Page 67 of Scarred Bratva King

Thirty minutes earlier…

The black ink glides across the paper in a smooth line, but it feels like I’m carving something permanent into stone. Final. Irrevocable.

My signature takes its place on the dotted line, neat and deliberate, though the weight of what it means settles heavily on my chest.

The silence in the room is oppressive, save for the soft shuffle of the lawyer organizing the documents in front of me.

His dark suit is perfectly pressed, his movements precise and mechanical. He’s a man accustomed to these moments, but for me, this one is personal. This isn’t just a contract; it’s a transfer of power. A coronation on paper.

When I set the pen down, the lawyer straightens and offers a thin, professional smile. “It’s done,” he says in Russian. “Congratulations, Pakhan.”

Pakhan. The title my father held before me. And now, it’s mine.

“Maxim,” my father says, stepping forward. His voice is steady, but there’s an edge to it—a rare hint of pride that he doesn’t bother to mask. “You’ve earned this. Today, you are the most powerful man in the Bratva.”

He grips my shoulder, his hand heavy, his gaze unrelenting. “This is what I raised you for. Don’t forget that.”

“I won’t,” I say, the words coming out evenly, though my throat feels tight. His approval is a strange thing—rare, elusive, and yet now that I have it, it feels worthless.

Ivan stands a few feet away, his jaw clenched. He tries to keep his expression neutral, but the tension in his posture gives him away.

He steps forward, inclining his head just slightly. “Pakhan,” he says, his tone careful. Calculated. “What are your first orders?”

The room quietens, the air thick with expectation. My father watches me closely, waiting to see how I’ll wield this new power. The lawyer is silent, his hands folded neatly over his briefcase.

Even Dmitri, who knows me better than most, stands still, waiting for my decision.

I take a breath, my thoughts sharp. There’s only one thing on my mind. Only one loose thread that’s been pulling at me, unraveling everything else.

“Marco Gorlami is walking into my trap,” I say, my voice cutting through the room like steel. “We have the details we need to take Lombardi down. Get things in motion now.”

Dmitri’s brow lifts slightly, though he masks his surprise quickly. “You set a trap for Marco?”

I nod. My father’s lips press into a thin line, but he nods in approval. “Clever.”

My thoughts drift to Veronica, and the hollow ache sharpens. She’s the one thing I can’t stop thinking about, the one thing that makes all of this feel meaningless.

She deserves better than what I’ve given her. Better than the chaos I’ve dragged into her life. And yet, I’ve tricked her, used her to bring Marco into the open. The kind of plan a monster would make, not a loving husband.

“I’ll be back later,” I say, turning sharply on my heel before anyone can ask more questions.

My car waits outside, sleek and black, its engine humming softly as I climb in.

The drive feels longer than it is, my hands gripping the wheel tighter than necessary.

I pull up a block from the bookstore, the sleek black car purring to a stop. At first glance, everything looks normal. But as I step out and the cold air bites at my face, that prickling sensation at the back of my neck sharpens. Instinct whispers to me.

Something’s off. Shit, I thought I had more time.

I shove my hands into my coat pockets, masking the tension coiling in my muscles as I walk toward the store.

My pace is steady, but my senses are dialed to the highest frequency, scanning the street for anything out of place. And then I see it. A car idling on the opposite side of the street, windows tinted so dark they practically swallow the light.

I stop a few feet from the bookstore, pretending to check my phone, but my eyes flick to the car. The driver’s window is cracked just enough for a cigarette’s ember to glow in the shadows.

My gaze shifts to the faint movement inside: four silhouettes, subtle shifts of shoulders.

Four men. Armed. Watching the front of the store.

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