Page 17 of Never Distract a Biker

He had whisked me away to safety, leaving me under the watchful eyes of Thiago. While the whole Bratva world believes me dead, here I am, preparing to come back with the fury of the underworld.

I stand before the mirror, the ghost of my old self staring back with a challenge. My fingers trace the scars that map out my survival, each line a road traveled through pain and persistence. I'm not the boy who was bundled out of Russia; I am a man sculpted by betrayal and hardened by loss.

"Time to go home," I mutter to my reflection. It's a whisper of war, a battle cry for the storm to come.

"Russia," I murmur to my reflection, the word tasting of both home and hell. "You will not bury me again."

With each beat of my heart, the pulse of retribution grows stronger. I am the storm incarnate, the prodigal son returning not to beg forgiveness but to demand restitution. The Bratva's future is etched in these wounds, and I will carve our destiny with unwavering resolve.

So let them whisper their tales of the ghost of Igor Makarov’s dead son. Soon enough, they'll feel the full force of the tempest they thought they'd weathered. And this time, there will be no shelter from the fury I bring. I will avenge my mother.

7

Igor Makarov

I scan the faces before me, each hardened by a life of service to the Bratva. "Gentlemen," I begin, my voice steady and commanding, "we stand at a crossroads, and a decision must be made."

The rustle of expensive suits is the only noise in the room as men shift uncomfortably in their seats. The air is thick with tension, tinged with the scent of leather and fear.

"I sense hostility in our ranks," I continue, locking eyes with one man after another. "Dissension breeds weakness. And if there is one thing I will not condone, it is weakness." The unspoken threat hangs in the balance; they know I demand loyalty or death.

A young lieutenant swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing like a buoy at sea. His hand trembles ever so slightly as he reaches for his glass of water, betraying his unease.

"This Bratva is family. Family means loyalty. Without it, we are nothing." My words are ice; they chill the room. "Always remember that."

Silence stretches, punctuated only by the faint ticking of an antique clock on the wall. It's a reminder that the time has come for this Bratva to move to its next level.

"Are we clear?" I ask, my gaze sweeping over them.

"Da,Pakhan,"comes the collective murmur, a chorus of submission.

The unease fades to a hush as I straighten, commanding the space with a presence honed by years of rule. The tick of the clock now seems to echo my heartbeat—steady, unyielding. I survey the room, every pair of eyes locked onto me, waiting.

"Next week," I announce, "I will name my successor." Murmurs ripple through the room like a disturbed pool; the weight of the announcement settles in their minds, heavy as lead. "This is not merely by appointment. It's the future of our Bratva."

A chair creaks as someone shifts, perhaps uncomfortable with the gravity of my words or the uncertainty they carry. After all, a newPakhanmay mean a new way of doing things.

“Is he one of us?” Petrovich, our eye and ear in customs, asks.

“Is he going to be your future son-in-law?” Andrei, who has been obsessed with having his son marry my daughter, interjects.

"Patience," I chide coldly, almost hostile. "In time, all will be revealed."

I lock eyes with each man, letting my confidence seep into the room. "He will be one of us, molded from our iron, sand, and blood."

They nod, slowly at first, then with growing conviction. They see it in my eyes—the unwavering belief in my decision, in the future I envision for us all.

"Remember," I conclude, my voice resonating with the power that has kept me at the apex of this complex world, "We adapt. We conquer. We thrive even in the face of adversity."

Nods turn to murmurs of agreement. The atmosphere changes from trepidation to anticipation. They sense it—the rise of a new era for the Makarov Bratva. And behind my steeled gaze, I allow myself a rare moment of satisfaction. My legacy will continue, and it will be unbreakable.

I shrug into the darkness of my car, the streets of Moscow a blur as I race to the airport. Secrecy shrouds this journey like frost on the windows. Apart from my daughters, only my second-in-command knows I’ll be taking this solo trip and why. He knows it's vital and urgent.

The plane awaits, looking every bit the symbol of power and wealth that it is. I settle into the leather seat, my mind already crossing continents, reaching out to New York, where my son has lived away from his own Bratva for the last twenty years.

The pain that always hits me whenever I think about the evening of his eighteenth birthday has my heart beating rapidly. And for the zillionth time, I wonder what I could have done differently. My wife Helen had insisted on riding with him to the venue as she wanted to have those few moments alone with him. But minutes before the party, my phone rang. It was Helen, frantically saying they had been ambushed. Just as she was telling me their location, I heard a gun go off and then several others. “Finish him off,” was the last thing I heard before the deafening silence.

At forty-five, I lost the love of my life and, somehow, my son too. Viktor had survived the attack, but his existence has been kept a secret.

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