Chapter 4
Kane
“How much longer?” I ask, my voice low, impatient.
“Soon,” Padraig replies, his eyes focused front and center. “Soon.”
The black SUV idles at the curb like a predator pretending to be tame. I grip the steering wheel tighter than I need to, my knuckles white against the leather.
Padraig sits shotgun, still and observant, which tells me he feels the same weight in the air.
The diner across the street looks too fucking cheerful for a meeting like this: neon signs buzzing in the midday sun, checkered floors visible through the big windows, and a goddamn chalkboard menu advertising avocado toast and cold brew like it’s trying to win an award for being the most inauthentic shit in the city.
“Hipsters,” I growl.
“Yup,” Padraig says, a hint of a wry laugh in his voice.
My jaw clenches as I scan the parking lot again. No obvious threats. No blacked-out vans. Just a couple of trendy waitstaff and some civilians nursing overpriced coffee.
Still, every instinct I have is screaming.
Two months ago I would’ve laughed at the idea of me, Kane Kamedov, walking into a sit-down like this. Back then I was the Young Menace, the one my brothers sent in when things needed to get messy.
Leadership? That was Milo and Loren’s domain. They made the plans. I executed them. Simple. Bloody. Effective.
Now I’m the pakhan, and nothing feels simple anymore.
“You good?” Padraig asks, his Irish lilt cutting through the low hum of the engine. He’s got that easy posture, but I know him too well. His right hand rests near the concealed piece under his jacket.
“No,” I answer honestly. “But we’re here. And that’s all there is to it.”
I let the silence stretch for another minute, staring at the diner’s ridiculous pastel walls and exposed brick.
My mind drifts back to the old days. Me at seventeen, fresh off a street brawl, blood on my knuckles and a grin on my face as Milo clapped me on the back.
“You’re the hammer, little brother,” Milo would say.
“We’re the architects.” Loren would just nod, that quiet approval in his eyes that meant more than any words.
They carried the weight. I got to swing it.
Now the whole damn structure sits on my shoulders, cracked and unstable, and every rival in the city can smell the weakness.
A sleek silver Mercedes pulls into the lot. Padraig straightens…
“There they are,” Padraig says. “Viktor and three others. Looks clean.”
My focus snaps back to the present. I watch as Viktor Volkov steps out: tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a tailored coat that screams money and control. His men fan out behind him, professional but not flashy. No immediate guns drawn. Good. I kill the engine.
“Eyes open,” I tell Padraig. “Anything feels off, we paint the motherfucking walls red.”
We step out into the bright afternoon. The sun hits my face, too warm for the chill running down my spine. I adjust my suit jacket, feeling the reassuring weight of the holster against my ribs. My black hair catches the light, a few silver strands reminding me I’m not the reckless kid anymore…
I’m now the man who buries brothers and takes their throne.
We cross the street. Viktor spots us and gives a small nod—no smile, just recognition.
Inside, the diner smells like burnt coffee, maple syrup, and that artificial “fresh” scent they spray to cover grease.
The place is bright, too bright, with string lights and plants hanging from the ceiling like it’s trying to cosplay as some Brooklyn transplant. Fake as hell and don’t I know it.
Viktor slides into a booth near the back, away from the windows. Smart. His men take positions at nearby tables. Padraig and I sit opposite him. I let the silence settle for a beat, studying the Downtown Devil himself.
Viktor looks calm, but there’s steel under it.
“Nice place,” I say, voice low and edged.
I gesture at the ridiculous décor… a mason jar full of fairy lights on the table.
“Very… authentic. You bring me to a hipster fucking museum to talk business, Volkov? I’m a genuine man.
I can spot fakes and phonies a mile off. This whole setup screams bullshit.”
Viktor’s eyes narrow slightly. He bristles, jaw tightening just enough for me to notice. Good. I want him off-balance.
“And I can spot liars and bluffers too, Kamedov,” Viktor barks. “You walk in here like you own the city, but we both know you’re still finding your footing after what happened to Milo and Loren.”
The air thickens.
My hand twitches toward my side.
I shoot Padraig a quick look—ready—and he shifts almost imperceptibly, his body coiled. The two of us could end this in seconds if it goes south. My pulse hammers steady, the old familiar rage bubbling under my skin. Part of me wants it to pop off. At least then I’d know what to do with my hands.
But Viktor raises a hand slowly, palm open.
“Easy. This isn’t a setup,” Viktor says. “No bullshit power play. I genuinely wanted to meet you, Kane. Offer my condolences for your brothers. They were… formidable. Their loss is a blow to all of us who value strength in this city.”
I lean back, studying him.
The words sound right, but I’ve heard enough pretty lies in my life.
“There’s more to this meeting than condolences,” I say. “I don’t appreciate being lied to, Volkov. Say what you really want or we’re done wasting daylight.”
He watches me for a long moment. The waitress approaches but one of his men waves her off and the smart girl doesn’t push it.
Finally, Viktor speaks. “There’s a possibility we could work together.
Form something controlled. Structured. A coalition across the city.
My people, Zorin, Antonov, and now you. Less inter-family bloodshed.
Coordinated territories. Supply lines that don’t overlap and get messy.
Ultimately? More power. More money for everyone who plays ball. ”
I let the offer hang in the air.
It sounds clean on the surface.
Tempting, even.
No more watching my back every second for a knife from supposed allies. But I can read between the lines. Coalition means Viktor wants to lead it. He wants me under his thumb…
“Might be interesting,” I say, keeping my voice even. “But I won’t take orders from you. Or anyone else, for that matter. The Kamedov family doesn’t kneel.”
Tension ramps up again. Viktor’s men shift. Padraig’s hand moves closer to his weapon. I can feel the eyes on us from every corner of this phony diner.
My shoulders tighten, ready to explode into motion.
I picture it: the quick draw, the shots, the chaos.
It would feel good. The rage unleashed. Burning this place to the ground.
Viktor exhales slowly. “Cooperation requires compromise sometimes, Kane. You’re young for a pakhan. New to the top spot. I’m offering stability. A way to honor your brothers’ legacy without painting the streets red every other week.”
I stand up abruptly, the booth creaking under the sudden movement. My full height towers over the table.
“I’m not interested in conceding any of my family’s control,” I say. “Not one inch. You want to talk real alliance later? Fine. But on equal terms. Not this.”
I turn and head for the door.
Behind me, Viktor calls out, voice carrying across the diner.
“The offer won’t stand forever, Kamedov. Think about it. The city’s changing. You can change with it or get left behind.”
I don’t look back. I push through the glass door, the bell jingling like some cheerful fuck-you. Padraig falls in step beside me as we cross back to the SUV. The sun feels harsher now, the street noise louder. My blood is still up, muscles wired from the near-miss of violence.
In the car, I start the engine but don’t pull away immediately. Padraig glances over. “You think he’s serious?”
“Doesn’t matter,” I mutter. “I’m not bending the knee to Volkov. Not today. Not ever.”
I drum my fingers on the wheel, mind racing. The meeting replays in my head… every micro-expression, every calculated word. Viktor’s not stupid. He sees the power vacuum.
But so do I.
And I’ll fill it my way.
Brutal. Uncompromising. Like my brothers taught me, only without their patience for diplomacy.
“Drop me across town,” I tell Padraig. “I’m heading the rest of the way alone. Clear my head. See you tomorrow.”
Padraig hesitates but nods. “Watch your back, pakhan.”
We drive in silence for twenty minutes, the city blurring past—gritty blocks giving way to taller buildings, then older neighborhoods with their own secrets. Padraig gets out near one of our safe drops. I watch him disappear into a side street before I keep moving.
Alone now, I head deeper into the part of the city I know best. The places where the Young Menace once ruled the nights. I park the SUV in a shadowed lot and start walking. The afternoon stretches long, sun dipping lower. My thoughts churn.
Milo’s voice in my head: Strategy first, little brother. Loren’s quieter wisdom: Strike when they least expect.
I miss them both.
The grief hits fresh sometimes, sharp as a blade. But grief is a luxury I can’t afford anymore. I’m pakhan. Every step I take now echoes for the whole family.
I find myself in a quieter district, near parks and older buildings. My feet carry me without direction until I spot a small café with outdoor seating. I sit, order a strong black coffee—no hipster bullshit—and watch the world move around me.
People laughing, couples walking hand in hand. Normal life. Something I’ve never really had.
Whatever.
The coffee burns going down. Good. Pain keeps me sharp.
I pull out my phone and start going through reports from my soldiers. Numbers. Territories. Weak points. Viktor’s offer echoes, but I push it aside.
I won’t concede. I’ll expand. Consolidate.
I’ll make the Kamedov name feared again, stronger than before.
Hours pass as I sit there, planning, scheming, letting the city’s pulse feed into me. By the time the sun starts to set, painting the buildings in orange and red, I feel clearer. Harder. Ready.