“I don’t think you’re in any position to tell me what the fuck to do. The bloodline says—”
“FUCK THE BLOODLI—”
Her angry voice reverberates through the air, but before she can finish, the tension is shattered by the forceful swing of the door.Standing in the doorway is an older man, dressed in a sharp black suit, emanating an aura of intimidation. His eyes, ablaze with fury, sweep across the room, demanding attention from everyone present.
— ???, ???? ??????, ??? ?????? ??? ???????(Who the fuck just said that?)
As the man steps forward, tension grips the entire room, but Reign still seems composed beside me, his demeanor unwavering. Sensing the gravity of the situation, I look up at him, only to find his gaze already fixed on mine. A slight furrow creases my brow, a silent question in my eyes, before the older gentleman's furious shout breaks the silence.
“I SAID WHO THE FUCK JUST SAID THAT?”
When Chaos’s mother sighs and finally raises her hand, his furious eyes flash to her and he raises an eyebrow.
“Anastasia.”
With a few clicks of his tongue and a shake of his head, the man calmly retrieves a gun from the back of his pants. Tension coils in my gut as he strides forward, his movements deliberate and calculated. He reaches the other head of the table, pulls out a chair, and calmly takes a seat, placing the gun in front of him as a silent warning, his eyes never leaving her.
“Fuck the bloodline, eh?”
His jaw is tense as he sits back in the chair, crossing his ankle over his knee, and his finger taps against the barrel of his gun.
“You should know better. You have been in the Bratva for many years, so to ignore what the bloodlines say is something I cannot tolerate. Perhaps you shouldn’t be part of this Mafia, after all.”
When he raises his gun, cocking it back and aiming at her, I close my eyes and lower my head.
“Wait.”
The entire room looks at me before I lift my head and stare straight into the eyes of Chaos’s mother who now appears as if she is about to face death.
“You were just speaking out of emotion, weren't you Anastasia?”
Despite her nod, I can sense the lie lingering in the air, but the thought of witnessing her being killed fills me with dread. After all, she is Chaos's mother, and deep down, I believe there may be a chance of overcoming the past, especially now that she's about to become a grandmother, even if she doesn't deserve such joy.
Just as Chaos and Reign's thoughts of me switched once they truly got to know me, I hold onto the hope that Anastasia's heart might soften with time. While I know the depth of her betrayal, I also recognize that she, like everybody else, acted under the influence of the father's orders.
“You vouch for her?”
My eyes meet the guys and I straighten my back with a sharp nod.
“I do.”
He raises an eyebrow, eying me suspiciously before slowly lowering his gun and I notice Anastasia release a tense breath. When his eyes meet Reign’s, Reign raises his chin in a mutual understanding before the guy’s eyes return to mine, gesturing for me to come to him with his hand.
“Come here.”
I glance up at Reign as I pass him, walking around the table with confidence. As I stop in front of him, he sits forward, taking my hand before laying my palm on his, and closing it with the other hand lying over it.
«YA Aleksandr Kuznetsov, i ya glava russkoy mafii vo vsem mire.»(I am Aleksandr Kuznetsov, and I am the head of the Russian Mafia worldwide.)
Knowing I am in the presence of the biggest mafia boss in the entire world seems insane to me, yet I remain calm and gently bow my head as a sign of respect.
“You were lost for a very long time, Swan. Yet you have returned to where you belong. ???.”(Home.)
His words strike my heart, stirring emotions I hadn't realized were buried deep inside me. The concept of “home” has always been strange to me because I felt like I had never truly settled anywhere, but as he says it, I sense a shift in perspective. It's as if he's declaring that this city, this family, the Bratva, is now my sanctuary, my security, and a place where I belong unconditionally.
With his firm grip on my hand, he retrieves a gas lighter, a small pocketknife, and a piece of paper from his pocket. Placing them on the table, he flicks open the blade of the knife and brings it to my palm. I do not flinch as the blade cuts into my skin, releasing a trickle of blood that flows steadily onto the floor below. Mesmerized by his actions, I barely register the pain, my attention too focused on what he is about to do next. As he passes me the piece of paper, I take it with my free hand, the anticipation building in the air as he speaks once again.
“Read these words in Russian.”
