Page 7 of His Son's Brid
The night air hits me when we step outside, cool and sharp after the heat of the club. My Uber's already pulling up. Chloe hugs me tight, whispers, "Best night ever," and even though nothing actually happened, I can't disagree.
In the car, I pull out my phone. Stare at the bucket list again.
Number seven's still unchecked.
But for the first time in four years, I think I might actually know what kind of man I'm looking for.
The kind who looks at me like I'm the only person in the room worth looking at.
The kind who can make me wet with just a glance.
2
AXEL
Focus, Axel.
Viktor's hand is on my arm, pulling me away from the main floor, and I want to break his fingers. Seven years. Seven years I kept Viktor alive, kept him fed with orders from my cell, and now he's interrupting the first interesting thing that's happened since I got out.
The girl's still standing there. Dark hair, dark eyes, curves in a red dress that should be illegal. Watching me walk away like I just broke a promise I didn't know I made.
Just forget her.
"Boss, we got a situation." Viktor steers me toward the private room, his voice low enough that the music swallows it. "Dmitri's crew hit one of our shipments at the docks. Small stuff, but they're testing us."
I let him lead us into the back room, but part of me is still out there. Still feeling those eyes on me like a brand. Twenty-four years old, maybe twenty-five at most. Young. Too young for a man who just spent seven years in a cage.
Too young for a man who's forty-three and has more blood on his hands than he can wash off.
This is fucking laughable.
I’ve walked away from wars, from cities, from people who begged me not to leave. I don’t fixate. I don’t linger. I sure as hell don’t think about some girl I’ve never spoken to like she carved her name into my spine.
And yet—
My body doesn’t care about logic. It clocks her the way it clocks threats. The way it clocks opportunity. Immediate. Sharp. Unavoidable.
That’s dangerous.
The door closes. Three men wait inside—Viktor, my second. Sergei, the enforcer who's kept my territory clean while I wasgone. And some kid I don't recognize, all eager eyes and cheap suit.
"Talk," I say.
Viktor pulls out his phone, swipes through photos. "They hit the container at midnight. Got away with about fifty kilos of product before our guys responded. No casualties on our side, two of theirs down."
I study the photos. Sloppy work. Rushed. The kind of play you make when you think someone's weak, when you want to see if they'll bite back.
"Dmitri knows I'm out?"
"Everyone knows you're out, boss." Sergei grins, showing gold teeth. He's built like a tank, with hands the size of dinner plates, and loyal as a dog. "Half the city's probably shitting themselves wondering what you're gonna do first."
The kid shifts his weight, trying not to stare. He can't be more than twenty-two. Baby face, nervous energy. The type who grew up on mafia movies and thinks this life is glamorous.
"Who's this?" I nod at him.
"Alexei Morozov," Viktor says. "Joined up about a year ago. Good with numbers, better with a gun. Wants to prove himself."
Alexei straightens, meets my eyes. There's fear there, but he's trying to hide it. Smart. "It's an honor, Mr. Santego. My father spoke highly of you before he—"
