But the version of me who believed in simple things didn’t survive. One second—that’s all it took. One moment, and the world I knew shattered beyond repair. I didn’t have parents after that. I didn’t have childhood. Just an empty space where a future used to be. I ended up in an orphanage because there was nowhere else for boys like me to go.
It wasn’t a place to heal. It was a machine that turned you hard or turned you to dust. The kind of place where strength wasn’t measured in heart or mind—but in how quickly you could break someone, or how long you could go without breaking yourself. The floors always smelled like bleach, sharp enough to sting your lungs, but it never quite covered the metallic trace of blood that seeped into the tiles no matter how often they scrubbed them. A meat grinder. A place where rules were written by the strongest kid in the room. Or the one who stabbed first.
I learned early that survival didn’t come from friendship. It came from pain tolerance and from knowing when to hit first and when to disappear. I didn’t need friends. I didn’t need love. I needed power. And fear was the fastest way to get it.
Violence was my native language. It still is. And I’m fluent.
By the time I left Kharkiv, people already knew my name—or at least whispered it. My reputation went ahead of me, slipping through bars and back rooms before I ever stepped inside. The guy who would do what others wouldn’t. No conscience. No mercy. Just results. They said I never flinched. That I didn’t blink when it got messy. That I erased people like chalk off a board. Then someone slapped a nickname on me, and it stuck. Not one of them ever dared say it to my face.
Not unless they wanted to find out how accurate it was.
I didn’t care what they called me. What mattered was that they moved when I entered the room. That doors opened without knocking. That fear did the work before I ever had to lift a hand.
When I moved to Kyiv, I didn’t come to start over. I came toclimb.
And I did.
Step by step. Body by body. Favor by favor. Threat by threat.
People like to throw the wordbratvaaround like it means something holy. Brotherhood. Code. Loyalty carved into skin. I was never part of it. I worked with them, for them, against them—whoever paid and whoever deserved it. I never took their oath, never wore their ink. No cathedral stars on my shoulders, no thief’s code under my skin. I don’t belong to families. I don’t kneel. I’m not someone’s soldier. I’m a weapon. And weapons don’t swear loyalty—they’re aimed.
So when he—Pakhan—sent for me, I wasn’t surprised.
He was the kind of man who ruled from behind mirrored glass. Never seen, always heard. You didn’t get called to his house unless he already knew what you were capable of. Unless he wanted to use it.
I knew what this was. A test. An audition. The kind of job offer that came with blood on the contract.
And I was flattered, honestly. Nothing says “you’re doing great, sweetie” like a personal invite from a man with bodies in every province.
I didn’t hesitate. Of course I would take it.
This was the next rung. And I’d built myself for this very climb.
The car sent to pick me up was black, tinted, silent. We pulled through iron gates like a fucking palace. The driveway stretched for what felt like miles before the mansion finally revealed itself—less a house and more a private kingdom planted in the middle of nowhere. No neighboring rooftops. No streetlights. No curious eyes. Just acres of land swallowing the horizon, trees positioned like soldiers, distance used as a weapon.
The moment the car stopped, they ushered me through a maze of polished floors and marble halls, saying little, eyes forward,efficient like soldiers who didn’t need words to do their job. One of them, clipped and cold, gestured toward a set of double doors and muttered, “Wait here. He’ll call for you.” And then he turned to leave, leaving me standing there—just outside his office. I watched him go, then called after him. “Should I wag my tail too, or just stand pretty?”
He didn’t respond—just gave me a long look and walked on.
“Not even a biscuit?” I muttered.
So much for hospitality. I’ll pretend I’m not offended. Once.
I didn’t pace. I didn’t check my phone. I stood still, arms behind my back, boots planted. Not fidgeting. Not thinking. Just watching. Absorbing.
And that’s when I felt it.
Soft footsteps. The shift in the air before a storm hits.
Her.
I didn’t turn at first. Let her come tome.
Curiosity always gets the pretty ones in trouble.
When I glanced her way, she was already watching me like I was the one trespassing. Chin tilted. Arms crossed. That little silk robe doing nothing to hide the shape of her thighs.
Pretty, yeah. No question there. About five-foot-five, maybe five-six. Pale skin—milky, untouched, like something expensive kept out of the sun. Long brown hair in waves that looked too perfect to be accidental. A round, too-sweet face, full lips made for trouble, and those sharp green eyes that were trying way too hard to look unimpressed.
