38. Kirill
Kirill
Iron Keep’s rooftop door shuts behind me, sealing out any noise from the celebration below. The cold air thrills me. It’s part of my Russian blood.
Up here, there are no flowers. No cake. No wives.
Just my men. Minus one. Chernov. Who sent a woman in his place.
Drago barks the formation signal in Russian, and my Vory create a loose semicircle, shoulders squared, eyes fixed on me. Each one carries appreciation in their eyes of what it means to be here tonight.
Drago stands at my right, silent, but deadly as always. Dissent, violent ones, are common in the Bratva. We are a different stock of men.
I take my time, marching back and forth, staying silent, letting the weight of where we are settle into my men’s bones like lead.
What now? That is the question. How will I cement my reign?
My brotherhood’s legacy will be blood and destruction. It has to be for the time we’re in.
I reach into my jacket and pull a knife free, the same one my father used. The blade catches one of the bright lights overhead. No one flinches. I don’t expect them to.
And so it begins.
“Tonight,” I call out, my voice strong out of the gate. “You stand in my presence by invitation only because you chose loyalty.”
A few of them shift and nod.
“Not just to my father, or a legacy,” I continue, pacing slowly in front of them, the knife flipping from hand to hand.
“But to me. And what I’m ready to build for this brotherhood.
Because it is different from anything you’ve seen before.
It’s a new day. I will no longer be known as the Chicago Pakhan, but the American Pakhan. ”
I open my jacket, exposing the ceremonial shirt that will only be worn once and then hang in my office until my death. I take my palm, firm, steady, and drag the blade across it in one clean motion. Blood wells immediately, dark and thick. Russian.
I stop in front of the first man. “Your oath will be in blood. Give me your hand, brother.”
“Yes, Pakhan.” He doesn’t hesitate. He steps forward, extending his hand.
I cut him, as I did mine. He doesn’t make a sound as I expect. We join hands, the blood dripping onto my shirt, my blood mixing with his.
I let go, and he steps back.
One by one, they step forward. And one by one, I cut them. Each man offers the same thing. Flesh. Blood. Loyalty.
It’s not brutality for its own sake. Okay, maybe a little. I keep going until I reach Drago. Our mixed blood is saved for the spot above my heart.
His bloody palm then grips the back of my neck and pulls me into him, his forehead knocking against mine.
“Pakhan Volkov,” he roars.
The men cheer, the sound crashing over me. I soak it in. I earned it.
With the traditions out of the way, I rearrange from commander of warriors to executive. It’s the only way we survive.
“After tonight, your new watch begins,” I say, my voice strong in the silence.
“Assignments will be in your inbox before sunrise. First-class flights. Luxury accommodations.” I glance between them, letting the next part land with just enough edge.
“And names. Of men who believe themselves to be pakhans. You will persuade them otherwise.”
A ripple of amusement moves through the room.
“Wherever you set foot in this country, you represent the Volkov Brotherhood,” I continue, my tone sharpening again. “You represent me. And if any other Russian thinks he owns a city…” I growl. “He’s wrong. And you will remind him of that.”
I smile out at the sea of dark smiles.
“We will own every city,” I remind them. “Barinov in New York and Gideon in Boston fell in pools of their blood with dead men at their feet. Other cities bent the knee quickly after that. Make sure the rest know those are their choices.”
I took out the strongest contenders with the most powerful brotherhoods who could have challenged my takeover first. I killed Barinov and Gideon myself to show these men I have what it takes to lead.
“I built up this brotherhood over the last few years,” I add, my voice sharp. “And I will burn it down before I let anyone take it from us.”
I shift my weight, my gaze moving across them again.
“I have a message for those of you who were loyal to my father,” I say, my head held high. “I thank you for your service. But Yuri Volkov is gone. Now it is Drago at my right hand, Ksenia at my left, and me who stand at the head of the Volkov Bratva.”
Slow and condescending slapping sounds out behind me. I turn and see Adrian Chernov leaning against a brick stack. Clapping.
My father’s last stroke forced a vote to give me his powers.
With the vote passed, I made Drago my enforcer to oversee the squads of blood-thirsty men who keep the brotherhood powerful.
But Chernov is a dangerous man in his own right, with influence that bleeds throughout my brotherhood.
And darker unaffiliated shadows of this city.
“Vor Chernov,” I call out to him with the title he’s earned as an elder statesman of the Volkov Bratva. “Good of you to join us. You missed my ceremony. My instructions.”
“I heard you.” He strides forward.
But when he gets close, his dead eyes don’t hide how furious he is that I’ll be making him work. His days of sleeping late, lunches at his club, and nights fucking whores will have to be interrupted.
I pull him in, and he immediately reaches for a blade. “Right now, you’re guessing if you’ll make it out of here alive if you cut my throat. You might, but your daughter won’t. She’s downstairs. One of my men has eyes on her.”
He grumbles and releases the blade in his pocket, his brutal features a wash of unhappiness.
“On your knees, Chernov.” My command is met with a confused flicker crossing his face. But he kneels. “Kiss the ring.” I present my father’s insignia.
Chernov gives me the most satisfying look of relief. Like this is his punishment. Humiliation.
“You’re a Vor for a reason,” I say to shame him. “You earned the title from your years of loyalty to my father. Now you will give me, his rightful heir, the same respect.”
Clearing his throat, Chernov grips my hand and kisses the ring roughly.
When he goes to stand, I push him down. “Not so fast. Remove your shirt.”
The men watching us grow quiet as Chernov pulls his jacket off, then his shirt.
I reach into my pocket and withdraw a leather whip. Meeting Chernov’s eyes, I smile. The smell of old leather with a faint trace of dried blood lingers in the woven cords.
“Do you remember this?” I hold the whip beneath his nose. “Yes, it’s the same whip used on me that night.”
His jaw tightens. Of course he remembers. He held me down when it was used on me. He laughed at my pain. My blood.
I stride slowly behind him. There are old scars across his back. They catch the light, and it gives me pause. How he bled for my father. For my legacy
But he only bled for the Volkov name so he could see his daughter on the throne with me as my wife. With that name. That was all he wanted.
For a second I think about Sandrine and what she went through. About Tamara, what she thinks she was owed. About the dangerous games Chernov has been playing while faking his loyalty.
Then I stop thinking.
The first crack of the whip splits the room. The second lands on flesh harder, louder. The third leaves fresh blood crossing the old scars.
I don’t lose control. I don’t scream at him. And I don’t enjoy it.
I simply collect a debt.
When it’s over, sweat and blood drips from his body onto the rooftop floor. His breathing is heavier, but not broken.
Tough bastard.
I drop the whip, my knuckles aching from how tight I was holding it.
“Now get dressed,” I say through clenched teeth.
He rises, his powerful legs bringing him to his full height without stumbling. I keep my eyes on him. So he doesn’t ever forget. I’m watching. I’ll always be watching.
Chernov stares at me, assembling himself. There’s no flinch from the pain he must feel dragging that raw silk across chewed-up flesh.
And there’s no fear. Just those dead eyes. The same eyes that watched me bleed years ago.
I study him for a long moment, and wonder if I should just kill him. I go to turn, not wanting to give this man one more second of my attention. One more breath of my oxygen.
“I don’t check emails, Pakhan,” he says, his voice surprisingly strong. “Where do you expect me to go?”
I turn back around and offer him a perfectly cruel smile. “Chernov, you’re not going anywhere. You’re staying right here. I’m sure other brotherhoods will send men to challenge us.”
The room breathes again, and I acknowledge the tribunal.
“All of you. Get cleaned up.” I hold out my bloody hand. “Tend your wounds. Collect your wives from the party and report to your assigned locations.”
They move in a tight formation, shifting from ritual to aftermath in seconds.
Then I look at Chernov. “Go home. Wait for your next assignment.”
Head held high, Chernov leaves without another word. I don’t miss how the men hang back and let him leave first.
And wonder if I will end up paying for letting him leave here alive.
I step out of the cold and into the vestibule, already missing the icy chill. Drago and I take the stairs shoulder to shoulder back down to the ceremony room.
“Very powerful, Pakhan,” he says, not addressing Chernov. “Your grandfather would be proud.”
“Will they pull it off?” I ask the only man who will ever see my uncertainty.
“Your vision is powerful.”
Power. I need a son. Maybe two. Maybe three. Heirs ensure strength and continuity. This brotherhood will not be taken from my line. No one will crush me.
I head back toward the guests. The noise hits with full force again, a chorus of music, voices, and glass clinking. But it all fades the second I see my wife.
Sandrine sits at the head of our table, Ksenia beside her, and a few other wives gathered around in conversation. Violet is curled in my wife’s lap, asleep, her small body slackened with a happy grin on her face. A vision I dreaded I’d never see. Maybe I won’t send Violet to boarding school.
Like Sandrine can sense me, our eyes meet across the room.
Carnal urges move through me, dark and immediate. They consume me. Heat coils in my groin before I can stop it. It’s not just the memory of her opening for me, spread for me. It’s who she is now. What she survived to get here.
And I still want her even more.
I cross the space with powerful steps. The crowd parts, kicking up my adrenaline. At the table, I place a hand on Sandrine’s shoulder, and bend a kiss to Violet’s head.
Then, in her ear, I whisper, “This coronation is over.”
She rises gracefully, saying good night across the table. I follow her out of the ceremony room, my eyes everywhere.
Smiling that Tamara is long gone.
On the walk back to our wing, Violet remains curled against Sandrine. The vision weakens me. But no one will see me like this. Only my wife.
In the residence corridor, Nadia is there doing an extra shift. “Pakhan,” she says, bowing.
“Get my daughter ready for bed,” I instruct the nanny.
Sandrine looks up, Violet’s head tucked under her neck.
I step forward and take my daughter, bearing my brutal needs for a moment. “You’re mine tonight, Madam Volkov.”
I place Violet in the nanny’s arms, and she carries my daughter away from me. I don’t want to be a father right now. I want to be a husband.
A husband who will fuck his wife all night.