The kitchen smelled of stale bread and fresh violence. Viktor, sixty-eight, sat motionless at the oak table, a half-eaten sandwich on the plate before him. His black leather jacket creaked softly as he reached for his glass of water. Behind him, the other bikers stood in a loose semicircle, their beards heavy, their eyes fixed on the table.
Dimitri, forty-two, bald, his arms a canvas of ink, grinned and raised the cane high. Then, with a savage swing, he brought it down on the glass rooster that had stood on the table for as long as anyone could remember. The bird exploded. Shards of glass and crumbs of bread scattered across the wood. The sound rang out like a gunshot.
Dimitri laughed, a loud, mocking bark. Viktor did not flinch. He looked at the mess, then slowly wiped his mouth with a white napkin. He placed the napkin on the table and picked up his black smartphone.
Dimitri leaned in, his face inches from Viktor’s. “What’s the matter, old man? Calling for help?” His voice dripped with sarcasm. The bikers behind him stirred, a low murmur passing through them.
Viktor looked up, his eyes steady, unblinking. He pressed the phone to his ear. “It’s me,” he said, his voice calm and firm. “Bring them.”
Dimitri’s smile faltered for just a second. Then he turned abruptly and walked to the window, his boots heavy on the wooden floor. He looked out, his eyes narrowing with anticipation.
Outside, the sun blazed over the dusty country road. A long line of black SUVs and limousines rolled slowly toward the house, a silent convoy of power. Each vehicle was polished to a mirror shine, their windows tinted, their engines a low rumble that vibrated through the glass.
Dimitri watched them come, his grin returning. “Well, well,” he muttered. “Looks like the old man’s friends are here.”
Viktor rose from the table, the cane now resting in his hand. He walked to the window and stood beside Dimitri, looking out at the approaching fleet. The bikers behind them shifted, hands moving to belts and holsters.
“You think they came for you?” Dimitri sneered.
Viktor turned to face him, his voice quiet but carrying the weight of decades. “No, Dimitri. They came for you.”
The first SUV pulled into the driveway, its engine cutting off with a deep sigh. The door opened, and a man in a black suit stepped out, his hand resting on his holster. Behind him, more doors opened, and the sound of boots on gravel filled the air.
Dimitri’s grin faded. He looked at Viktor, then back at the window, then at the bikers behind him, who were now exchanging uneasy glances.
Viktor placed a hand on Dimitri’s shoulder, his grip firm. “You broke the rooster,” he said softly. “That was my grandmother’s. She said it kept the house safe. Now, I have to keep it safe myself.”
He walked toward the door, pausing at the threshold. “Bring them in,” he said to the man in the suit. “And bring the new one. I hear they make a better rooster.”
The kitchen fell silent, save for the crunch of glass underfoot.
