Page 18 of Never Distract a Biker

Well, that is all about to change now.

Hours dissolve into the distance, eaten up by the jet. The city lights of New York glitter beneath us as we descend, a mosaic of lives oblivious to the machinations of the world I command. It is Viktor's world now to command.

My phone pings, indicating a new message. I pick it up, and a message from my mistress, Irina, flashes on the screen.

Irina: I am on my way to see you.

Me: Not tonight.

Irina: This is so unfair.

I imagine her sulking. She has been a loyal mistress for the past twelve years, even when she knows there is no love between us.

Me: I am away at the moment and will let you know when I get back.

Irina: ?? ??

I smile at the sad emoji.

Me: I’ll make it up to you when I get back.

Irina: When will that be?

Me: It’ll be when you see me.

With that, there are no more messages. She knows better than to push.

"Mr. Makarov," the pilot, a member of my clan, announces, "we have landed."

"Good," I respond curtly, gathering myself for what must be done.

A car waits, its privacy tint hiding my presence from prying eyes. We slice through the city, heading to the safe house on the east side. I pick up my phone and inform Viktor of my presence in the city and where to meet me.

As I journey back, the meeting with my son has me battling with several emotions. I have led the Bratva for more than forty years and am now ready to retire. Well, partially retire. Even though Viktor will now be in charge, I’d still be there to guide him on who to trust and how to navigate the waters. The engines of the private jet hum in a comforting baritone as we ascend into the dusk and head back to Russia. My heart beats with an urgency that matches the revolutions of the propellers. Every mile closer to home coils my anticipation tighter, like a mainspring ready to snap. Somehow, I manage to fall asleep.

"We are approaching Moscow,Pakhan," Oleg informs me.

I nod and put my things together in preparation for our landing. Going through immigration was hassle-free as I never have to go through the checkout process. Perks of having men in every sphere of society.

After bidding Oleg a good night, I step into the discrete black sedan and message Irina to come to the mansion before driving off. I will surprise her with a proposal to become my wife. At sixty-five, marriage should be off the table for me, but this feels like the right time.

After Helen was taken from me, I became too focused on keeping Viktor and my girls safe. I also did not want to subject another woman to the same fate as Helen. However, now that Viktor willtake over the Bratva, I will have enough time for Irina. She has been faithful and patient. Never once complained about coming second to everything else in my life. At forty-seven, I’m sure she, too, would want the security that comes with marriage and the comfort of a steady companion.

A loud noise pulls me from my thoughts, and the sudden vibration of my steering wheel tells me that I have just taken a hit.

Something's wrong. There is no doubt that I am under attack. How the hell did this happen? Only four people, including my pilot, know about my trip. This is when I realize there is a snitch inside my immediate circle.

"Betrayal ..." I gasp, the realization hitting harder than the impending impact. How? Whom?

The world explodes in a cacophony of screeching metal and shattering glass. Pain, white-hot and searing, punches through me. Then, darkness swallows everything.

As I come to, I feel the cold muzzle of a gun pressing against my temple. The world has narrowed down to this one, all-consuming point of contact. Four pairs of hands grip me, yanking me from the twisted wreckage of my car. My ears ring with the echo of shattering glass and crumpling metal, the aftermath of the crash still playing out like a distant symphony.

"Move," one of them growls, his voice muffled behind a mask.

I stumble, forced forward by unyielding grips on my arms. Each step is a battle between compliance and resistance. But even as they drag me toward the roadside, I refuse to be subdued. Kneeling? That's for men who bend to others' wills. Not Igor Makarov.

"Kneel," again, the command comes across as sharp as a knife's edge.

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