Chapter 56
DROGO
The office door closes behind us with a soft click that sounds like a death sentence.
Klaus moves to the leather chair behind the massive desk, pouring himself vodka from a crystal decanter like we are having a casual chat instead of what this actually is—a confrontation that ends with one of us dead.
"Sit, son," he says, his voice low and almost gentle. "No need for the gun yet. We are family."
I sit, but my hand stays near my holster. Every muscle in my body is coiled tight, ready. Waiting.
Klaus leans back, swirling his vodka, and his eyes never leave my face.
"You think I do not see it? The way they look at you now.
The way Konstantin stands closer to you than to me.
The way even Viktor hesitates when I give an order.
" He takes a slow sip. "You have been busy, have you not?
Building your little army while I was sick. "
I say nothing. Let him talk. Let him reveal exactly how much he knows.
"I do not blame you," he continues. "I taught you to survive.
But you forget one thing: I built this. Every drop of blood, every deal, every body in the ground—that was me.
You were just the pretty face I put in front.
The heir I made." He leans forward. "And now you think you can take it because you found a girl? "
My jaw tightens, but I keep my face neutral.
Klaus smiles—thin, cruel. "Your mother did the same thing.
Thought she could leave me. Thought she could take you with her.
So, she swallowed pills and tried to take you too.
" His voice drops to a whisper. "Disloyal.
Weak. Women always are. And you still carry that scar, do you not?
Still wake up thinking she chose death over you. Over us."
White-hot rage floods through me, but I force it down. Force myself to stay still, stay calm, even as every fiber of my being screams to put a bullet in his skull right now.
"That girl out there? Alena?" Klaus continues.
"Same story. Beautiful, yes. But she will do the same.
She will make you soft. Make you hesitate.
Make you choose her over the family. And when she does—when she runs or betrays or simply cannot handle what we are—she will destroy you. Just like your mother destroyed me."
He sets his glass down hard enough that I hear it crack.
"I am doing you a favour, son. Tonight. Right now.
I will take care of her. Quietly. No mess.
You will grieve, you will hate me for a while, but you will thank me later when you are sitting in my chair with no distractions.
No weakness. Just power. That is what this life demands. "
Every word is a knife. Every syllable makes me want to tear him apart with my bare hands. But I stay frozen, letting him finish, letting him condemn himself with his own words.
"Or..." He spreads his hands like he is offering mercy. "You can refuse. Keep playing house. And when she inevitably breaks you—when she leaves, or dies, or turns on you—I will still be here. Waiting. Because blood is thicker than love, Drogo. And I am the only family you have left."
He smiles. Slow. Cold. Certain. "So, what is it going to be? Her... or the empire I built for you?"
I stand slowly. "Neither." My voice is deadly calm. "Because you are going to die tonight, and I am taking both."
He laughs. Then he pours two glasses of vodka, offering me one. This I take. "To family," we say as we empty our glasses.
"So, son, you chose the first option." My blood freezes for a heartbeat. He looks behind me, giving someone a nod. Damn. This is happening now. He will take her now.
I turn and walk out before he can talk, slamming the door behind me. My hand is already on my gun as I stride back toward the main hall, and what I see makes my blood run cold.
Two men are approaching Alena. Not my men—Klaus's men. Moving with purpose, with intent, and she sees them coming. I watch her stand, watch Konstantin move to intercept, and then one of Klaus's men swings—a brutal punch that catches Konstantin in the temple and drops him like a stone.
The entire room goes silent. Eighty pairs of eyes turn to watch as the man reaches for Alena, his hand outstretched, and she backs up until she hits the table with nowhere to go.
Damn no. Seeing her helpless like that is a scene I damn myself for allowing.
I was unworthy, letting her feel fear because I am too slow, too stupid.
I am already moving. Running. Crossing the distance faster than I have ever moved in my life.
Klaus emerges from the office behind me, his voice booming across the hall in Russian. "For the good of the Bratva! The woman makes him weak! She must be removed!"
The man's fingers are inches from Alena's arm when I pull my gun and fire.
The shot echoes like thunder. His head snaps back—wet crack of bone breaking—and the back of his skull explodes in a spray of red mist and brain matter that splatters across the white tablecloth.
Blood drops fly forward, painting Alena's throat in crimson dots, and his body drops dead, twitching once before going still.
Alena's eyes shoot wide open, her breath frozen, staring at the corpse at her feet and the blood—his blood, my mark—splattered across her skin.
I see it all in her face: shock, terror, relief, and something else.
Something that looks almost like pride. She is shaking but she does not scream.
She meets my eyes across the chaos, and in that moment, I see my queen recognizing what I just did for her.
The lights go out. Complete darkness for two full heartbeats.
The room gasps—a collective intake of breath from eighty men who suddenly feel something unnatural in the air.
When the lights snap back on, the temperature has dropped twenty degrees and Klaus is already bleeding on the floor where he was not before.
The ghosts. They are helping. I hear it—a whisper so faint only I catch it, riding on freezing wind: "End him."
The room explodes into motion. Men jump to their feet, hands reaching for weapons, chairs scraping, shouts in Russian and English overlapping into chaos.
But I do not care about any of them. I walk straight to Alena, grab her, and pull her behind me, positioning my body between her and every threat in this room.
"You threatened my woman?" My voice comes out feral, barely human. "At her own engagement celebration?"
Guns are drawn now—at least twenty, maybe more. Some pointed at me. Some pointed at Klaus. Everyone waiting to see which way this breaks.
"You had a man feel he could touch what is mine?" I am losing it now, even more. "In front of everyone?"
Klaus steps forward, smiling that same cold smile. "It is for the good of—"
I shoot him in the knee. The bullet punches through his kneecap with a sickening crunch of shattering bone.
Blood sprays hot across my shoe—dark and sticky—pooling on the marble floor.
He screams once—high, animal, broken—clutching the ruined joint as bone grinds against bone. Then silence. No one moves to help him.
"Kneel!" I command, and a sudden gust of freezing air—unnatural, violent—pins him down like an invisible hand. The lights flicker wildly, and I do not give a damn about what is happening. I will kill this bastard.
The room goes dead silent except for Klaus's gasping, whimpering sounds as he kneels in front of me, blood pouring from his knee. Every gun is pointed now—half at me, half staying neutral, a few lowering slowly as their owners realize what just happened.
One of the old guard—a man who has served Klaus for decades—opens his mouth. "He was the Pakhan—"
"He broke the code!" Viktor cuts him off, stepping forward, and the old man falls silent.
I speak loud enough for everyone to hear, switching between Russian and English so no one misses a word.
"This man—my father—just ordered one of you to violate my bride at our engagement celebration.
He threatened the woman I love. He dishonoured this family.
He dishonoured all of you by asking you to break the most sacred code we have.
He tried to take what is mine!" The last word rips through my throat like something feral escaping. "Mine!"
Some of the guns lower further. I see Viktor watching, calculating, his weapon still pointed at the floor.
"He is weak," I continue, my voice carrying across the silent hall.
"Sick. Paranoid. He sees loyalty as a threat instead of strength.
He would rather destroy his own son than let the Bratva grow stronger.
I have bled for this family. Killed for this family.
Built this empire while he wasted away in his sickness.
And tonight, he proves he is no longer fit to lead. "
Konstantin staggers to his feet, blood running down his face from where he was hit. He spits blood on the floor and speaks in Russian, then English. "Klaus Muller broke the code. He ordered violation of the heir's bride. This is not leadership—this is madness."
Then Viktor steps forward. Viktor, who has served Klaus for twenty years, who I was not sure would ever turn.
He holsters his gun deliberately and drops to one knee in front of me.
"I have served Klaus Muller faithfully for twenty years," he says, his voice hard and clear.
"But this… this I cannot follow. Drogo has earned his place.
Klaus has lost his mind." He looks up at me. "You are Pakhan now. I follow you."
The shift is immediate and devastating. When Viktor kneels, others follow like dominoes falling. Guns lower. Men step away from Klaus and move toward me. The old guard crumbles because their leader just switched sides, and the roar builds—voices rising, approval spreading like wildfire.
Dmitri raises his voice above the noise. "All who stand with Drogo as Pakhan—stand!"
Seventy percent of the room stands immediately.
Konstantin, still bleeding. Dmitri. Marcus.
The younger men. Then Viktor rises from his knee.
Then more of the old guard, following Viktor 's lead, the roar building to something that shakes the chandeliers.
Five, maybe six men stay seated—Klaus's most loyal, his inner circle, the ones who will die before they bend.
Klaus is still on the floor, gripping his ruined knee, blood everywhere. He tries to speak. "You… you cannot… I built—"
I crouch down so we are eye level. "You had your time. You built this empire, and I respect that. But you chose paranoia over legacy. You chose to threaten my wife over trusting your son. You broke the code." I stand, raising my gun. "And now you pay the price."
I shoot him between the eyes. The bullet punches his forehead with a wet crack. The back of his skull explodes in red mist and fragments of bone. His eyes roll empty and he slumps backward, twitching once before going completely still.
No one moves to stop me. No one protests. Because it was a righteous kill. Because he broke the code first. Because the room already chose me.
Konstantin approaches, and I see he is carrying something—a bottle of vodka and a knife.
Not just any knife. The old ritual blade, the same one that has crowned every Pakhan since the gulags, its handle worn smooth by decades of blood oaths.
He sets both on the table in front of me, his face bloodied but his voice strong.
"Drogo. Son of Klaus. Heir made Pakhan." He gestures to the knife and vodka. "Take the oath. The Bratva recognizes you."
I pick up the knife—heavy, cold, ancient—and slice a shallow cut across my palm. Blood wells up immediately, and I let it drip onto the marble floor where Klaus's body lies. Then I pour vodka over the wound, the alcohol burning, and raise the glass.
Everyone who stood raises their glass. "Za Pakhan!" The sound echoes through the hall—a roar of approval, of loyalty, of power shifting hands and sealing in blood and alcohol.
I turn to the five men still seated. "You have a choice," I say quietly.
"Pledge loyalty or leave. Now. It is a mercy I will give only tonight.
" I glance at Alena, still behind me, still shaking, still covered in another man's blood.
"For her. You do not die tonight because of her.
Remember that. Tomorrow is a different story. "
Three of them stand immediately, raising their glasses.
"Za Pakhan." Two remain seated, defiant, screaming "Traitor!
" as Dmitri and two others drag them toward the doors.
One resists—Dmitri snaps his arm with a brutal crack that echoes through the hall—and they are thrown out into the night, alive but banished.
Then I turn to Alena, still standing behind me, her eyes wide and terrified and shocked and somehow still trusting.
I pull her into my arms harder than I intended and she lands with a gasp against my chest. I grab her throat—not gently, possessively—and bring her face up to mine.
I kiss her hard in front of everyone, my tongue demanding entrance, tasting her fear and relief and the copper tang of blood still on her skin.
She moans softly against my mouth, and I feel her body respond even now, even here, getting wet for me despite the chaos.
When I release her, I speak loud enough for the room to hear. "You are mine. Always. No one touches you. No one threatens you. And anyone who tries answers to the Pakhan."
The room erupts again. "Za Pakhan! Za Pakhan!"
I lean down to whisper in her ear, so only she can hear. "Later, I will take you on his desk. Right where he died. I will make you scream my name and my title until you forget there was ever anyone else who tried to claim you."
She shivers against me, and I know it is not from fear.
I am the Pakhan now. The head of the Bratva. The most powerful man in the organization my father built. And I did it to save her. For her. Because of her.
My oxygen. My salvation. My everything.
I am sorry she had to see how I did it all—the violence, the blood, the monster I have become. I hope deep down she will keep a memory of mine from when I smiled at her on that rooftop when we were nineteen. Please, Alena, please keep one memory of me as I was.
But even as I think it, I feel her hand slip into mine, squeezing once. And when I look down at her, covered in blood and trembling but still standing, I see something in her eyes that takes my breath away.
Not fear. Not horror. Pride. She is proud of me. Proud of what I just did. Proud to be mine.
My Pakhan queen.