Chapter 31
DROGO
Two years.
Seven hundred and thirty days since I left London. Since I walked out of Alena's apartment promising I'd be back in a few days.
The tattoo artist finishes the last star. Wipes away the blood. Steps back. "Done," he says in Russian-accented English.
I look down at my body in the mirror.
Eight-pointed stars on both collarbones. Check. Stars on both knees. Check. Epaulettes on my shoulders—rank symbols. Authority earned through blood. A tiger on my right thigh—Bratva elite. The kind of ink you don't get unless you've proven yourself in ways most men don't survive.
My chest and arms were already covered before Klaus—lines and shapes coiling up my forearms, geometric patterns across my ribs, a wolf on my shoulder blade. The kind of ink I'd gotten young and stupid, back when Marcus and I thought tattoos made us look dangerous instead of just broke.
But over my heart, untouched by Bratva symbols, still there under all the new ink: Alena. In delicate script. The one tattoo that matters. The one Klaus pretends not to see.
I'm a walking canvas of violence now. Stars and beasts and symbols that scream Bratva to anyone who knows how to read them. The artist packs up his kit. "You wear them well, Drogo Solberg. Your father would be proud."
I don't answer. Just stand there, shirtless, staring at the stranger in the mirror—covered in ink that tells a story of blood and loyalty and lies.
Two years of becoming someone unrecognizable.
Two years of earning every star, every rank symbol, every piece of authority that makes grown men step aside when I enter a room.
Klaus enters the room. Walks now without the oxygen tank most days. Cancer in remission—miracle the doctors still can't explain. He looks healthier. Stronger. I look dead.
"Beautiful," Klaus says, circling me like I'm a sculpture he commissioned. "You're complete now. A true vor."
I pull my shirt back on. Black. Expensive. Hides everything.
"Tonight, we celebrate," Klaus continues. "The clubs. The family. Everyone needs to see you. See what you've become."
"Fine."
No fight. No argument. Just compliance. Because two years of this has taught me something: fighting only makes it hurt more. And nothing I do brings me closer to her. So, I stopped fighting. Stopped caring. Just do what's asked. Kill who needs killing. Take what needs taking. Become the monster.
It's easier that way.
Klaus thinks I've finally broken. Finally accepted this life. Finally become his.
Let him think that.
· · ·
Late that night, alone in my penthouse, I sit on the edge of the bed with the tablet—not Klaus's tablet. Mine. The one the hacker built for me. Encrypted. Untraceable. Klaus doesn't know it exists.
I swipe through the feeds. Alena's new house. Every room. Every angle. The hacker installed the cameras three months ago when she moved in. High-quality. Hidden. Klaus had his own surveillance network on her old flat, but when she moved, the hacker made sure I got there first.
Klaus lost visual on her three months ago.
Didn't even realize it at first—the hacker fed him old footage, recycled clips, timestamps adjusted.
By the time Klaus figured out something was wrong, I'd already threatened him.
Quietly. Privately. Made it clear that if he pushed to restore surveillance, I'd know. And I'd make him regret it.
He backed off. Didn't insist. Because he thinks I'm fully committed now. Thinks I've finally stopped caring about her. Thinks the surveillance doesn't matter anymore because his son is finally, completely his.
He's wrong.
My phone buzzes. Text from Yuri—one of Klaus's hitmen. The one assigned to watch her. "Boss, checking in. Subject left house 0800. Gun range. Returned 1100. No incidents. Still sober. Still alone."
I text back. "Good. Keep distance. Don't let her see you."
"Da, Boss."
Boss. Not Klaus. Me. The hitmen call me now when Klaus orders them to do something. They still follow his commands—stalk her, monitor her, report back—but they tell me first. Every movement. Every order. Every threat.
I've turned Klaus's own surveillance network against him. He thinks his men are watching her for him. They're watching her for me.
I swipe through the latest footage. Alena in her new house.
Suburbs. Clean. Safe. She looks better than she did six months ago—healthier, hair longer, eyes clearer.
She's moved on. Built a new life. Sober-ish, according to Yuri's reports.
Shooting range three times a week. Writing again.
The latest book is a bestseller. Film adaptation in production.
She's thriving without me. Good. That was the point, wasn't it? Keep her safe. Keep her alive. Even if it meant she forgot I existed.
I zoom in on her face in one frame—smiling at something Lucy said.
Real smile. Not the hollow one from two years ago.
I touch the screen. Trace her cheek with my finger.
Face blank. Heart empty. I feel nothing.
Haven't felt anything in months. Just this…
void. Where emotions used to be. Where the man I was used to live.
Now there's just the work. The kills. The stars. And her face on a screen I can't stop looking at.
I close the tablet. Set it aside. Get dressed for the club.
· · ·
The club is in Chelsea. High-end. Exclusive. The kind of place where oligarchs and criminals and politicians all pretend they don't know each other. Owned by the Bratva, of course. Everything is.
I arrive with Klaus in a black SUV. Guards flanking us. People part when we enter—recognition, fear, respect. Klaus Müller and his heir. The son who's already more dangerous than the father ever was.
They call me Solnechny Volk—Sun Wolf. Because I'm Klaus's son (sun), but I hunt alone (wolf). Because I'm more brutal than the old guard ever expected. Because in two years, I've built a reputation that makes grown men flinch.
We're led to a private room on the top floor. Leather couches. Glass table. Dim lighting. Bass from the club below vibrating through the walls.
Other men are already here—lieutenants, captains, Klaus's inner circle. Suits. Cigars. Glasses of vodka that cost more than most people make in a month.
Klaus settles into the head of the table. I sit to his right.
Cocaine on the glass table. White lines already cut. Offered like appetizers.
I don't hesitate anymore. Take the rolled bill. Lean down. Snort.
The burn is immediate. Familiar. Clarifying.
Two years ago, I would've refused. Would've thought about what Alena would say if she saw me. Now I don't think at all. Just take what's offered. Feel nothing. Move on.
Klaus watches with that proud, dying smile. Murmurs, "Good. You're finally learning to enjoy the life." He raises his glass. "That's my boy."
I lean back on the couch. Let the coke hit my system. Numb and sharp at the same time.
The door opens. Music floods in for a moment—heavy bass, synthetic beats. Then the women enter. Six of them. All in black leather. Heels. Dark lipstick. Professional smiles that don't reach their eyes.
Hookers. High-end, but still hookers.
Two kneel between my legs immediately. Hands on my thighs. Looking up at me with practiced seduction.
A new lieutenant—Dmitri, mid-thirties, scar across his jaw, eager to prove himself—grins at me from across the table. "Good, no?" he says in heavily accented English. "Best in the city. Klaus's gift. For completing your stars."
I look down at the women. One blonde. One brunette. Both beautiful in that expensive, manufactured way. They smile. Waiting for permission. For instruction.
I feel nothing. No desire. No disgust. Nothing. Just the coke in my system and the bass vibrating through the floor and the void where my heart used to be.
"Private room," I say. "Upstairs. Both of you."
Klaus raises his glass. Approving. Then he laughs. "That's my boy."
The women stand. Follow me out.
· · ·
The private room is smaller. Bed. Leather chair. Bathroom. Soundproof. I close the door behind us. Lock it.
The women wait. Expectant. Already reaching for zippers, clasps.
"Stop," I say.
They freeze.
I walk to the minibar. Pour myself a drink. Vodka. Neat. "Here's what's going to happen," I say without looking at them. "You're going to sit on that bed for the next hour. You're going to mess up your hair. Smudge your lipstick. Make noise—moaning, whatever. Loud enough they hear it outside."
Silence.
I turn. Look at them directly. "And when you leave, you're going to tell them I fucked you both. Rough. Good. Whatever story sells. Understood?"
The blonde exchanges a glance with the brunette. "You… don't want us to—"
"No."
"But Klaus—"
"Will hear exactly what I want him to hear." I pull out my wallet. Peel off several hundred-dollar bills. Hand them over. "This is for your trouble. And your discretion."
The brunette takes the money slowly. "You're sure?"
"Positive."
She nods. Looks at her friend. Some unspoken communication passes between them. "Okay," the blonde says finally. She sits on the bed. Musses her hair. The brunette does the same. Then they start making noise. Moaning. Gasping. The bed creaking as they shift their weight. Convincing.
I sit in the chair by the window. Drink my vodka.
Stare out at the city. Let them perform.
I wouldn’t touch a woman. I didn’t want to and I haven’t in two years.
What I said to Alena the last night we were together was something I meant.
She was mine and I was hers completely. I wouldn’t cheat on her.
Also, my dick agreed. Never, in the two years of that bullshit, had it become hard with any woman other than the reflection on the tablet. Never.
An hour later, I unlock the door. The women leave—hair dishevelled, makeup smudged, looking thoroughly used. Dmitri is waiting in the hall. Grins when he sees them. "Good?" The blonde smiles. Leans in. Whispers something in his ear that makes him laugh.
"Solnechny Volk lives up to his reputation," Dmitri calls after me.
I don't respond. Just head for the exit.
· · ·
Early morning. 4 AM. Back at the penthouse. Guards outside the door. City lights bleeding through floor-to-ceiling windows.
I strip off my clothes. Leave them in a pile on the floor. Head to the shower.
Hot water. Steam filling the bathroom. I turn it up hotter—scalding, burning the fresh tattoos until they throb. Stand under the spray. Let it pound against my shoulders, my neck, the ink that's still raw and bleeding into the water running down the drain.
Close my eyes.
And there she is.
Alena.
Not the woman from the surveillance feeds.
Not the healed, moved-on version shooting guns at a range and smiling at Lucy's jokes.
The her from two years ago. In my arms. In my bed.
Her laugh on the balcony, cigarette between her fingers, eyes bright under London lights.
Her voice whispering "This feels different.
" Her body against mine—soft skin, dark hair spilling over my chest, the way she'd looked at me after I came inside her.
Like I was everything. The way she'd reached for me in her sleep that last morning. Trusting. Warm. Mine.
My hand drops. Wraps around my cock. Already hard from the memory.
I stroke slowly. Eyes closed. Water cascading over me, steam making the tattoos burn like fresh brands.
See her on her knees. Lips around me. The way she'd looked up—those dark eyes holding mine while she took me deeper.
Hear her gasp when I'd lifted her onto the dresser.
The scratch of her nails down my back. Feel her clenching around me when she came.
The way her whole body had shaken. Taste her on my tongue—smoke and something darker, something only I knew.
My grip tightens. Strokes faster. Remember the way she'd whispered, "I've always been yours." The way I'd said "I love you" into the dark where she couldn't hear. The way she'd smiled against my chest and made me believe, for one perfect night, that we could actually last.
I come hard. Groaning her name into the steam. "Alena—" My hand shakes. My voice breaks. The word echoes off the tile. Pathetic. Desperate. The truth I can't tell anyone.
I slump against the wall. Water still running. Breathing ragged. Wipe my hand. Watch the evidence of my weakness circle the drain.
Two years. Two years of this. Two years of becoming a monster by day and jerking off to her memory by night like some lovesick teenager who can't let go.
I turn off the water. Step out. Dry off.
Catch my reflection in the mirror—Bratva stars on my collarbones, epaulettes on my shoulders, tiger on my thigh, all the symbols of violence and rank I've earned through blood and lies.
And over my heart: Alena. Still there. Still hers.
Even if she'll never know. Even if I'm nothing but a memory to her now.
I go to bed. I rest the tablet with her live feed on the next pillow as I do every night. I watch her move around, and I trace her with my fingers. I don’t think I can sleep without seeing her. I close my eyes and dream of a woman who still belongs to me.
Mine.