Page 23 of Never Distract a Biker

"Dead men tell no tales. But they make excellent legends," I respond my voice a calm contrast to the anger brewing around me. My gaze doesn't waver; it can't afford to.

The clan watches a silent audience to our reunion—some with hesitant eyes, others with jaws set. Loyalty and suspicion dance a delicate tango in their minds.

Nikolai steps forward, his silhouette cutting through the throng of skeptical faces. The murmurs die down as he raises a hand, commanding silence more effectively than a gunshot could.

"Druz’ya," he begins, voice gravelly with authority, "I stand before you not just as Igor's right hand but as a witness to the truth."

He turns to me, an unspoken signal that I'm the topic of discussion. His gaze holds respect, and in this moment, his word is gospel.

"Viktor Makarov stands with us today because fate has deemed it so," Nikolai continues. "Years ago, a boy was rushed to the United States, escaping death by a hair's breadth. He survived. He thrived. He became a force within the Columbian Cartel and rose among their ranks to become an enforcer."

A collective breath is drawn. Whispers weave through the room like wayward spirits. They know the Colombians are ruthless sons of bitches.

"Proof," one elder barks, the word slicing through the charged air.

"Proof has been kept," Nikolai asserts, pulling out documents from his inner coat pocket. He displays them—photos, letters, official duties within the cartel—all chronicling my life away from Russia. I never knew Thiago had been filling my father in on my life steeped in blood and shadow.

"Look," he urges, spreading the evidence on a nearby table. "See for yourself the journey he's weathered."

The elders press in, eyes scanning the papers with predatory intensity. Their disbelief hangs heavy, a tangible thing I could slice through with my knife.

"While his abilities are commendable according to these documents, we insist on DNA testing," someone says stubbornly, his challenge a thorn amidst the quieting unrest.

“Da,” another agrees. “We will not have a stranger foisted upon us when there are people who have been loyal to the Bratva from birth.”

"Of course," I reply, my voice steady. My heart doesn't skip a beat. "But remember, while blood confirms lineage it is loyalty and bravery that confirms leadership."

I meet their gazes, one by one, an unspoken duel playing out in the silence. I don't back down. They need to see the iron in my spine, the steel in my soul.

“Perform whatever test is required to prove my identity.”

The group nods in satisfaction with my agreement and proceeds to arrange for it.

It’s been two weeks since my return and the results have proved my identity. I stand beside my father’s fresh grave. The biting cold seeps through my tailored suit as I stand before the open grave, a silent sentinel amidst the sea of black-clad mourners. The freshly turned earth waits to claim its own, and the weightof the Bratva's eyes is upon me—some searching for weakness, others seeking guidance.

"Pakhan," the priest intones in a voice heavy with sorrow and reverence. "Your words."

I step forward, my boots crunching against the frost-hardened ground. The murmur of the crowd hushes to expectant silence. I gaze at the polished wood of the coffin, a stark contrast against the grey sky, and find I have no need for flowery speeches or empty promises.

The picture of mypapochkain the morgue dances before my eyes. His body had been riddled with bullets and a bruise to his left knee indicating he had hit the floor with it. The killer shot was to his head and the bullet is still lodged there.

I let that picture propel me as I speak.

"This is an act of war," I declare, my voice a low growl that carries over the assembled. "And we are at war."

Those last five words hang suspended: a declaration, a vow. I feel Alina and Yelena's presence close by, their strength bolstering mine. A collective shudder ripples through the ranks of the Bratva, a shared realization dawning upon them. There will be no peace until justice is served.

As the funeral concludes, whispers swell into murmurs, like the wind that whips across the tundra, carrying tales of vengeanceand blood. I remain unmoved, a rock amidst the storm, until the last mourner pays their respects and departs.

Only then do I allow myself to retreat from the graveside, making my way to my father's office—a sanctuary of dark woods and heavier memories. The door closes behind me with a sound that echoes too loudly in the silence.

I sink into his chair, leather creaking under my weight. My fingers trace the lines of the desk, worn smooth by his hands, now still and cold in death. Mementos of our shared past line the shelves: photographs, rare books, and trinkets from travels long since ended.

A mix of sorrow and anger boils within me, a tempestuous concoction threatening to burst free. But I harness it and channel it into resolve. They took him from us—from me—and for that, they will pay.

"Father," I whisper to the emptiness, "I will find them. I will tear the world apart thread by thread."

Vengeance burns bright, a raging fire ready to consume everything in its path. I will uncover the truth behind his murder, and retribution will be mine.

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