Page 22 of Never Distract a Biker

"We don't know yet, but—" Yelena's voice comes through the line, her breaths coming in sharp gasps as Alina sobs.

"Stay strong. I’m coming." I cut them off before emotion can overwhelm us all. "I will find them. Whoever they are, I will end them."

The line goes dead. I stand, my resolve is as cold and hard as the Russian winters of my youth. Igor Makarov was more than my father; he was the Bratva's backbone. Now, it's on me to protect our legacy.

My phone rings again, and this time it is Nikolai.

"I’m aware," I say tightly.

"You need to come back immediately."

I end the call and turn to Lev and Zasha. They have gathered the gist of the calls from my conversations. Without a word, they spring into action, ensuring everything is in place for our departure.

Hours later, the wheels of the privately hired jet touch down on the tarmac of a secluded airport, far from prying eyes. I step out into the biting Russian cold, and there he is—Nikolai, standing like a sentinel in his well-tailored suit. Despite his stoic exterior, his eyes betray a hint of relief at my arrival. His gaze, full of unsaid words, meets mine. He knows what my return means—for the Bratva, for our enemies.

"Pakhan,"he gives a little bow, showing his respect. A silent acknowledgment of the weight now resting on my shoulders. There's no warmth in our reunion—there can't be. Not when we are in the middle of a war.

"Tell me everything," I demand, keeping my voice level despite the storm raging inside me. Our breaths form clouds in the frigid air, but the chill is nothing compared to the ice that has settled where my heart used to be.

We walk briskly toward the car waiting to take us to the heart of Bratva territory. As we walk, Nikolai fills me in on what he knows.

"Whoever did this will pay," I say, my fingers curling into fists.

"Da,they will," Nikolai replies, and I can hear the unspoken pledge in his words. Together, we will avenge my father and secure the future of the Makarov Bratva.

"Let’s go," I say, my tone leaving no room for questions or condolences. We have work to do. My father's legacy demands it, and I will deliver—no matter the cost.

The sleek black sedan snakes through the heart of Moscow. I sit in silence, watching the city pass by, its colors muted by my thoughts. Memories of my father flood my mind, each one a sharp blade cutting deeper into my grief. He was the Bratva's rock; he commanded respect with every step he took. And now, he is gone. The weight of it is suffocating, but I refuse to let it crush me. We pull up to one of the Bratva’s safe houses. It’s been standing for decades but is still firm like the Bratva itself.

Memories of my father flood my mind, each one a sharp blade cutting deeper into my grief. He was the Bratva's rock; he commanded respect with every step he took. And now, he is gone. The weight of it is suffocating, but I refuse to let it crush me.

As we roll to the iron-clad gate of the huge estate, Nikolai rolls down his side of the tinted window, and security nods and lets us through.

I grind my teeth in fury and frustration as memories surge through me. I left this place due to an assassination attack that claimed my mother, and now, two decades later, I am back because of another assassination that has claimed my father.

I hope the construction workers in hell can speed up their expansion project because I will be sending people down there in droves.

The huge oak doors of the stronghold swing open, and we step inside, carefully examining every face present. A deathly hush descends upon the gathered gentlemen, and disbelief andconfusion are written on several faces. Murmurs erupt as though they've seen my father's apparition, but I walk onward, flanked on each side by Lev and Zasha. My strides are sure, and my heart is an iron fortress.

"Impossible ..." A whisper snakes through the assembly.

“What is going on here?”

“How the hell …?”

I stand before them, a specter from the past, yet flesh and blood beneath these tailored threads. They stare, eyes wide, jaws slack, their disbelief a tangible shroud in the air.

"Viktor Makarov?" The name cuts through the silence, laced with disbelief.

Before I can respond, the faces I have been dying to see again materialize at a doorway "starshiy brat"they say in unison. Several emotions fleet across their faces as they approach. Their blue eyes, so identical to mine, pool with raw emotions. Alina reaches out, trembling fingers brushing my cheek, unable to believe I am finally here. At my nod, she flings herself into my arms. They were only three when our father shipped me out and was eighteen when he told them that I was still alive.

"Yelena," I breathe, my voice a low rumble, betraying no crack in my armor. Our embrace is a silent storm. She clings to me, her sobs muffled against my chest. Even my warrior sister is shattered by the demise of ourOtets.

There is no fucking rock big enough for whoever did this to crawl under.

The murmurs halt as every eye fixes on me. Faces etched with time and crime, members of the clan stare as if seeing a ghost. They remember a boy laid to rest, whose grave they had stood right next to, and witnessed him lowered into mother earth. They did not expect me to be carousing among the living. How did a buried boy turn into the man standing before them now? Whispers of disbelief curl in the cold air.

"Viktor Makarov is dead," an old voice rasps from the crowd, conviction seeping through his tone.

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