered in the same language. "Ya gotov, otets." I'm ready, father.
The words came easier now. Russian rolled off my tongue like I'd been speaking it my whole life instead of just six months.
Immersion, they call it. Survival, I call it.
You learn fast when your life depends on understanding every whispered conversation, every coded order, every threat hidden in pleasantries.
The irony of the knee stars wasn't lost on me. Bratva stars on the knees mean I bow to no one. But I'd gotten mine by kneeling for him. By bowing to every demand, every kill, every piece of myself he asked me to carve away.
I'd done it for her. For Alena, who had no idea where I was or why I'd disappeared.
Klaus should be dead by now. Stage four cancer, months to live—that's what the doctors said six months ago.
But the universe has a sick sense of humor.
The cancer went into remission three months in.
Some miracle the doctors can't explain, some experimental treatment his money bought.
Now he's walking more, oxygen tank gathering dust in a corner, voice stronger, eyes sharper.
Watching me like a hawk that's finally caught its prey and isn't letting go.
They moved me out of the safe house three months ago—into this penthouse Klaus calls a "gift.
" Midtown, floor-to-ceiling windows, views of a city that doesn't give a fuck about the blood on my hands.
Guards outside the door 24/7. "Protection," they call it.
Prison, I call it. But at least it's a prison with internet access.
A laptop. Resources I've been using carefully. Quietly.
I sit on the edge of the bed, tablet in hand. Klaus's torture device. Live feeds. Photos. Updates on everyone back in London. Proof they're still breathing. Proof I have to keep obeying.
I tap the screen. Alena. The latest photo loads—timestamped yesterday. She's in her flat, curled on the couch, face buried in what looks like my old hoodie. Shoulders shaking. Crying. Again.
I don't scroll through the archive anymore. Don't torture myself with weeks of surveillance showing her spiral. But also, my little girl is trying. Yes, she drinks her ass off, but she stands. Writes. She has started shooting lessons and fuck me that woman can use a gun like she was born with one in her hand. Also, now the feedback says she drives faster and faster. Like she has no patience to wait in line or at lights anymore. She smiles less. A lot less, but she smiles. She tries to eat at least once a day, and she is avoiding the places in her apartment we used to sit together. In six months, she has never slept on her bed. Like she is avoiding the last place we were together and made her mine. Probably now, that bed feels like the last place I lied to her. It’s better than the first photographs of her in the archive. That’s why I avoid it.
I know what's there. Her at her desk, back bandaged, blood seeping through.
Her drinking alone. Her on the floor surrounded by broken glass. I've seen it. Memorized it. Used it.
Rage is better fuel than guilt.
I close the app. Drop the tablet on the bed. Get up.
Morning routine: shower to wash off last night's blood that is not mine, black shirt to hide the collarbone star, coffee black as my mood. I don't think about who I was six months ago. That man is dead. Buried under Bratva ink and Russian consonants and bodies I've stopped counting.
· · ·
The guards drive me to the "office"—Queens backroom that looks legitimate on paper but bleeds Bratva underneath.
Concrete floors. Metal desks. Fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.
The hacker is already there when I arrive, sitting off to the side with his laptop open, fingers flying across keys.
He glances up when I enter. Nods once. I return it.
The lieutenants are waiting. Four mid-level guys in cheap suits that don't hide prison ink or shoulder holsters. Six months ago, they tested me. Now they wait for me to speak first.
I sit at the head of the table. They look to me for orders before checking with Klaus's second-in-command. The shift happened gradually—so slow no one could point to a single moment. But it's there now. Undeniable.
Six months ago, I was an architect. Now I'm this.
Status? I ask in Russian. "Chto po otgruzke?"
Sergei answers. "Problema na dokakh." Problem at the docks. "Albanskaya banda snova leezet." Albanian crew trying to muscle in. Again.
"Reshit'," I say. Handle it. My tone leaves no room for discussion.
"Vziatki ili tela?" Sergei asks. Bribes or bodies?
I don't hesitate. "Tela, esli oni soprotivliautsya." Bodies if they push back.
The words come easy now. Too easy. Like flipping a switch I can't turn off anymore.
A new guy—young, cocky, fresh tattoos on his knuckles still red and scabbed—leans forward. "Boss, ya dumaiu chto my dolzhny—"
I cut him off. "Ty dumaesh'?" You think? I stand. Slow. Deliberate. Walk around the table. "Vot v chem problema." That's the problem.
He bristles. Opens his mouth.
I grab his collar, yank him up from his chair, slam him against the wall. The impact rattles the metal desks. Coffee cups jump. No one moves to help him.
"Ty ne dumaesh'," I say quietly in Russian, face inches from his. You don't think. "Ty delaesh' to, chto tebe govoryat." You do what you're told. "Ili ty zakonchish' kak posledniy durak, kotory dumal chto on znaet luchshe." Or you end up like the last idiot who thought he knew better.
I switch to English for the last part, voice dropping to a whisper. "And trust me. You don't want to know how that ended."
He nods frantically. "Da, ser. Da." Yes, sir. Yes.
I let go. He drops back into his seat, shaking. The room stays silent. I catch Viktor's eye across the table. He's watching me with something that might be respect. Or fear. I'll take either.
I sit back down. "Eshche chto-nibud'?" Anything else?
They shake their heads.
"Togda ukhodite." Then get out.
They leave. All except the hacker.
He closes his laptop slowly. Waits until the door shuts. Then looks at me.
"Your Russian's gotten better," he says in English. American accent, but he understands every word spoken in this room. I've tested that.
"Immersion works," I say. "You have the information I asked for?"
He slides a USB drive across the table. "Klaus's medical records. Treatment schedules. Doctor contacts. The experimental drug keeping him alive." He pauses. "Also found the supplier. Swiss pharmaceutical company. Very exclusive. Very expensive."
I pocket the drive. "How hard would it be to cut off his supply?"
"Depends. You want it to look like an accident or do you want him to know?"
I meet his eyes. "I want options."
He nods. "I'll work on it."
"Why are you helping me?" I ask. Testing. Always testing. "You've been in this organization longer than I have. You're loyal to Klaus."
He laughs—short, bitter. "I'm loyal to survival. Klaus is dying. Everyone knows it, even if his miracle treatment bought him a few more months. When he goes, there'll be a power vacuum. I'd rather work for someone who doesn't kill people for sport."
"And you think I don't?"
"I think you do it because you have to. Not because you like it." He stands. "That's the difference. Klaus enjoys it. You calculate it. One's a monster. The other's just dangerous."
He heads for the door, pauses. "The money flows you asked about last week—I sent them to your encrypted email. Offshore accounts. Shell companies. The whole web. You'll see who's skimming and who's clean."
"And if Klaus asks what you're working on?"
"I tell him I'm tracking Albanian activity. Which I am. He doesn't need to know I'm also tracking his own people." A pause. "For you."
I nod. "Good. Keep it that way."
He leaves.
I stay at the table, staring at the USB drive in my palm. Klaus's lifeline. His weakness. Delivered to me by someone inside his own organization.
The network is building. Slowly. Carefully. But it's building.
· · ·
Afternoon: a "collection" in Brooklyn. Debtor who thought he could short us on a protection payment. Big guy—muscles, tattoos, the kind who thinks size means something.
He starts with excuses. "Look, I just need more time—"
I don't let him finish.
Grab his throat with one hand. Slam him against the wall hard enough to crack plaster. He swings—wild, sloppy, telegraphed. I see it coming a mile away. Duck. Elbow to his gut with surgical precision. He doubles over, wheezing.
Knee to his face—crack of cartilage, blood spraying across the floor. He staggers. Swings again, desperate now. I catch his arm. Twist. Feel the shoulder pop out of socket like a champagne cork.
He screams.
I don't stop. Fist to his jaw—once, twice, three times. Methodical. Efficient. Teeth crack. Blood flows. He drops to his knees.
The lieutenants watch. No one intervenes. This is a test. It's always a test. But I'm not the one being tested anymore.
I stand over him, breathing steady, not even winded. Pit fighter training, Klaus's voice in my head, my own cold calculation—they've all merged into something sharper. Deadlier.
"Zaplatit'. Seychas." Payment. Now.
He nods through blood. "Z-zavtra—" Tomorrow—
"Sevodnya." Today.
He pays. In full. Cash pulled from a safe with shaking hands while I watch, expression blank.
As we leave, Viktor falls into step beside me. "You're getting colder," he says quietly in Russian. "Bolshe pokhozhim na Klausa kazhdiy den'." More like Klaus every day.
I don't respond. Because he's right.
And that's exactly what I need them to think.
· · ·
That night, I sit in the penthouse staring at my laptop.
Two windows open. The horror theme park plans on one side—blueprints, renders, timelines.
My firm. My project. The thing I built with Alena before everything went to hell.
Now it's a front, laundering millions through "international projects. "
On the other side: the hacker's files. Money flows. Shell companies. Offshore accounts. Names. Faces. Who's loyal. Who's ambitious. Who's just waiting for Klaus to die so they can make their move.
I'm building a map. A web. Every connection, every vulnerability, every piece of leverage I might need when the moment comes.
The USB drive sits beside the laptop. Klaus's medical records glow on a third window. Treatment schedules. Drug names. Doctor appointments. His lifeline, laid bare.
I could end him tomorrow. Cut off his supply. Watch the cancer come roaring back. Watch him wither and die while I consolidate power.
But that's not enough.
I don't just want Klaus dead. I want his empire dismantled. Every lieutenant who ever hurt someone for him. Every operation built on blood. I want it burned to ash so thoroughly there's nothing left to rebuild.
And then I want to walk away. Back to London. Back to Alena.
If there's anything left of me worth saving by then.
My phone buzzes. Klaus. "Uzhin sevodnya. 8 PM. Ne opazdyvay." Dinner tonight. Don't be late.
I text back in Russian. "Budu." I'll be there.
I close the laptop. Pour a drink—vodka, straight, the way they taught me. Stare out the window at the city below, lights glittering like stars in a sky that doesn't give a fuck about the blood on my hands.
I look down at my knees. The stars itch under the bandages. "Ya ne klanyayus' nikomu." I bow to no one.
Except I do.
Every day.
For her.
Because if I don't, she dies. And I can't let that happen. Even if it means there's nothing left of me when this is over. Even if she'll hate me for what I've become.
I down the vodka. Feel it burn.
Viktor was right. I am getting colder. More like Klaus every day.
But where Klaus enjoyed the violence, I weaponize it.
Where Klaus built an empire to rule, I'm building one to destroy.
And when the moment comes—when I have every piece in place, every ally secured, every weakness mapped—I'll bring it all crashing down.
Klaus included.
I set the glass down. Look at my reflection in the window.
The man staring back is a stranger.
Cold. Calculating. Dangerous.
Exactly what I need to be.