Page 55 of Never Distract a Biker

Vovka

Pacing back and forth does nothing to calm my nerves. The sound of my footsteps reverberates against the rich mahogany walls of my office, a relentless drumbeat to my simmering fury. My hands flex into fists, then release—a metronome of controlled rage. Viktor Makarov is alive. Each report of my fallen men fuels my anger like gasoline on a flame.

Across the room, there's an island of calm in this storm of my making—the informant. They sit, legs crossed, an unreadable expression etched onto their face. Their stillness mocks me; it’s a silent challenge to the tempest that rages within my chest.

"Still alive," I grind out through clenched teeth, barely keeping the growl at bay. "Viktor."

My trusted informant merely tilts their head, acknowledging the turmoil that rattles me without so much as a tremor themselves. It irks me, this power they wield without a word, without a gesture—simply by existing in this space where my world seems to crumble.

I stop dead in my tracks, a statue of rage and disbelief. The news hangs like a specter in the air—Viktor Makarov. Alive. My voice slices through the silence, each word wrapped in barbed wire. "Explain. Now."

The informant doesn't flinch. Their gaze remains as fixed and unyielding as iron. "Our agreement," they start, their voice a calm contrast to my storm, "was clear. Deliver Igor Makarov. Which I did."

"Yet Viktor breathes." My accusation is a bullet shot from my lips, intended to pierce their composure. “How could you not have known that?”

"Viktor was not the target." They state plainly. As if this fact should quell the fire ragging within me. As if the success with Igor could ever be enough.

"Your oversight endangers everything." My hands clench at my sides, the urge to overturn the world with my bare hands almost irresistible. But I hold back. I must think. Plan. Act.

"Viktor's existence came as a surprise to everyone," they continue, unfazed.

“Yet you claim to be in Igor’s inner circle.”

“Igor was a clever and patient son of a bitch.”

“How do I now achieve my plan with Viktor alive and well?”

"We adapt and move forward."

"Indeed." The word tastes like bile. Adaptation isn't a choice; it's a necessity. A game of chess where I am suddenly boxed to make an impossible move.

I draw in a deep breath, trying to cage the wild animal of frustration clawing inside me. The room suddenly feels like a battlefield, and my enemy is sitting before me—unmoved, a statue of infuriating calm. I can't lash out—not here, not at them, not yet.

"Tell me," I force the words out, each one a shard of ice. “Is there a way to capture Viktor?"

They regard me with an unwavering stare as if weighing my worth with their eyes. Silence stretches, taut as a wire about to snap.

"Viktor Makarov is not untouchable," they finally say, voice steady. "But it won't be easy."

"Details." It's a command, not a request. My voice barely conceals the desperation gnawing at my insides. Viktor's alive.A ghost from the past that refuses to die and is now physically hunting me.

"Patience, Vovka," they reply, and I despise the hint of rebuke in their tone. "He must have a weaknesses. We'll need a strategy."

"Strategy ..." I echo. The word feels hollow. Empty. I need action. Assurance.

"Assurance will come with time," they continue, reading my thoughts like an open book. "Viktor will fall. He's human, after all."

"Time," I spit out the word as if it's poison. Time is a luxury I don't have. Every second Viktor breathes is a second too long. Every beat of his heart echoes a countdown to my downfall.

"Then start the clock," I say, the edges of my vision darkening with resolve. I will bring Viktor Makarov to his knees. No other outcome or alternative exists for me now. I will not rule the Bratva world with any bastard, be it dead or alive, ghost or flesh.

I lock eyes with the informant. They sit there, a picture of calm that grates against every frayed nerve in my body.

"You must honor our agreement first," they say, their voice a cool breeze in the stifling tension of the room. "Only then can we discuss Viktor Makarov's downfall."

"Agreement." The word chokes out of me, bitter, like blood from a bitten tongue. I want to rage, smash something—anything—to break this infuriating composure. But I can't. At least not yet. This isn't about brute force; it's chess, not kickboxing.

"Vovka, you understand the terms," they add, and I hear the steel beneath the velvet of their tone. They have me, and they know it. The leverage they hold is as clear as poison and twice as potent.

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