Page 15 of Never Distract a Biker

Anticipation coils within me. Seeing my father is a rarity even when he visits New York frequently. While our connection remains unbroken, it’s always charged with unspoken expectations. My exile—my death—was a sacrifice for the Bratva, a cost I’ve paid every day since.

"Understood. I'll meet you at the mansion."

"See that you do." And with that, he disconnects, leaving me with thoughts better left in the dark.

The city shrinks behind me as I weave through traffic, my black SUV prowling like a beast on these concrete streets. Manhattan's towering monuments blur into gray smudges; they’re insignificant compared to the weight pressing on my mind.

I press harder on the gas, urging the vehicle faster. The storm brewing within me remains steady as I approach the Lower East Side safe house. It looms ahead, a fortress holding secrets and the ghosts of a legacy.

Punching in the code, the black gate slides open, granting me entry. The house is one of many Makarov properties, a symbol of our dynasty’s reach. Yet, it’s not where I reside; my safety for now demands anonymity.

The door swings open as I approach. Standing there is my father, Igor Makarov—a king among thieves,aPakhanin every sense. His embrace is firm, his voice a deep rumble that resonates with authority and affection.

"Moy syn," he greets, holding me tight.

"Otets,"I respond, kissing him on both cheeks before entering the luxuriously furnished foyer. The air inside carries the weight of our shared bloodline.

"Let’s sit," he offers as we get to his office. I comply, taking the seat across from him. His gaze never wavers, probing for weakness where none exists.

"How are Yelena and Alina?" I ask, breaking the silence.

"Yelena is trying to send me to an early grave while Alina, ever the peacemaker, tries to keep the peace," he says with gruff fondness. We both smile, knowing we’d die to give them the world.

"I’m sure Yelena gets her fire from you," I tease.

He chuckles. "I thought she’d settle down once she becomes an adult, but no, she still finds ways to bring chaos."

"Why aren’t they with you this time?"

"Because I won’t be spending time here, and they’re manning the fort," he replies.

My disbelief is palpable. "Females don’t run Bratvas. No one will listen to them."

"You underestimate your sisters," he says, his tone leaving no room for argument.

After our chuckle dies, an air of seriousness descends into the room. "It’s time for the Makarov name to reclaim its rightful place.” My father says, looking at me. “It’s time for you to come back home."

Shock waves run through me, though I’ve always known this day would come. I nod, my resolve hardening. "I am ready,otets. The Makarov dynasty will rise even higher."

A ghost of pain flickers in his eyes as he mentions my mother’s killers—the one failure he’s yet to reconcile. I place a hand over his, a rare gesture of comfort. "We’ll leave the past where it belongs and carve our destiny together."

His gaze sharpens. "You are no longer just my son. You are the Bratva’sPakhan."

The weight of his words settles over me. The Bratva is a living entity and will now look to me for sustenance.

"Expansion. Consolidation. Retaliation," I repeat, the words forming a battle cry in my mind.

"Exactly," he says. "Make our clan thrive."

My resolve crystallizes; I am ready. The energy of the challenge courses through me—a lightning bolt that sears away all doubt. I am the storm that looms on the horizon, the harbinger of a reckoning that will reshape the underworld.

"Consider it done," I vow, my voice firm, unyielding as iron. "The Makarov dynasty will not only thrive—it will reign supreme."

Rising from my seat, I give a nod, the pact between father and son sealed in ambition and mutual goal. As I turn to leave, the future unfolds before me—a tapestry woven from shadows and power. I am Viktor Makarov, and I will lead the Bratva to glory. There is no middle ground.

Back in my house, I stand alone in a room that holds no warmth or memories. It’s just a place to sleep and store my things. The weight of my father's expectations is heavy on my shoulders. The silence is thick, suffocating as if even the walls are holding their breath for what comes next. I'm about to step into a world that thinks me long dead, a ghost returning to claim his throne.Revenge is a dark seed germinating within me, fed by twenty years of shadows and whispers.

My reflection stares back from the mirror. I trace the scars crisscrossing my torso, now covered in tattoos. Each one is a brutal narrative of survival. Raised skin meets my touch, a map of pain carved into flesh, a reminder that I am no stranger to violence. It was a baptism by fire, a rain of bullets—the day my mother's laughter was silenced forever, the day I should have died.

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