Page 121 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

Drago stands at my right, silent, but deadly as always. Dissent, violent ones, are common in the Bratva. We are a different stock of men.

I take my time, marching back and forth, staying silent, letting the weight of where we are settle into my men’s bones like lead.

What now? That is the question. How will I cement my reign?

My brotherhood’s legacy will be blood and destruction. It has to be for the time we’re in.

I reach into my jacket and pull a knife free, the same one my father used. The blade catches one of the bright lights overhead. No one flinches. I don’t expect them to.

And so it begins.

“Tonight,” I call out, my voice strong out of the gate. “You stand in my presence by invitation only because you chose loyalty.”

A few of them shift and nod.

“Not just to my father, or a legacy,” I continue, pacing slowly in front of them, the knife flipping from hand to hand. “But to me. And what I’m ready to build for this brotherhood. Because it is different from anything you’ve seen before. It’s a new day. I will no longer be known as the Chicago Pakhan, but the American Pakhan.”

I open my jacket, exposing the ceremonial shirt that will only be worn once and then hang in my office until my death. I take my palm, firm, steady, and drag the blade across it in one clean motion. Blood wells immediately, dark and thick. Russian.

I stop in front of the first man. “Your oath will be in blood. Give me your hand, brother.”

“Yes, Pakhan.” He doesn’t hesitate. He steps forward, extending his hand.

I cut him, as I did mine. He doesn’t make a sound as I expect. We join hands, the blood dripping onto my shirt, my blood mixing with his.

I let go, and he steps back.

One by one, they step forward. And one by one, I cut them. Each man offers the same thing. Flesh. Blood. Loyalty.

It’s not brutality for its own sake. Okay, maybe a little. I keep going until I reach Drago. Our mixed blood is saved for the spot above my heart.

His bloody palm then grips the back of my neck and pulls me into him, his forehead knocking against mine.

“Pakhan Volkov,” he roars.

The men cheer, the sound crashing over me. I soak it in. I earned it.

With the traditions out of the way, I rearrange from commander of warriors to executive. It’s the only way we survive.

“After tonight, your new watch begins,” I say, my voice strong in the silence. “Assignments will be in your inbox before sunrise. First-class flights. Luxury accommodations.” I glance between them, letting the next part land with just enough edge. “And names. Of men who believe themselves to be pakhans. You will persuade them otherwise.”

A ripple of amusement moves through the room.

“Wherever you set foot in this country, you represent the Volkov Brotherhood,” I continue, my tone sharpening again. “You represent me. And if any other Russian thinks he owns a city…” I growl. “He’s wrong. And you will remind him of that.”

I smile out at the sea of dark smiles.

“We will own every city,” I remind them. “Barinov in New York and Gideon in Boston fell in pools of their blood with dead men at their feet. Other cities bent the knee quickly after that. Make sure the rest know those are their choices.”

I took out the strongest contenders with the most powerful brotherhoods who could have challenged my takeover first. I killed Barinov and Gideon myself to show these men I have what it takes to lead.

“I built up this brotherhood over the last few years,” I add, my voice sharp. “And I will burn it down before I let anyone take it from us.”

I shift my weight, my gaze moving across them again.

“I have a message for those of you who were loyal to my father,” I say, my head held high. “I thank you for your service. But Yuri Volkov is gone. Now it is Drago at my right hand, Ksenia at my left, and me who stand at the head of the Volkov Bratva.”

Slow and condescending slapping sounds out behind me. I turn and see Adrian Chernov leaning against a brick stack. Clapping.