Chapter 6
Kane
“That boy…” I mutter. “That damn boy…”
I push through the heavy oak doors of the library and step into the night, the cool air hitting my face like a much-needed slap.
My blood is still humming, thick with adrenaline and something far more dangerous… satisfaction.
William.
That shy little blonde with the big eyes and the even bigger defiance. He took his spanking like he was made for it. Bent over that old oak table, jeans and delectable briefs around his ankles, his perfect ass turning pink under my palm.
Each smack had landed exactly where I wanted it, and he hadn’t screamed, hadn’t fought. Just those soft, breathy whimpers and the way his body trembled: half fear, half desperate need.
Fuck. It was beautiful.
I adjust my suit jacket as I descend the stone steps, my cock still half-hard at the memory. The way he’d looked back at me afterward, flushed and breathless, bottom glowing red… he hadn’t run. Not really. He’d taken it. Accepted my control.
That’s rarer than people think.
Most boys in that scene play at submission. They want the fuzzy handcuffs and the “good boy” praise without any real edge. But William? He has that sweet Little core wrapped around something tougher. Something that craves a firm hand. My hand.
William might not fully realize it yet, but he was made to be my boy.
It’s just a question of making sure that happens and showing him that even if he could run, he wouldn’t want too…
The city streets are quieter now, the late-night crowd thinning into shadows and distant sirens. Streetlights cast long pools of yellow on the pavement as I walk, hands in my pockets, shoes clicking with purpose.
My mind keeps replaying it: the sharp sound of my palm meeting his bare skin, the heat radiating off his ass, the way his thighs pressed together like he was fighting not to grind against the table. I gave him exactly what his sass deserved. And he loved it.
A low chuckle escapes me.
All the Daddies he’s probably known before me? Soft. Average. The kind of safe, domesticated men who read Daddy Dom manuals and think aftercare means hot cocoa and a playlist.
Men who’ve never had to make life-or-death decisions before breakfast.
Never buried brothers.
Never stared down the barrel of a rival’s gun and smiled.
They play at dominance in their nice apartments with their nice rules.
I am dominance. I’ve carved power out of blood and fear.
In my world, control isn’t a game—it’s survival.
And tonight, for a few perfect minutes in that dusty reference section, I reminded one sweet Little exactly what a real Daddy can do.
Contempt curls my lip. Those soft so-called men don’t deserve a boy like William. They’d crumble the second real darkness touched their lives.
Me? I thrive in it.
And something tells me William’s been waiting for exactly that kind of man—whether he want to admit it to himself or not.
The thought puts a fresh edge on my hunger. I need a drink. Something strong to toast the night. I know a place nearby…Shotgun Corner. A proper dive bar tucked between an abandoned warehouse and a row of shuttered shops.
No hipster bullshit.
Just dim lights, scarred wood, and people who mind their own damn business.
I push open the heavy door a few minutes later.
The familiar smell of stale beer, cigarette smoke, even though it’s banned, and something faintly metallic hits me.
Home turf energy. A couple of rough-looking regulars glance my way but quickly look back at their glasses.
Smart. I take a stool at the far end of the bar, back to the wall, eyes on the room.
“Vodka. Double. Neat,” I tell the bartender. He nods without comment and pours.
The glass arrives, clear and cold. I raise it slightly in a private toast:
To William’s red ass and that defiant spark in his eyes.
The burn slides down my throat, warm and welcome. For the first time in weeks, the constant knot of grief and responsibility loosens just a fraction. Maybe there’s room in this new life for something soft after all. Something that fights back just enough to make claiming it worthwhile.
A heavy hand lands on my shoulder.
I freeze. Every muscle coils instantly. My free hand drops toward the holster under my jacket. This is it. Viktor finally decided to stop playing games and sent a hitman for me. One bullet to the back of the head in a shitty bar. It would be poetic, almost.
I turn slowly, ready to put a round through whoever’s stupid enough to touch me.
It’s Viktor Volkov. Alone. No muscle visible. Just him in a dark coat, expression calm, almost amused.
“Easy, Kamedov,” Viktor says, voice low. “Not here to kill you. Not tonight anyway.”
I stare at him for a long beat, heart still hammering. Then I exhale and gesture to the stool beside me. “You’ve got balls walking up on me like that.”
Viktor sits. “We needed to talk. Proper one-on-one. No soldiers. No egos. No reputations to protect.” He signals the bartender for the same. “Just two men who understand the weight on their shoulders.”
I study him.
No obvious tells.
No backup I can see through the grimy windows.
The Downtown Devil looks… tired. Human. And that means I can relax. Just a little.
“Alright,” I say. “Talk.”
We don’t dive into business. Not right away.
The drinks come, and we sip in surprisingly comfortable silence at first. Then Viktor starts talking.
Real talk. Not the coalition pitch from the diner.
He tells me about his boy—Eddie. How he came into his life like a storm he never saw coming.
A Little, through and through. How his trust, his vulnerability, forced him to look at everything differently.
The endless cycle of violence. The paranoia.
The way he used to measure success only in bodies dropped and territory taken.
“He makes me want to build something that lasts,” Viktor says, staring into his glass. “Not just empire. Legacy. Something he can be safe in.” A rare, genuine smile touches his lips. “Eddie changed me. Made me reassess the whole game.”
I listen. And I nod when it feels right. Viktor’s words hit closer than I want to admit. I think of William again—bent over, taking my hand, that mix of fear and arousal in his eyes. The way he didn’t fully submit but didn’t break either. Fuck.
Viktor glances at me. “You’re a Daddy too. I can tell.”
I don’t confirm it out loud. Don’t deny it either. Trust is a luxury I’m still learning to spend carefully. I simply nod once, slow and deliberate. He seems to understand.
We talk more. About the loneliness that comes with the crown.
The way power isolates you. How rare it is to find someone who can handle both sides of you: the monster and the man.
Viktor doesn’t push the alliance again. He just shares.
And for once, I let myself listen without calculating every angle.
The glasses empty. He stands, tossing cash on the bar. “Good talk, Kane. Think about what I said. Not just the coalition… the rest of it.”
As he heads for the door, I call after him.
“We should do this again,” I say. “One-on-one. No bullshit.”
Viktor pauses, gives a single nod of agreement, and disappears into the night.
I’m alone again. The bar feels quieter. I stare into the bottom of my fresh drink, the ice slowly melting. The high from William’s spanking lingers, but so does the weight. My brothers’ faces flash behind my eyes… Milo’s confident grin, Loren’s quiet wisdom.
But they’re gone.
I’m the last Kamedov standing. Pakhan. Alone at the top.
There’s no boy waiting at home to warm my bed. No soft Little voice calling me Daddy after a long night of blood and decisions. Just empty apartments, cold sheets, and the constant roar of responsibility in my head.
I swirl the vodka. William’s face appears again… flushed cheeks, that mix of shock and desire when I told him I hadn’t dismissed him yet. The way his body responded to my authority like it had been starving for it.
Maybe the life without my brothers doesn’t have to be completely empty. Maybe there’s space for something real. Something fierce and sweet and mine.
I finish the drink in one swallow, slam the glass down, and stand. The night air greets me again as I step outside. My steps feel surer now. Tomorrow I’ll handle business. Consolidate power. Make moves.
But tonight? Tonight I let myself imagine William showing up at the library again. Same time. Not a second late.
And what I’ll do to him if he is.
The thought brings a dark smile to my lips as I disappear into the shadows of the city that now belongs to me.
* * *
The walk back to my apartment takes longer than it should. The city blurs at the edges, streetlights smearing into soft halos as the vodka works its way through my system. I’m not blackout drunk—yet—but the edges of my control feel pleasantly fuzzy.
I’m tipsy enough to dull the constant roar in my head, not enough to make me sloppy.
I punch in the code for the private elevator in the converted warehouse building I’ve claimed as my own.
Top two floors. Secure. Isolated.
Exactly how I like it.
The door clicks shut behind me with a heavy finality.
Silence swallows the space. No soldiers waiting for orders.
No Padraig cracking jokes. Just me and the vast, half-empty loft that still doesn’t feel like home.
I shrug off my suit jacket, toss it over the back of a leather chair, and head straight for the kitchen.
The refrigerator light spills cold and sterile across the dark marble counters. I stare inside. No food. Just rows of bottles: vodka, whiskey, a few imported beers. A half-eaten takeout container from three days ago that I don’t even bother checking.
My stomach growls, but I ignore it. My appetite left me months ago and hasn’t been seen since.
I grab a bottle of beer, twist the cap off with my teeth, and tilt it back. The cold liquid rushes down my throat in one long pull. I down it and reach for another without thinking.
Down it goes too.
Faster this time.
The alcohol hits harder on top of the vodka from Shotgun Corner. My head swims nicely now, a warm haze settling over the sharp edges of the day.
I stumble toward the massive sectional couch that dominates the open living area. My shoes get kicked off somewhere along the way. I collapse onto the cushions, legs sprawled, one arm draped over my eyes.
The ceiling fan spins lazy circles above me, the blades cutting through the dim light from the city skyline pouring in through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Before the darkness can pull me under completely, my gaze drifts to the only personal touch in this entire sterile fucking apartment. The single framed photograph on the low shelf across from the couch.
Me and my brothers.
It was taken years ago outside the old laundromat downtown—the first legitimate business we bought with our dirty money. A front, sure, but it felt like a victory back then.
Milo stands in the middle, arm slung around my shoulders, that cocky grin splitting his face.
Loren on the other side, quieter, arms crossed, but with the faintest smirk like he already knew we’d own half the city one day.
I’m the youngest, barely twenty, still carrying that wild Young Menace energy in my eyes.
All three of us in front of the faded sign, suits sharp even back then, looking like we owned the world. And for us, that’s how it felt back in the day.
A small smile tugs at my lips. For a second, the memory feels warm. Real. The three of us against the whole damn city. Blood thicker than water. Unbreakable.
Then the rage hits.
It builds fast, hot and vicious, twisting in my chest like a knife. Those smiling faces. Those strong shoulders I used to lean on. Gone. Shot to pieces in a fucking warehouse like animals.
My brothers. My blood. Taken from me while I was too slow, too late.
“Fuck,” I growl, the word thick with alcohol and grief. “Fuck it all to hell.”
I sit up too fast. The room tilts. My hand closes around the empty beer bottle on the coffee table. Without thinking, I hurl it across the room with every ounce of pent-up fury I’ve been carrying since that blood-soaked afternoon.
The bottle explodes against the frame. Glass shatters. The photo cracks diagonally across Milo’s face. Shards rain down onto the floor, glittering like dangerous little stars in the low light.
The sound echoes through the empty apartment. Then silence again.
I stare at the ruined picture for a long moment, chest heaving. The rage drains as quickly as it came, leaving only a hollow ache behind.
My brothers are still gone. The photo is just paper and broken glass now. Nothing I do will bring them back.
I slump back onto the couch, the world spinning faster. The last thing I see before darkness claims me is the jagged crack running through that old memory.
Tomorrow I’ll be the pakhan again. Cold. Calculating. Unstoppable.
Tonight, I let the alcohol drag me under, a blackout to numb the pain.