Page 16 of Never Distract a Biker

A finger hovers over a particularly nasty scar, the memory of a blade slipping between my ribs, a desperate attempt to finish a young boy who refused to yield. Mother was gone in an instant, her warmth fading against my side while chaos reigned outside the shattered windows of our limousine.

These scars are more than the remnants of an assassination—they're a testament to resilience, to the life I've clawed back from the brink. They fuel the rage that simmers beneath my calm exterior, the relentless drive that propels me forward.

A memory from two decades ago surges, unbidden, a torrent of images and sounds from a night cloaked in celebration and tragedy. My mother's voice, light with humor, fills the space around me, an echo from the past.

"Viktor, you're practically scowling. Smile! It's your birthday, not a funeral."

Her words wrap around me, a teasing reprimand that softens the rigid lines of my face. I remember turning to her, the corners of my lips tugging into the semblance of a smile. She wears joy like a second skin, and her laughter is a melody that dances through the air.

"Mother, after tonight ..." I begin, but she cuts me off with a wave of her hand, her eyes glinting with mischief.

"Ah, yes, after tonight, you become the Bratva's puppet, all strings, and somber duties. But now, live a little!"

The city blurs outside the tinted windows, neon lights streaking by in vibrant defiance of the darkness. The traffic ebbs and flows, a river of steel and rubber, and we are adrift on its currents, moving toward my destiny. It is my eighteenth birthday and my official induction into the Makarov Bratva.

"Tonight, you are still my little boy," she insists, her tone laced with a gravity that belies her earlier levity. "Because tomorrow, Viktor, you won't be just my son—you'll be the Bratva's."

I nod, understanding the weight of her words, and the mantle of responsibility that awaits me. It's a future etched in shadow and blood, one I cannot escape.

"Of course, Mother." My reply is a whisper, barely audible over the hum of the limousine's engine. “You will have my first dance tonight, but also know that even if the Bratva is absorbing me fully from tomorrow, I’d never stop being your son,” I assure her.

“Hmmm, my dear son,” she says, caressing my cheek in her palm. “You are now the embodiment of the organization, and I’d only get whatever of your time is left from serving them. This is why I insisted on taking this ride with you,” she says, her eyes shining with unshed tears and love.

Suddenly, the world lurches, hurling us forward with the shriek of screeching tires. The scent of burnt rubber assaults my nostrils—the car in front of us has stopped without warning. Our driver slams on the brakes; the momentum thrusts us forward in a violent embrace with inertia.

"Viktor!"

The seatbelt catches me, a harsh grip across my chest that steals the breath from my lungs. I'm jerked back into the leather seat, the impact a sharp reminder of mortality's fragile thread.

"Mother!" Panic edges my voice, a rare crack in the armor I've built over years of discipline.

She's beside me, held fast by her seatbelt, her eyes wide with shock but alive, alive—

"Are you—"

"Fine," she breathes out, regaining her composure with the grace that marks the Petrova of the Makarov Bratva. "Just ... unexpected."

She presses a button and rolls down the separating barrier between us and the driver. We see the driver and bodyguard draw their guns as fully masked men jump down from the car in front of us.

My mother and I exchange a look. "Viktor," she says softly, rolling the barrier back up and reaching over to squeeze my hand, "Be strong." She says, pulling out her phone and dialing my father.

Just then, the glass shatters. Time fractures, a slow-motion waltz of splintering reality. My ears ring—no, they scream—with the cacophony of gunfire, an unholy symphony that rips through the car's once-impenetrable shell.

"Down!" It's all I can manage—a single-word command to my mother as instinct overrides thought. The two guards, men sworn to protect us, slump lifelessly, their blood painting the upholstery in grim strokes.

"Viktor! Down!" My mother's voice, laced with willpower and something fiercer, commands my attention even as my world narrows to the barrel of a gun pointing at her head.

The air compresses, a prelude to pain. A bullet burrows into my chest, an intruder intent on destruction. I gasp, disbelief mingling with agony, yet I live.

"Stay down," I rasp, clawing at consciousness. My mother's face swims above me, etched with the lines of a warrior queen.

Then I see a finger pull the trigger of the gun pointed to her head. Her head drops next to mine, blood oozing from her gun wound but her eyes stayed defiantly open, watching over me even in death.

A shadow looms above me with the scent of metal and hatred. It produces a glinting blade that descends on my flesh. Its kiss is cold at my side, promising finality. Pain erupts and a fire threatens to consume my will to live.

"Finish him off," hisses a voice that should belong to the Reaper himself.

With that command, I feel several other slices to my flesh. But death is not ready to claim me, not tonight. However, my assailants hurried away, thinking they'd succeeded in killing me. My father had buried two caskets, one containing my mother’s remains and the other empty.

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