Page 20 of Never Distract a Biker

Can’t my father see the opportunity we have here? Taking Igor out without a successor would make us unrivaled in the country.

My father sits back in his chair, steeped in the old ways, the old fears. "A war would bleed us dry. We must not act rashly."

"Rashly?" My voice rises like the tide before a storm. "This is strategy. Precision."

"Or folly," he retorts with a dismissive wave. "War invites chaos."

"Chaos can be controlled," I insist, feeling the frustration churn in my gut. "Controlled and directed at our enemies."

“We got away once and have set the ball in motion. Without a biological heir, their Bratva will die of internal war once Igor passes on.” He explains but his words sound like jargon in my ears.

“Papa, I just clocked forty, and you want me to wait for Igor to die a natural death!” I ask vehemently. “Does it look like that is going to happen anytime soon?”

He shakes his head, the silver strands of his hair catching the dim light. "You have much to learn, my son."

I stand abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor. "No, Father. It is you who must learn. The world does not wait for any man to die naturally."

"Vovka ..." He starts, but I cut him off.

"We will discuss this no further." My words slice through the tension in the room. I turn on my heel, leaving my father in his fortress of caution and restraint.

It is obvious that if I want things done my way, I need to make sure I am the one calling the shots in the Sidorov Bratva.

As I walk away, the plan takes shape in my mind. Igor Makarov's days on the calendar are numbered, and I am the one holding the pen. Ticking off his time.

Days after the discussion with my father, I stand in the shadow of his study, eyes fixed on the tarnished frame that houses our family legacy. Three generations of Sidorov men stare back at me from behind the glass, their expressions as hard as the lives they led. I can almost hear the whispers of the past urging me to seize what is rightfully mine.

"Vovka," my father's voice cuts through the silence, "you're brooding again."

"Am I?" I step into the light, casual in demeanor but coiled tight inside. "Or am I contemplating?"

"Contemplating what? Patience? Strategy?" He chuckles, thinking he knows me.

"Destiny," I reply, voice steady.

"Your destiny lies with patience," he says, the words of a man who has gone soft, blind to the rot within his empire.

"Patience is for the weak," I murmur, my gaze lingering on the photo.

"Careful, Vovka. Wrongly chosen ambition can drain a man’s soul."

"Or it can bring him everything he desires." My fingers twitch, itching for action. No more waiting. No more discussions. I need to act now.

I glance at the photo once more, and then, without warning, I grab the edge of the frame and smash it against the wall. Glass shatters, scattering shards across the rich carpet. Before my father can react, I snatch a large piece of broken glass.

"Vovka, what—"

"Sorry, Father," I say, though I don't feel sorry. I move fast, stepping close, and drive the jagged edge into his throat. Bloodblooms like a crimson flower, staining his white shirt. He gasps, hands clutching at the wound, eyes wide with shock and betrayal.

"Power waits for no one," I whisper as he collapses. “You have to seize it by force.”

He gurgles something unintelligible, reaching out. His fingers graze my shoe before falling limp. I watch as the life fades from his eyes. I've just killed my father. The last obstacle to myPakhanposition. My birthright.

With the deed done, I feel nothing but a cold satisfaction. I am now the undisputed leader of the Sidorov Bratva. The throne is mine. Bending down, I pull off the signet ring from his finger and slide it onto mine.

"Clean this up," I command, addressing the shadow that materializes from the corner. Alek nods, accustomed to my decisiveness.

"Of course,pakhan."

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