The Final Hour (Volkov Bratva #3)(101)

“I have a meeting with the heads of the four families.”

Those words seemed to wake her right up, not that he could blame her much. Meetings with mob bosses were notoriously tense situations, and it was never easy judging how or why an argument might start, leading to the death of one or more people.

But it was mandatory that he do this, for the sake of his own life.

“Come back to me, Mish.”

He smiled, kissing her one last time. “You have my word.”



Mishca stripped down to nothing but his briefs, a memory of the last time he had entered these rooms coming to mind. He didn’t need to be completely naked during the act, but it was how it was done for as long as he could remember, and he didn’t want to break tradition.

The men he would be addressing didn’t care for expensive clothing, nor for the money that the prospective men who entered that room had, but for the ink that adorned their skin, the story that those tattoos told.

He left his clothes in his former bedroom, ignoring the way it made him feel. While he had always hated the manor, it never bothered him as much to stay there a couple of nights over the years, but being here now, even if it was only for a couple of hours rubbed him wrong.

There weren’t any good memories for him, and depending on the outcome of this meet, he would have to make a decision as to what he would do with it.

Besides the guards stationed outside, the manor was fairly empty, only a select number of people waiting for him down in the basement.

Mishca stared at the closed door, barely hearing the voices on the other side, reminding again of how a moment like this years ago had drastically changed his life.

Taking a deep breath, Mishca opened the door and stepped inside.

There were three men already inside, one representing each of the three other families, a empty chair representing the Volkovs. If this meeting ended well, the chair would soon become Mishca’s. Since there was no one left in the family that could take on the role—Klaus would never agree even if he was considered—Mishca didn’t doubt that he would be taking it, except a part of him still wanted to earn it.

That was why it had been Mishca’s idea to hold this instead of them just handing over the cross. He didn’t want anyone to oppose his rule, especially when he was already going to have problems because of his age.

Taking a seat in the chair in front of the three, Mishca kept his arms on the sides of the chair, proudly showing off the stars on his chest and knees, and the epaulettes on his shoulders.

Mishca had always respected this tradition. He understood their need to question him, especially with everything that had happened since Lauren had come into his life. He didn’t know whether or not they would understand his actions, or even the fact that he cared for her, especially when a lot of the older members still followed the old rules, but that didn’t mean that he would allow them to disregard her.

“We know what you ask of us, son of Mikhail, but why do you think you deserve this?” Petrov asked, tapping his fingers against the snake tipped cane resting between his legs.

Mishca spoke of his accomplishments, not as a boast—even if no one had achieved what he had since he joined the Vory v Zakone—but because he wanted them to know what he was capable of, and if they entrusted him with the position, they would know the Bratva was in good hands.

“And the girl?” Zyanovich spoke up. “How can you expect us to trust your word that she is loyal to us?”

“Besides the fact that she bears my stars?” Mishca questioned, trying to keep the sharpness from his tone. “You don’t need to trust her. Trust my word.”

For what felt like an hour, Mishca was questioned, grilled on everything he knew of the structure and what was to be expected of him in the role of Pakhan. He spoke carefully and with precision, and despite a touch of reluctance on Zyanovich’s part, they had no problem agreeing that Mishca was the best for the job.

By the time they were finished, Mishca was more than ready to accept what was coming.

Clorick, their resident tattoo artist, one that was as ancient as he was proficient came into the room with his kit, the smallest of smiles curling his lips as he saw Mishca. Since he had been the one to do all of Mishca’s ink, they both took it as an honor for him to be the one to place the cross on Mishca’s chest.

After getting the four nods of approval, Mishca climbed up on the table, resting his hands beneath his head as Clorick set up. He breathed a sigh of relief when he heard the thrilling hum of the gun starting up.

“I hear you are married now,” Clorick said in that gravelly accent of his, peering over Mishca as he began the intricate cross that he would be creating. “I am offended that you did not think to include me.”

“You were in the old country, I believe,” Mishca said with a smile, then grimaced as the pain started. While he enjoyed tattoos as much as the next person, that didn’t mean he enjoyed the pain that came with it. “Besides, I sent an invitation to your last address. I can’t be blamed that you hadn’t lived there for the last decade.”

“Bah, I kid. How is she, your wife?”

“She’s well.”

“And kids? Have you talked of this?”

Mishca blinked in surprise. That hadn’t been something they ever talked about, not that he could remember. He knew at some point he would need to, but for now, he was happy with where they were.