Page 58 of Twisted Empire: King's Gambit

Istand in the dimly lit room, its stone walls bearing silent witness to countless ceremonies of ascension. It’s almost surreal, how I’ve dreamt of this moment but never truly fathomed the weight of it until now.

My father stands at the center of the room, his eyes filled with a blend of pride and scrutiny as he addresses our closest lieutenants—men who’ve killed and died for the family, and who now look to me as the next Pakhan.

“Tonight, we stand at the threshold of a new era—an era under the leadership of my son, Mikhail,” my father begins, his voice steeped in an authority that’s been earned through years of ruthless decisions and merciless warfare. “To solidify our loyalty and our strength in one man.”

As he continues to talk about the importance of allegiance and the ruthless calculus of maintaining power, I can’t help but feel the weight of his words settle on my shoulders, heavier than any armor I’ve ever worn.

It’s an invisible mantle, but it comes with an irrevocable set of responsibilities that I’m now bound to uphold.

Finally, he turns to me, locking eyes as he utters a phrase in Russian, passing down the wisdom and the warning that comes with the position I’m about to inherit. “Remember, my son, loyalty and power are the paths to rule. But they are also the paths to destruction. Choose wisely.”

He switches to Russian for a phrase that’s been passed down through generations, a line that binds us to a code older than any of us in this room:“Sem’ya nad vsem,”— Family above all.

The gravity of his words settle around us like a thick fog. I’ve known their essence all my life, but hearing them now, on the brink of taking the reins of a criminal empire, they feel almost sanctified.

“Remove your shirt, Mikhail. Kneel,” my father commands, gesturing to the stool that holds the ink and needle for my ceremonial tattoo. My hands are steady as I pull off my shirt, revealing the other tattoos that chronicle my life—a roadmap of pain, loyalty, and lessons learned.

I kneel on the cold floor, every eye in the room focused intently on me. The room grows quiet, except for the soft hum of the tattoo machine as one of the lieutenants, skilled in this particular art, dips the needle into the black ink.

The needle touches the skin of my ring finger, the only one left unmarked until now. A blacked-out cross gradually takes shape, each stroke of ink binding me further to the brotherhood I now lead.

It’s identical to the signet ring I wear, one given to me when I turned 21. Now it’s a permanent reminder etched into my skin. In the Bratva, your loyalties are inked in both blood and pigment, indelible and lifelong.

This tattoo is not just another mark; it’s a covenant. One that states, even though I have tied my life to a woman, my ultimate allegiance remains with the Bratva, the brotherhood that saw me grow from a boy to the man I am now.

I endure the sting in silence, my mind drifting momentarily to Gabriette. She, who has unwittingly entered this life of shadows and complexities. It’s an emblem that declares where my first allegiance lies, and yet, in that complexity lies the simple truth—I love her, deeply, unreasonably.

As the artist finishes his work, I clench my fists. The machine finally cuts off, and I look down at the new tattoo. It’s simple, but holds a weight heavier than anything I’ve ever felt. My father places a heavy hand on my shoulder, a touch laden with years of expectation.

I rise to my feet, turning to face my lieutenants, my brethren. The gazes of the room were now different—respectful, expectant. I lock eyes with my father, recognizing the quiet pride in his gaze.

Their faces are still stoic, but their eyes hold a newfound respect—a recognition of the man who will lead them into whatever darkness or light the future holds.

I am now Pakhan, the head of a complex, treacherous, and tightly bound family. And as I look at the men before me, their faces hard but loyal, I know that the path ahead will be fraught with danger. But whatever comes our way, whatever the cost, I know one thing for certain—we’ll face it as a family.

For family is eternal. And I will bleed to keep it so.

And as I step out of that room, my thoughts inevitably drift to the woman who’s unwittingly become a part of my life.

In loving her, I have found a semblance of peace and clarity, an anchor in a world that’s perpetually storm-ridden. Yet, as I wear my new mark, I am reminded that my first love, my first loyalty, will always be to the Bratva.

* * *

The moment the ceremony ends, a sense of both relief and weight washes over me. The black ink on my ring finger, still fresh and stinging, serves as a brand-new reminder of my responsibilities.

I never thought I’d relish in formality, but there’s comfort in tradition. It’s a fucking anchor in a world of chaos.

The ritual of becoming the Pakhan is behind me, the ink on my ring finger still fresh. My old man looks at me, and for a moment, I see the years fall away from his eyes. He’s proud, that much I can tell.

“Pappa,” I say, lifting the glass of aged whiskey he poured for us. “To new beginnings.”

“To new beginnings,” he echoes, and we clink glasses.

As I savor the first sip, feeling the liquid fire smooth down my throat, his phone rings. My old man’s usually unflappable, but I catch a frown knitting his brows together, then a deeper frown etches into his forehead as he takes the call.

I can’t make out the words, but the tone is enough to tell me something’s wrong. Severely wrong.

I study him, intrigued. The conversation’s brief, terse even.

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