Page 14 of Never Distract a Biker

The key turns in my lock, and I push the door open to the modest sanctuary I call home. It's time to plan, to dream, to do whatever it takes for Mom and me. Because finally, it feels like we might win.

6

Viktor

My footsteps echo on the polished marble floor as I enter Thiago's office. The door closes behind me with a definitive click, sealing us in a room that smells of leather and power. The faint hum of city life outside is silenced, leaving only the weight of the conversation we’re about to have.

"Marcus's death has been successfully staged as a drug overdose," I announce, no preamble needed between men like us. The words are delivered with a tone that brooks no question, only confirmation.

Thiago leans back in his chair, a chess master observing the board after a decisive move. His lips curve into a satisfied smile, the kind that only comes with eliminating a threat to his empire.

"Efficient as always, Viktor," he says. His voice is deep and calm, like the eye of a hurricane. "Your skills are invaluable."

I nod once in response. We understand each other, this man and I. Not bound by blood but by unspoken oaths that run thicker. Thiago’s approval is a calculated move as much as it is genuine; this is the game we play.

"Taking out a government snitch, especially one with ties to your wife, is a bold move," I add, letting the words hang between us like a veil of smoke. It’s both a statement and a salute to his ruthlessness.

"Peace at home and in my business?" Thiago replies with humor and gleaming eyes. "Worth it. I’d do it again without a second thought."

"Indeed," I agree, my voice devoid of any emotion. He’s chosen the lesser evil—a rare thing in our world. This is how you separate business from pleasure without spilling unnecessary blood.

Thiago's fingers tap a rhythm on the mahogany desk, a silent drumroll before he speaks. "You have my word, Viktor. Whenever you need a favor, all you have to do is ask, and I promise it’s yours."

"Understood," I reply with a crisp nod. Promises are currency in our world, and Thiago's word is as good as gold—blood-stained though it may be.

He steeples his fingers, gaze narrowing slightly. "I value our partnership," he begins, his words deliberate, "and I want to strengthen it further. Marry my daughter."

Damn, this cunning man.

The proposition hangs in the air like smoke from a snuffed-out cigar. I've declined this before; why is he pushing now? My refusal must be tactful so he doesn’t feel insulted.

"Thiago, your daughter is grace personified," I say, truthful in my praise. "But marriage? It’s not a path I’ll be walking. Not with anyone."

His pride bristles visibly like feathers ruffled by an unwelcome wind. I watch as he masks his displeasure with a practiced smile, though tension lines his jaw.

"Love is a luxury I cannot afford," I add, hoping to soothe the sting. "My life, as you know, is bound by different loyalties."

"Indeed," he says after a moment, the forced smile slipping. “But you will be missing out on this beautiful thing I have with my Lola.”

His eyes soften at the mention of his wife. It never ceases to amaze me how a callous man like Thiago, a ruthless crime lord, can be mushy with this flimsy emotion called love.

“I’m truly happy for you, but thankfully I am fine the way I am.”

“Of course you are, you bloody loner.” He smirks without malice. “My Xio is too delicate for a man like you anyway.”

Walking into my dark apartment, I savor the solitude this sanctuary offers. My eyes are accustomed to the darkness; I navigate without issue. This comfort in shadows is a habit forged by necessity and survival.

I pull out my phone to call Lev and Zasha, my two right-hand men, but the device vibrates before I can dial. The voice that greets me is unmistakable—coarse, like gravel, yet powerful in a way that commands immediate respect.

"Viktor." The thick Russian accent reaches my ear.

"Da, papochka," I answer, switching to my Russian roots. My voice is steady despite the tightness gripping my chest.

"New York treats you well, I hope," he states rather than asks, a subtle check-in that bears weight in our coded language.

"Feels like my kingdom," I reply, matching his tone, offering respect to the man who carved his legacy into my skin.

"Good. I'm arriving tonight. We need to talk face-to-face."

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