Chapter 33
DROGO
First move: the tablet. Like always.
I reach for it on the nightstand. Screen lights up. Surveillance feeds loading. Alena's house. Multiple cameras. Living room. Kitchen. Exterior.
I swipe through. Empty rooms. She's probably—
Movement on the exterior feed.
I freeze.
A car. Black Aston Martin. Pulling up to her house.
A man gets out.
Tall. Brown hair. Green eyes visible even through the camera. Expensive suit. Handsome—no, beautiful. The kind of beautiful that makes men look like fucking models.
He walks to her door. Knocks.
The door opens.
And there she is.
Alena.
In a red dress. Backless. Hair done. Makeup perfect.
She looks… stunning.
My heart stops.
The man smiles at her. Says something I can't hear. She responds. He opens the car door for her. She gets in. They drive away.
I stare at the empty screen. At the spot where she stood.
In a red dress. For him. The jealousy hits like a fist to the gut—hot, vicious, so intense I can't breathe.
My hands shake. My vision blurs at the edges.
Two years. Two years of keeping her safe, watching from the shadows, protecting her from Klaus, from threats she doesn't even know exist. And this is how I find out she's moved on. Through a fucking surveillance camera.
I swipe to the archived footage. Find the timestamps. Photos auto-captured by the surveillance AI. Him arriving. 7:32 PM. Her in the doorway. Red dress. Small smile. Him opening the car door. Gentleman. Them driving away. 7:35 PM.
I scroll forward to the pictures Yuri took. Restaurant. Candlelight. Wine. They're sitting across from each other. He's leaning forward. Talking. Smiling. She's… reserved. Guarded. But she's there. On a date. With him.
My chest constricts. Heart racing one second, stopped the next.
I scroll further. Him touching her hand across the table. Her pulling away. Good. Good. But then—him leaning in closer. Saying something that makes her look down. Vulnerable. No.
More photos. The drive home. Him walking her to the door. Leaning in. Kissing her cheek.
She doesn't pull away.
I throw the tablet. It hits the wall. Doesn't shatter—reinforced glass, Klaus's doing—just bounces off and lands on the floor.
I sit there. Breathing hard. Hands shaking.
So, this is it. She's moved on. Found someone new. Someone handsome and perfect and there. Someone who takes her to nice restaurants and opens car doors and doesn't disappear for two years without a word.
I lost her.
For a moment, I close my eyes. See her face.
That smile in the red dress. For him. Not me.
But even as the jealousy burns through my chest like acid, even as I want to find that man and put a bullet between his perfect green eyes, even as rage threatens to consume everything rational I have left—I know.
I know I'd still fight to keep her safe.
Even if she's with someone else. Even if she's forgotten me.
Even if I have to watch her build a life with a man who isn't me.
I'd still kill for her. Still die for her. Still protect her.
Even if she's lost to me forever.
Fuck that.
I grab my phone. Dial Yuri. It rings once.
"Boss?" His voice. Careful. He knows something's wrong.
"Why the FUCK," I roar, "did you allow another man close to her?"
Silence. Then: "Boss, you said invisible. You said don't interfere. I—"
"I don't care what I said!" I'm on my feet now, pacing. "There was a man. Black Aston Martin. Took her to dinner. Drove her home. Kissed her. And you just fucking WATCHED?"
"Boss, I—I didn't think—"
"That's the problem. You didn't think." I force myself to breathe. To think. "Who is he?"
"I don't know. First time I've seen him."
"Find out. Now."
"Boss—"
"TAIL HIM!" The words explode out of me. "I want to know everything. Who he is. Where he works. Where he lives. Who he fucks. What he eats for breakfast. EVERYTHING. And I want it in my inbox in the next hour or I'm sending someone to put a bullet in your fucking skull. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, Boss. I understand. I'll—"
I hang up. Throw the phone. It hits the wall beside the tablet.
The door opens. Two guards enter—morning routine, bringing coffee. One holds the cup out. "Boss."
I take it. Drink. Black. Bitter. Perfect.
I set the cup down. Turn to the guard. Cup his cheek. Hard. Fingers digging in. Smile. Manic. Unhinged. "Perfect morning, isn't it?"
He looks terrified. "Yes, sir."
I let go. Pat his face. "Good. Get out."
They leave fast.
I get dressed. Black suit. Black shirt. No tie. Check the gun at my hip. Loaded. Always loaded.
Today's the day. Today everything changes.
· · ·
The meeting is at noon. Klaus's penthouse. The big one. Conference room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park.
Everyone's here. Everyone. Lieutenants. Captains. Underbosses from three territories. Corrupted cops on the payroll. A judge. Two senators. A DA. The entire network. The whole fucking empire.
Klaus at the head of the table. Oxygen tank beside him—smaller now, barely used. Cancer in remission. Looking healthier every day. Looking smug.
I walk in late. Everyone stops talking.
I walk straight to one of the guards stationed by the door. Grab the gun from his waist holster. He doesn't resist. Knows better.
I turn. Aim. Fire.
The oxygen tank explodes. Not literally—just hisses, pressure releasing, oxygen spraying into the room.
Klaus jerks back. Shocked. Eyes wide. For one beautiful second, he looks afraid.
Then he composes himself. Smiles. "Drogo. Dramatic as always."
I lower the gun. Walk to the table. Stand at the opposite end from Klaus. "I'm going to London," I say.
Silence. Then the room erupts. "What?" "You can't—" "Klaus, this is—"
A man stands. Ilya. Mid-fifties. Cocky. Always questioned my authority. Always treated me like Klaus's pet project instead of his heir. "You think you can just leave?" Ilya sneers. "You think we answer to you?"
I raise the gun. Pull the trigger.
The bullet hits him between the eyes. He drops. Blood pooling on the expensive carpet.
I look around the table. At the shocked faces. At the fear. "Anyone else questioning me?"
Silence.
"Didn't think so."
I sit. Ilya's body three feet away. No one moves to remove it. I snap my fingers. "Vodka." A woman—assistant, someone's secretary—rushes forward. Pours. Hands me the glass with shaking hands.
I drink. Set it down. Pull the files toward me. Business as usual. "Shipment schedules," I say. "Someone talk."
They talk.
For two hours, we go through it. Territory disputes. Payment schedules. Problem accounts. I handle it all. Right there. At the table. With Ilya's corpse cooling beside us. Efficient. Cold. Ruthless. Exactly what Klaus made me.
When it's done, I dismiss them. "Out. All of you."
They leave. Fast. Grateful.
Except Klaus.
He stays. Watching me. I pour another vodka. Don't offer him one.
"Drogo," he says finally. Voice soft. Almost… fatherly. "Son. Please. Let's talk about this."
"There's nothing to talk about."
"You can't go back to London—"
"I can. I am."
"She's moved on—"
"I don't care."
"Then why?" He leans forward. "Why risk everything for a woman who's forgotten you?"
I look at him. At this dying man who refuses to die. At the father I never wanted. "Because you pull any shit around her now—any—and I'm done protecting you."
"Drogo—"
"I leave in an hour," I say, voice flat. Cold. "My men take lead here. You stay out of my way. You don't touch her. You don't threaten her. You don't even think about her."
"Or what?"
I lean forward. Smile. "Or I'll keep you alive.
Skinned. Bone by bone. Salt on the muscle.
Dried in the sun like a grape until you're begging me for death.
And I won't give it to you. I'll keep you alive for years, Klaus.
Long enough to regret every choice you made.
Every threat. Every time you used her against me. "
Klaus stares. For the first time in two years, I see it. Fear. Real, genuine fear. He's looking at the monster he created. And he's finally understanding what that means. What I'm capable of. What I'll do if he crosses this line.
"You made me this," I say quietly. "You wanted a son who could lead. Who could kill without hesitation. Who could become vor in ways you never could." I stand. "Congratulations. You got exactly what you wanted."
I walk to the door. Stop. Turn back. "One hour, Klaus. Then I'm gone. And if anything happens to her while I'm there—if she gets so much as a scratch—I'm coming back. And you'll wish the cancer had killed you."
I leave. Klaus doesn't follow.
· · ·
One hour later, I'm in the back of a black SUV heading to JFK. Private jet waiting. Flight plan filed. London in seven hours.
My phone buzzes. Email from Yuri. Subject: OLIVER SUTHERLAND.
I open it.
Oliver Sutherland. Age 34. CEO, Sutherland Holdings. Net worth: ￡400M. Properties in London, Monaco, New York. Single. No criminal record. No debts. No scandals. Clean.
Met subject (Alena Lupus) through mutual friend Lucy Zhang. First date: last night. Took her to Alain Ducasse. Drove her home. Kissed her cheek. No further contact yet. Awaiting your orders, Boss.
I read it twice. Three times. Perfect. He's fucking perfect. Rich. Handsome. Clean. No baggage. No violence. No Bratva stars covering his body. No blood on his hands.
Everything I'm not.
I text back. "Continue surveillance. Both of them. Report everything."
Response comes instantly. "Yes, Boss."
I pull out the tablet. One last look. Alena's house. Morning now. She's in the kitchen. Coffee. Alone. The man from last night is gone. Good. She looks… tired. Sad. I zoom in on her face. Touch the screen.
"I'm coming," I whisper.
To claim what is mine.