Page 19 of Never Distract a Biker

I plant my feet, refusing. A fist slams into my gut, stealing my breath. Again, they demand. "Kneel!" Again, I resist. I am still the Makarov Bratva. I do not kneel. Not even before death; death should kneel before me.

A bullet rips through my shoulder. Agony blooms, hot and fierce. I’ve been shot in the shoulder, no doubt to subdue me. Yet, it's not enough to break me. I stagger but remain upright. They shoot again, this time to my right leg. My leg betrays me, folding beneath the onslaught of pain.

I'm on one knee now, but it's not in submission. It's defiance in its purest form. Another shot, and another. My vision blurs, each bullet a punctuation mark in the final moment of my life.

Amidst the chaos and in the face of certain death, a strange calm settles over me. My legacy is secure; Viktor will lead the bratva now. With this thought cradling my consciousness, a hint of a smile plays across my lips.

The final bullet pierces my skull. Darkness rushes in, but I face it as I have faced every adversary—with an indomitable spirit. Andas I fall, I carry with me the satisfaction of knowing that I leave behind a son who will rise from the ashes of this treachery.

Chaos erupts. voices fill the air, mixing with the sound of screeching tires and panicked footsteps. My assailants hurry away, leaving me to pour out my life force on the roadside. I feel myself slipping into oblivion, leaving behind my daughters and my son, a legacy and an empire veiled in uncertainty.

Who ordered this hit? Will Viktor uncover the truth? Or will it go unsolved like that of his and his mother? Who is this person who is always one step ahead of us?

The Bratva is a beast of many heads, and today, it has lost its master.

8

Vovka

The shadows cling to me like a second skin as I sit in the back of my armored Mercedes, a silent specter amid the chaos of Moscow’s nightlife. My phone vibrates against the laminated console, and I pick it up without hesitation.

"Yes?" I demand with forced calmness into the device, my voice low, expecting the report that will set my plans into motion.

The voice on the other end cackles humourlessly with delirious joy. "Igor Makarov just flew out of Moscow." The voice cuts across.

“And where is he headed?”

“I do not have that detail. But you should have at least one man at the airport that can divulge that information.”

"And his security detail?"

“I know his second in command and guards did not take this trip with him. So, he should have little to none.”

“How did you come about this inside knowledge?”

“I told you I have my ways. Now you need to make sure you uphold your end of the bargain.”

A smile, cold and devoid of joy, creeps onto my lips. Igor, alone in my city, is like a lamb straying into the wolf's den. “And yes, the crime world here in Moscow is mine to control. That is as soon as I take out Igor Makarov.”

"We have a deal." I terminate the call with a press of my thumb, knowing that patterns can be broken and security can be breached. The Makarovs have been a thorn in my side for too long, their existence a constant stain upon my ambition.

Ever since the day they buried Igor's wife and son, the man has surrounded himself and his daughters with an impenetrable fortress of guards and bulletproof glass. But even fortresses have their weaknesses, and I've been waiting, watching for the slightest chink in his armor.

"Drive," I say to my driver, my voice barely above a whisper, yet it carries the weight of iron-clad resolve. The car pulls away from the curb, gliding silently through the streets.

The city buzzes outside, oblivious to the storm brewing within its underbelly. People laugh and live while I plot death in the darkness of my mobile command center.

"I’ve waited for this opportunity," I murmur to myself, visions of power and fame fueling the fire in my veins. My time is now. My time to rule it all has finally come. I feel it in my bones. I know my father will be in his office and I head straight to him.

“Igor Makarov,” I snarl. “Your time just ran out.”

Last Month

The leather of the chair creaks under my weight as I lean forward, resting my elbows on the thick polished desk that has been the command center for my father's reign. His eyes, once sharp as a hawk's, now hold the milky sheen of age and hesitance.

"Patience, Vovka," he says, voice raspy with years of whiskey underworld rule. "Igor will die one day, and his empire will crumble without our intervention."

"Patience is a luxury we can't afford," I counter, fingers drumming on the polished wood. "Every day he lives eats into our time."

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