Chapter 29
DROGO
The caption underneath—sent by Klaus like a fucking news update—reads: Car accident. High BAC. Totaled her Mustang. She's stable.
Stable.
Like that's supposed to make it okay. Like that's supposed to stop my heart from slamming against my ribs so hard I can't breathe. My hands start shaking—not from fear, from rage so pure it's almost clean.
She got in a car crash. Because of me. Because I left her thinking I'd abandoned her after finally having her. Because she's been drinking herself unconscious for six months trying to numb the pain I caused. Because she was crying so hard she couldn't see the road.
I did this.
I pick up the tablet. Hurl it across the penthouse. It hits the window—safety glass, doesn't break—but the tablet explodes into pieces. Plastic and circuit boards scattering across the floor like shrapnel.
"FUCK!"
The door slams open. Two guards rush in, hands going to their holsters. "Boss? Vsyo v poryadke?" Everything alright?
I don't answer. Just walk past them. Fast. Purpose in every step.
One grabs my arm. "Ser, vam nuzhno—" Sir, you need to—
I shake him off. Keep walking. Down the hall. To the elevator. Punch the button for Klaus's floor. The guards follow, talking into radios in rapid Russian. Warnings. Alerts. I don't care.
The elevator opens directly into Klaus's penthouse suite. He's in his chair by the windows, morning light streaming in, coffee on the side table, oxygen tank humming quietly. He turns when I enter. Smiles.
"Good morning, son. I assume you saw—"
I'm across the room in three strides. Grab him by the collar. Yank him out of the chair. His oxygen tubes rip free. He gasps, hands clawing at my wrists.
I slam him against the window.
"She got in a car crash!" My voice is a roar. Raw. Breaking. "I did that! Because of you!"
"Drogo—" Klaus chokes.
"She could have died!" I pull him forward, slam him back again. Harder. "You made me leave her! You made me disappear! And now she's in a fucking hospital because she can't handle—"
I can't finish. Can't say the words. Because she can't handle me abandoning her. So I hit him instead.
Fist to his jaw. Bone crunching under my knuckles. I feel nothing when his nose cracks—just the satisfying give of bone under pressure, the warm spray of blood across my hand. Clinical. Efficient.
Klaus's head snaps to the side. Blood sprays from his mouth.
I hit him again. And again. His cheek splits open. Nose breaks—second time I've broken it. Blood pouring down his face, soaking into his white shirt.
He's laughing. Even through the blood and pain, he's laughing.
"There he is," Klaus chokes out through broken teeth. "My son—"
I punch him in the gut. He doubles over, coughing blood onto the floor.
Hands grab me from behind. The guards. Three of them now. Pulling me back. I elbow one in the face. Feel his nose crunch. He staggers, blood streaming.
Twist out of another's grip. Fist to his throat. He drops, gasping.
The third gets an arm around my neck—chokehold, trying to cut off air. I throw my weight back, slam him into the wall. His grip loosens. I spin. Grab his collar. Headbutt. He crumples.
I stand there, breathing steady, surrounded by bodies. Not even winded.
Klaus is on the floor now, leaning against the window, blood dripping from his chin. Still smiling through broken teeth. "Feel better?"
"Fuck you."
He laughs—wet, rattling. "You hit like your mother finally did. Too late, but beautiful."
I run my hands through my hair. Pull. Hard. Like I can rip the rage out through my scalp. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!"
I turn back to Klaus. Crouch down so we're eye level. "Fuck you," I say again. Quieter this time. Deadly.
He wipes blood from his mouth. "She's alive, Drogo. That's what matters."
"She's suffering."
"She's breathing."
"She drove drunk into a fucking wall because I left her!" My voice cracks. "She's bleeding. Broken. Alone. And I can't—"
I can't even call her. Can't tell her I'm sorry. Can't explain. Can't do anything but sit here in this cage while she falls apart.
"I need a phone," I say.
"No."
"I need a working phone. Now."
"You know I can't—"
"I don't care what you can or can't do." I stand. Look around the room. Spot one of the lieutenants—mid-thirties, scar across his jaw, always hovering near Klaus like a loyal dog. He's standing in the doorway now, staring at the carnage.
I walk toward him. "Prinesi mne rabochiy telefon. Seychas." Bring me a working phone. Now.
He looks at Klaus.
"Ne smotri na nego," I say in Russian. Don't look at him. "Ya s toboy razgovarivayu." I'm talking to you.
The lieutenant hesitates. Switches to Russian, following my lead like he's already decided who's in charge. "Boss-"
I kick his knee out from under him. He drops hard, gasping.
I crouch beside him. Voice low. Controlled.
"Ya skazhu eto eshche raz. Prinesi mne rabochiy telefon.
Ili ya slomaju kazhdyuyu kost' v tvoey ruke po odnoy.
" I'm going to say this one more time. Bring me a working phone.
Or I will break every bone in your hand one by one.
He stares at me. Fear in his eyes now. Good.
"Seychas." Now.
He nods frantically. Scrambles to his feet. Runs.
I turn back to Klaus. He's watching me with something like pride in his eyes, blood still dripping. Smiling through the pain.
"You really do love her," he says.
"More than you'll ever understand."
"I understand more than you think." He coughs. Spits blood. "I loved your mother once. Before she tried to kill you both."
"Don't."
"She was beautiful. Innocent. I thought maybe—" He laughs. Wet. Broken. "I thought maybe I could be different for her. But she saw what I was and it destroyed her."
"Shut up."
"Alena's stronger," Klaus continues. "She won't break like your mother did. She'll survive this."
"She shouldn't have to." My fists clench. "She shouldn't have to survive me."
"But she will. Because she loves you too. Even now. Even after six months of silence."
I close my eyes. See her face in that hospital bed. Bruised. Broken. Alone.
The lieutenant returns. Hands me a phone—burner, but functional. I stare at it. One call. That's all it would take. Hear her voice. Tell her I'm sorry. Tell her I'm coming back.
But Klaus is watching. Waiting. If I call her now, he'll know exactly how much leverage he has. He'll know I'll do anything—anything—to protect her. More than he already knows.
"You call her," he says softly, "and I send someone to that hospital. Right now. While she's vulnerable. While she can't run."
My hand tightens on the phone. I look at Klaus. Look at the phone. Then I throw it—hard, precise, watching it hit the wall and shatter like it was nothing.
Klaus nods. Approving. "Good boy."
"I'm not your boy," I say through clenched teeth.
"No," Klaus agrees. "You're hers. And that's why you'll keep obeying. Because losing her would destroy you worse than anything I could do."
I turn away. Walk to the window. Stare out at the city below, Manhattan stretching endlessly in every direction. A world away from London. From her. From the woman lying in a hospital bed because I wasn't there to stop her from getting in that car.
My reflection stares back at me in the glass. Bratva star on my collarbone. Fresh bruises on my knuckles. Blood—Klaus's blood—splattered across my shirt. I don't recognize myself anymore. Six months ago, I was an architect. A man who built things. Now I'm this. A killer. A monster. My father's son.
And the woman I love is bleeding in a hospital bed across an ocean I can't cross.
"She's getting the car fixed," Klaus says from behind me. "The Mustang. Full restoration. She told her friends it's the one thing she has left that won't leave her."
The words land like bullets. I close my eyes. "She's strong," Klaus repeats. "She'll survive."
"She shouldn't have to," I whisper to the glass. To my reflection. To the man I used to be. But he doesn't answer. Because he's already gone.
· · ·
That night, I sit in my penthouse staring at the city. Guards outside my door. Cage with a view. I pull out my burner phone—the one the hacker gave me months ago. Encrypted. Untraceable. Klaus doesn't know about it.
I text the hacker. "Need a favor. Clean phone line to London. One call. No traces."
Response comes in thirty seconds. "When?"
"Now."
"Give me ten minutes."
I wait. Pacing. The penthouse feels smaller with every step, walls closing in. I can still see her face in that hospital bed. The bruises. The cast. The way she looked so small, so broken, so alone. Because of me.
The phone buzzes. "Done. Number's active for 10 minutes. Routing through 4 countries. Klaus won't know. Call now."
He includes a number. Marcus's number. Not Alena's. The hacker's smart—knows I can't risk calling her directly.
I dial.
It rings twice. Then: "Yeah?" Marcus's voice. Wary.
"Marcus."
Silence. Then: "Drogo? What the fuck—where are you? Where have you been? Do you have any idea what—"
"How is she?"
"What?"
"Alena. The crash. How is she?"
Marcus's breathing changes. Harder. Angrier. "You're calling to ask how she is? After six months of nothing? After—"
"Marcus. Please. Just tell me."
A pause. Heavy. Then: "She's alive. Broken arm, bruised ribs, concussion. She's home now. With Lucy." His voice drops. "She was drunk, Drogo. Point-two-one. She totalled the Mustang. She could have died."
I close my eyes. "I know."
"Do you? Because you left her. That note—'found something better'? That destroyed her. She's been drinking herself to death for six months thinking you abandoned her after finally—" He stops. Growls. "Where the fuck are you?"
What fucking note? I haven’t left her any note other than one that morning.
What the fuck? I didn’t know I could get angrier.
The pen I grabbed from the desk a moment ago bends in my hand and I want to scream at Marcus “I didn’t leave her that note!
I love her! Please tell her I am coming back soon! ”. But I don’t.
"I can't tell you that."
"Can't or won't?"
"Both."
"Then why are you calling?"
"To know she's alive. To—" My voice cracks. "To know you're watching her. Protecting her."
"Don't you care about her?" Marcus's voice is raw. Accusatory. "Don't you care that she's falling apart? That she thinks you used her and threw her away?"
"I'm doing this for her," I say quietly. "Please understand."
Silence. Long. Heavy.
Then Marcus, quieter: "You're in trouble."
It's not a question.
"Yes."
"The kind you can't get out of."
"Not yet."
Another pause. I can hear him thinking, calculating, the old pit fighter instincts kicking in. "Does she need protection?"
"Yes. But don't tell her why. Don't tell her I called. If she knows—if anyone knows—it makes her a target."
"Jesus Christ, Drogo."
"Keep this call secret. From everyone. Especially her."
"She deserves to know you didn't abandon her."
"She deserves to live," I say. "That's all that matters."
Marcus exhales. Long. Defeated. "I understand."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me. Just—" His voice cracks. "Just come back. When you can. She needs you."
"I know."
"And Drogo? That note. The handwriting. It wasn't right."
My chest tightens. "I know."
"I'll keep looking. Quietly."
"Be careful."
"You too."
The line goes dead.
I sit there in the silence, phone in hand. Marcus understands. He'll protect her. Watch over her. Keep her safe while I do what needs to be done here.
Thank you, brother.