AVTORITET (MxM)
Sergei Belyy Volk Volkov leaned against his Benz, the burnt end of a cigarette clinging to his lips as he watched the scene across the street unfold.
A mule was talking rough with Mikhail Denisov. The Little Mikey—the same kid who used to run up to Sergei’s car with wide brown eyes and missing teeth, asking for candies from his Dyadya. This was the same kid whose entire head once fit easily in the palm of Sergei’s hand while he ruffled that wild mop of dark hair. But Mikey was not that little seven-year-old anymore. He was tall now, lanky and wild, with the hard eyes young men carried when anger and hunger did the raising.
When the hell had that happened? Time had gone too fast for Sergei. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d set foot in this neighborhood. Probably not since his enforcer days. What had he been then—twenty-five? Twenty-six? The years blurred together now, years soaked in smoke, blood, and vodka. But he remembered that kid. Fierce little thing. God, how old would he be now? Twenty-two? Twenty-three? Sergei felt the years settle in his bones like lead, and for the first time in a long time, he felt devastatingly old. It soured his alreayd poor mood.
Boris Denisov, Sergei right hand, leaned out the car window, breath clouding the winter air. “Got your eye on somethin’, Seryozha?”
Boris was Sergei’s balance, his voice of reason. They’d joined the outfit together, though Boris was older. The two had clawed their way to the top side by side, overthrowing the last Pakhan themselves. There weren’t many things Sergei and Brois didn’t handle together.
Boris was also Mikey’s cousin—not that Mikey gave a damn. The kid had been dodging him for years, refusing help from the family of his no-good father. Boris had tried to bridge the gap more than once, but when Mikey’s mother died a few winters back, the kid completely went MIA and all he could do was work in the background—lining up odd jobs for the kid, keeping the wolves off his back, making sure he didn’t freeze out on the street.
“I might,” Sergei murmured, pulling a fresh cigarette from his pack. He had the lighter halfway to his mouth when the rising tension across the street made him pause. Instead of lighting up, he slid the cig back into his pocket and pushed off the Benz.
“Hey, Shef,” Boris said, following his gaze. “Who’s that punk with my kuzen?”
“My thoughts exactly.”
By now, the dealer had dragged Mikey into the alley and had slapped him around hard enough to drop him into the slush, his lip split and bleeding.
Boris was out of the car and shrugging into his coat in moments. Crossing the street first, Sergei a step behind. He caught the dealer by the collar and slammed him against the brick wall, lifting him until his toes scraped uselessly at the icy ground. The man made a strangled yelp.
“Don’t you know this kid’s off-limits, Druggy? Huh? Tupoy ublyudok. Go recruit someone else.” Boris voice was steel as he shoved the guy even harder into the brick.
From behind him, Sergei let the silver butt of his revolver glint from his shoulder holster under his jacket, that was all it took—the punk bolted down the street, fast and stumbling.
"Chyort poberi! Brois, I could’ve handled him myself,” Mikey snapped, wiping at his bleeding mouth with a shaky hand. Bright red from the cold. The blood smeared across his cheek and chin, mixing with the tears that stung his eyes. “Now he’s just gonna come back later with his buddies. Why you always gotta butt your nose in, huh?”
He hadn’t seen Sergei yet. Casually posted up at the alleys entrance. But when his eyes landed on him, the defiance drained a notch. ”Belyy Volk" he muttered, half-respectful.
“You ought to be more thankful to your kuzen, kid. Semya vsegda podderzhivayet svoikh" Sergei finally struck his lighter and took the drag he’d been denied before.
“Konechno, Belyy Volk.” Mikey’s pale brown eyes dropped to the ground. The words fell flat, but no one pressed it.
“′Belyy Volk this, Belyy Volk that,” Boris grumbled as they headed back to the car. “All I get is ‘Boris’ if I’m lucky. Mudak if I’m not. The shchenok hasn’t got any manners.”
“That’s what happens when you let the streets raise him. You should’ve pulled him in sooner.”
“You sayin’ we oughta now?”
“Better under our wing than one of those cartels,” Sergei said, sliding into the passenger seat. His cigarette was already half-burned. “You saw it yourself—the shpana will be back, and he’ll bring friends. Won’t be long before little Mikhail’s got no choice. Someone oughta take the choices away for him. The shchenok could use an attitude adjustment anyway.”
He glanced back toward the alley, but Mikey was already gone. Kid was fast, smart too. He’d lay low for a few days—or not. Either way, Sergei figured, he’d get his fun soon enough.
“Mikey won’t like it,” Boris muttered, easing the car from the curb, “but I agree. Way past time the kid got right. He’s too old to be running wild on the streets.”
...
It took about a week for Sergei to run into little Mikey again, and when he did, the situation was much the same. The young shchenok clearly had a talent for getting himself into trouble. Sergei liked a little amusement every now and then, and the kid never failed to surprise him.
Boris as sovetnik had a night run to oversee, so Sergei had a skestyorka to cart him around for the day. Still it was no trouble at all for him to gesture toward the side of the road and step out of the vehicle without notice. An errand boy would never question his Pakhan.
This time there were three of them, not one, and they had Mikey good—shoving him around in a tight circle until he fell, only to drag him up and start all over. If the point was to incite fear, it might have worked on a weaker boy. But even from here, Sergei could see the steel in Mikey’s eyes. They’d have better luck recruiting one of the dead fish down in the market than that boy. He’d probably get beaten to death just from them trying. Sergei was certain now: the kid would have to come off the streets for good.
It was nothing for Sergei to scare the shpana away. Even if they were bold enough to draw a gun, they knew which battles to pick—and everyone in the city’s underground made sure to stay out of the Belyy Volk’s sights. Everyone, that is, except Mikey. Sergei didn’t bother letting him get a word in before lifting the kid off the snowy sidewalk. With a single gesture, the car was there, and Mikey was tossed into the warmth of the back seat.
Sergei slid into the car soon after, and with a brief glance at the driver through the rearview mirror, they sped toward his private office downtown. Mikey seemed to forget himself for a moment—or at least forgot he was in Sergei’s presence. He was still half-fighting, cursing up a storm, when he landed a solid kick to Sergei’s ribs. That was all it took.
The older man put a harsh, sudden stop to the boy’s movements. Sergei grabbed him by the hair, yanking him across the seat until he rested in his lap.
Mikey tried to push himself free, eyes wild with defiance, but Sergei’s grip was relentless. One hand seized the hair at the back of his nape, the other clamped firmly on his hips, holding him in place.
“You will not move from this spot until you’ve calmed down. Do I make myself clear, boy?” Sergei snapped.
Mikey whimpered, just slightly, as Sergei’s grip on his hair tightened. The older man leaned in, his voice a low hiss. “Well... answer me. Do I?”
With a sharp yelp, Mikey’s head was jerked backward at an awkward angle, and the fight drained from his body.
"Da!” the boy choked out, trying to grab Sergei’s hand to free himself from the vise-like grip. Sergei had never been like this with Mikey before. Even when the boy had been rude or insolent, the Belyy Volk had never shown this level of aggression toward his favorite brothers kuzen.
"Da? Da? Da what?” Sergei barked, truly seeming like the king of the underworld in that moment. The quiet, gentle dyadya Mikey had grown up with had been replaced by a tyrant.
Mikey cried out again, tears pricking his eyes against his will.
“Well? I’m waiting. No, what, little shchenok?” Sergei demanded, giving the boy’s hair another sharp jerk for emphasis.
“Go to hell,” Mikey snarled, baring his teeth like a cornered animal, all the pride and defiance he could muster in that moment.
A low, sultry laugh escaped Sergei, sending another shiver up Mikey’s spine. His pride was going to be the death of him tonight—if Sergei didn’t decide to do it first. Did the older man feel nothing for him anymore? Were his emotions so fleeting that all they had been, all that he had meant to Boris, meant nothing at all?
“Obviously, you need to be taught a proper lesson in respect,” Sergei said, his voice low and sharp. “But I don’t have the time or the patience for all of that right now. So I think we’ll have to settle for something simple.” Mikey’s stomach dropped; he was sure Sergei could hurt him with just a thought if he decided to.
Suddenly, Sergei’s hand shifted, tightening his grip on Mikey’s arms and pressing him firmly into the seat. Mikey squirmed, trying to get free, but the older man’s hold was unyielding. Every muscle in Mikey’s body tensed as he realized there was no escaping Sergei’s control in this car. Then that same hand that had been tight in Mikeys scalp was moving lower, lower until the pop of his jean button resounded through the car.
“What the-” Mikey snapped, and then it happened. His jeans and underwear were gone, tossed to the floor of the car along with a single shoe in the scuffle. He was flipped onto his stomach, bare ass high over Sergei’s knee and Sergei’s large palm came down on his skin hard.
He had been more prepared for the second hit, but not for the way his bare ass would almost seem to sizzle from the smack. Mikey cried out loudly on the third, tensing hard to avoid the pain. Without a word, Sergei shoved the boys head down toward the leather seat, which in turn raised the boys hips higher. Hot tears ran down Mikey already heated cheeks leaving trails in their wake. The fifth and sixth strikes came, quicker than the last though not painless. Mikey bit his lower lip hard, fighting with all his might to keep his cries to himself and tensed waiting for the next hit. His heart hammered in his chest, the loud bump bump bump almost seeming to go in time with the assault on his backside.
By the tenth hit Mikey was a whimpering mess. Snot mixed with his tears and his ass throbbed in time with his breathing.
Mikey tensed in anticipation as he felt Sergei shift again, only this time when the man’s hand came down, he palmed Mikey’s ass tenderly for a few moments before he freed Mikey nape. Letting the boy up from his lap. Mikey did not move from his place, but instead waited for instruction.
“Now, we’ll try this again. Da what Mikhail?” Sergei asked.
Feeling almost dazed Mikey murmured a soft. ”Da s-sir?”
A gentle hand ran through Mikey scalp soothing the tenderness on his head.
“Good boy.” Sergei cooed, palming the rawness of Mikey’s ass again in soothing motions. “Such a good little shchenok.”
They sat that way for a moment, Sergei soothing both Mikey’s head and his backside, cooing words of encouragement into the boys ear, until Mikey’s tears and whimpers stopped completely. Then his boxers and jeans which had been tossed aside were pulled back up his legs and over his backside. Sergei was even careful to place Mikey’s throbbing cock back into his underwear as if it was precious and did up the zipper and button. Then he set the boy upright, resting him gently against the leather seat.
“Now, you’re going to sit here quietly. You don’t move unless I say so. I have work to finish,” Sergei said. His voice no longer carried the malice or coldness from before, but the authority in it was unmistakable. “Look me in the eyes and say ‘yes, sir’ if you understand me.”
“Y-yes, sir,” Mikey murmured, meeting his gaze.
Then feeling unsteady and with burning cheeks and a sore backside Mickey sat quietly at Sergei’s side. A tightness in his pants and his throat that he couldn’t comprehend as he stared off into space.
He glared down at his lap, trapped in a heated silence. As promised, Sergei had returned to work—typing away on his cellphone, occasionally making phone calls. Mikey sat stiff as a board, trying and failing not to notice the driver who had been there all along.
His muscles ached from staying still, his head a storm of questions. Sergei had always talked about due punishment if he misbehaved as a kid, but Mikey had never imagined the man would actually carry it out—let alone spank him like a child. He was a grown man, for God’s sake. His face burned with embarrassment, his pride stinging worse than his backside.
His mind raced alongside his heartbeat, his chest tight with discomfort. The humiliation of the situation pressed down on him. His temper flared, frustration boiling over, and his scalp throbbed from Sergei’s rough grip. Not to mention the scrapes on his hands and knees from the alley fight and the throbbing beginnings of a black eye courtesy of that nameless, deadbeat druggie.
A hand suddenly rested on Mikey’s head, and he jolted out of the haze he had fallen into while lost in his own thoughts. Sergei’s fingers brushed against his ear as the older man leaned in close.
“Out,” he whispered, and a shiver ran down Mikey’s spine. Those same hands that had done so much to assert control before were on him again—this time gentle, almost deliberate, tracing through his hair. The car had stopped. Sergei opened the door and offered a steadying hand, helping Mikey out.
Something caught in Mikey’s throat. The warmth and authority in Sergei’s touch consumed his thoughts, making the confusion inside him even stronger as the older man guided him to stand firmly, tracing small, precise movements along his spine to steady him and keep him close.
“Smell so sweet, little shchenok...” Sergei’s gruff voice breathed into his ear, and something seemed to flourish inside Mikey’s stomach, suddenly freeing him from his confused haze.
Coming fully back to his senses, Mikey jerked away from Sergei’s arms, stumbling back a few steps as his breath came hard and uneven. Uncertainty and fear clouded his usually sharp gaze as it locked onto Sergei’s icy, pale eyes.
He had never felt more like prey in his life than he did staring into the eyes of the White Wolf. Anger and fear burned in his chest, twisting together until it was hard to tell one from the other. He must have looked half-mad—standing there in the middle of the street, at a loss for words, glaring at Sergei as though he had a million questions he wanted to spit at him, while at the same time looking like he might swing a fist and run without ever looking back.
Leaning back from the young man, Sergei let out a low, unreadable sound—half sigh, half growl—and drew a cigarette from his pocket. With deliberate calm, he tapped it against the case before sliding it between his lips, the faint rasp of the lighter breaking the silence.
“You are to listen without complaint. I won’t be telling you twice. Are we clear?” Sergei’s voice was flat, monotone, carrying more weight than if he had shouted. Without waiting for an answer, he turned his back on the boy and strode toward the tall building that loomed over the street—his privately owned hotel.
The top floor belonged solely to him, a lavish suite and office, while the rest of the building served as workspace and boarding for his Bratva. Sergei had properties like this scattered across the city, but this one was his favorite. The historical architecture was commanding, and in his office, the wall of windows gave him a view of the setting sun. From there, it seemed as if he were setting the whole world ablaze—not simply leafing through a file spread across his desk.
“No more side jobs,” he continued, his tone never shifting. “The organization will tie up your loose ends by the end of the week. From now on, you will stay here with the other shestyorka on the first floor. You do not leave without my direct permission. You will do as you are told—but your tasks are only to assist the men in minor duties around the hotel. When I call for you, you will come no matter what you are doing. You are not their errand boy—you are mine. Remember that.”
Sergei paused, his pale eyes cutting briefly back toward Mikey. “And most of all, you will behave. Do we have an understanding, shchenok?”
Mikey hated how Sergei was always so insouciant, untouchable. Nothing ever seemed to faze him, and it was as if everyone else’s life was little more than a tool for his own goals. Did anything besides having the final word matter to this man?
The thought startled him. Bitterness—toward Sergei of all people. As a boy, he had looked up to him, respected him. Wanted to be strong and sure and true just like him. Was this the price of growing older? All childhood hero’s must die eventually.
He knew he should be weighing Sergei’s demands more carefully, but every part of his being recoiled at the thought. He didn’t need the Bratvas’ help, and he didn’t want it. A life of crime sat too close to his deadbeat father—and the gambling that had buried his mother long before her time. Mikey had sworn he would never take handouts from them, never be one of them, and most of all never set foot in one of their damn casinos.
But did he really have a choice? The White Wolf wasn’t asking. He was demanding. And even with a quick, curious glance around, Mikey could see the truth—Sergei’s men were everywhere. There was no escape.
He would have to play along. For now.
“Okay. Can I go now?” Mikey quipped, the sarcasm slipping out before he could stop it.
“Care to run that response by me one more time?” Sergei’s tone was curt, restrained. He pulled the cigarette from between his lips, pale eyes fixing on the boy. Mikey didn’t have to be the brightest to know that if he’d been any closer, Sergei’s punishment would have come swift and sharp. Now was not the time to run his mouth—not with the White Wolf watching him so closely.
"Da, Belyy Volk," Mikey muttered, ducking his head almost too quickly for his own comfort. The path of least resistance seemed to be... well, not resisting. He surprised even himself with how easily he surrendered, though it made sense. They wouldn’t be watching him twenty-four hours a day. There would always be a time to run later.
For now, he complied. But deep down, Mikey admitted the truth—every time he stood in Sergei’s presence, he felt defeated before the fight even began.
Sergei was silent for a long moment—long enough to make Mikey glance up. His soft brown eyes met Sergei’s, only to feel as though he was swallowed whole by snow and ice.
“You intrigue me, little shchenok. What are you thinking?” Sergei’s voice was low, husky, closer now than before. The wide, open street suddenly felt claustrophobic.
“Well, I—I wasn’t—” Mikey stammered, words failing him. He wanted to wrench himself free of Sergei’s gaze, but fear rooted him in place. “I...I hate you,” he blurted out at last, chest tightening. “I was thinking you’re not a good dyadya anymore.”
Fully expecting a blow, Mikey ducked his head and closed his eyes. Instead, he felt a large, warm hand cradle his skull—long fingers threading firmly into his dark hair, gripping just enough to hold him still, but not enough to hurt.
“I can live with that,” Sergei hummed, his voice like silk wrapped around steel. “Only... I don’t think you’re being very honest with yourself, Mikhail. You’ve been hard for the better half of an hour. If you want me to touch you, you can just ask. No reason to act out; ask your dyadya for what you want. I will always give it to you.”
Mikey’s anger flared hot in his chest, but he bit down on it for his own safety. Instead, he jerked his head out of Sergei’s grip, breath sharp as he stumbled a few shaky steps backward, out of reach. Gripping his pullover tightly in clenched fists, he jerked it down over his crotch and, without meeting Sergei’s eyes, spoke lowly.
“I agreed to your terms,” he said tightly, the words clipped. His pride forced him to tack on the last part, though it nearly burned his tongue. “May I leave now...sir.”
There was silence for a long moment, broken only by the faint hiss of Sergei’s cigarette. Then came a low chuckle, soft and amused.
“Yes, I suppose you may,” he said at last. “Ivan will show you to your room. I’ll be seeing you...hm?” His laughter still lingered in his voice, rich and unsettling.
With that, Sergei slid his hands into the pockets of his tailored suit and turned away, striding toward the private entrance that would carry him up to his penthouse. A king ascending the castle he had built with his own hands.
...
Days passed in the same monotonous rhythm. Mikey found himself put to work with menial tasks—cleaning the hotel, running papers from one office to another, sweeping floors, brewing endless pots of coffee. Every errand felt like busywork, and yet there was no chance to slip away. He had an escort wherever he went, and it quickly became clear that every man in the organization had an eye trained on him. No one scolded him if he made silly mistakes. If anything, it felt as though the whole place moved carefully around him, like everyone was walking on eggshells.
Boris was around more than he had ever been during Mikey’s childhood, and had quickly become an ever-growing irritation—poking his head into Mikey’s room each morning, hovering over his jobs, and nagging him like some overbearing mother hen.
It was all so strangely quiet, unnervingly normal—more like a corporate office than the Bratva. But Mikey wasn’t stupid. He knew this had to be a façade, a clean front for the real work happening behind closed doors. He just thought there would be... more violence.
And still... this life was more relaxing than the streets. No sleeping with one eye open, guarding a threadbare blanket because it might be stolen right off his body in the night. No gnawing hunger eating away at him. His little one-bedroom space, with its desk, dresser, twin bed, and a bathroom tucked off to the side, was the nicest place he’d ever lived since he was a boy. He was cleaner, fuller, and—though he hated to admit it—more content than he’d ever been in all his life.
But he couldn’t let himself forget—this was still the Bratva. He swore he would never be like his father: dependent on their money, chained to them by loans that fed his addictions.
He hadn’t seen Sergei since that first day—the man had simply vanished without a trace. Mikey had expected to dodge him at every turn; after all, this was Sergei’s building. Yet it seemed the White Wolf had left his operations to run themselves, staying high in his penthouse doing God knows what.
Mikey might have thought himself safe, this routine having gone on for so long—until one morning, just as he carried a fresh coffee pot into the main office to top off everyone’s mugs, a large, unfamiliar man appeared. Tattoos snaked across his bald head, down his neck, and along his face. Without a word, he gripped Mikey’s arms and took the coffee pot from his hands.
“The Pakhan requests your presence,” the man said, his voice cold and unyielding.
Mikey remained quiet, offering no protest, but his mind raced as he was led—gently, yet firmly—toward the private elevator shaft that climbed to Sergei’s penthouse. The ascent seemed endless, floor after floor, until the doors finally opened into a surprisingly cozy sitting room.
The White Wolf was nowhere to be seen. Mikey shot a quick glance at the tattooed man at his side, but the giant said nothing, merely gesturing for him to step out before sealing the elevator doors behind him.
Alone. Completely alone. In enemy territory.
"Belyy Volk...you called for me?” Mikey whispered into the empty room, his voice barely carrying as he began a slow perusal of the penthouse. It felt wrong—like he was trespassing somewhere he shouldn’t be. He wondered if the large, nameless man had made a mistake, but quickly dismissed the thought. Access to the private elevator required a key card, and the man had used his confidently. Mikey also didn’t have one of his own, meaning he would not be allowed to leave until someone permitted it. Sergei must know he is here then, so where was the man?
"Dyadya?” he called again, moving away from the sitting room and down a dimly lit hallway. The place exuded an old, antique Russian elegance, yet modern touches hinted at wealth and power. It felt more like a miniature castle than an apartment—Sergei’s private kingdom.
It wasn’t until he reached the end of the hallway and stood before a massive set of heavy, antique wooden doors—hearing the faint murmur of conversation beyond them—that Mikey finally found what he was looking for. He steeled himself, knowing the faster he did whatever Sergei wanted, the sooner he could be away from here.
His knock was firm, yet tentative, and he waited patiently for permission to enter—one of the few rules the downstairs office enforced.
“I’ve been told you’ve been stashing food, petty cash, toiletries, and other things in this,” Sergei said the moment Mikey stepped inside, gesturing toward the familiar gray backpack at Mikey’s feet. “I’m going to assume this isn’t for a midnight snack—the cafeteria is open 24/7. So tell me...is this a plot to take off?”
Heat rose to Mikey’s ears, and he found it difficult to meet Sergei’s icy gaze. His eyes flicked instead to the large desk at the center of the room, where his potential getaway now rested firmly under Sergei’s control. He had worked so hard over the past few days to build that stash, and now all his effort was for nothing. He’d have to start over.
His throat felt tight, but he managed to find his voice. “Oh...that,” he muttered, fiddling with his sleeves. The fabric was thick and soft—far nicer than anything he had ever owned—and the feel of it between his fingers was oddly soothing. “It’s not a getaway bag, per se. Just...a habit, y’know, from bein’ on the street so long. Dunno when you’re gonna need to eat or...wash up.”
Even to his own ears, the excuses sounded weak. He silently cursed the jerk who had been snooping through his things. What a snitch.
“Tell me, Mikhail...do I look like a complete fool to you?” Sergei ground out through clenched teeth. The cold Pakhan—the White Wolf—was fully back in place of the gentle uncle Mikey had once known, and his heart lurched into his stomach.
“Well...no, s-sir,” Mikey stammered, guilt glaringly obvious as he fidgeted under Sergei’s piercing gaze.
“So if I’m not a fool,” Sergei said, voice low and dangerous, “that must make you a liar, little shchenok...because this,” he gestured toward the backpack, “looks exactly like what I think it is. Am I wrong?”
Mikey felt the weight of his impending defeat settle fully over him, and he let his head hang in reluctant acceptance. “No...Belyy Volk,” he muttered, eyes fixed on his shoes.
Sergei exhaled a low sigh and cleared his throat to draw Mikey’s attention. He flicked a long, tattooed finger in the younger man’s direction, signaling him to come closer. Mikey obeyed, though reluctantly.
“Whatever am I going to do with you?” Sergei asked, his gaze sharp and calculating. Mikey had no answer, but it was pretty clear Sergei did not want one anyways.
“I do not tolerate liars, boy,” the older man added, his voice low and dangerous.
"Proshu proshcheniya, Belyy Volk," Mikey whispered, ears pressed to his shoulders.
“Senseless apologies mean nothing to me, little shchenok. And you do not truly mean it, do you?”
Mikey stayed silent, knowing better than to reveal his true thoughts on the subject.
A hand gripped the younger man’s jaw, forcing his face up to meet Sergei’s. “Well...do you?” Sergei asked, voice sharp.
“I do mean it, Dyadya,” Mikey replied, strained. His jaw ached under the press of Sergei’s fingers, stiff and unyielding against his skin.
Suddenly, Sergei’s grip relaxed, his hand sliding slowly down the younger man’s face to rest where his neck met his collarbone. The touch felt heavy, yet warm, but it did nothing to ease Mikey’s tension. He knew he was in trouble, and nothing he could say would likely spare him from Sergei’s wrath.
The moment was calm for just a second before it vanished, replaced by a loud, hoarse cry of pain intertwined with pleasure that escaped Mikey’s lips. Sergei gripped his neck tightly, yanking him closer, his teeth snapping sharply around Mikey’s ear in a teasing nip.
Sergei let out a loud grunt as Mikey’s knee instinctively shot up and struck him in the thigh. To prevent the boy from escaping, Sergei pushed Mikey backward by his neck, while using his other hand to pin them both against the desk as Mikey struggled angrily.
“That fucking hurt, you mudak!” Mikey snapped, gripping the edge of the dark wood desk so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
Sergei grunted again and shifted his grip from the boys throat to the back of his neck, violently jerking Mikey toward himself and partially back off the desk. He continued to mold his body tightly against the younger man, his thigh coming to rest between Mikey’s own as the boy attempted to squirm away from Sergei’s unyielding grip.
“Be still, boy,” Sergei growled possessively, his teeth now grazing the skin of Mikey’s jaw and neck, having moved away from his sensitive ears.
“Tha-Uhamm-Stop!” Mikey whined loudly in response to the love bites, doing everything he could to escape Sergei’s grasp. The man was too close for comfort, and Mikey couldn’t think straight with the older man’s intoxicating scent and strange touch overwhelming his senses. He couldn’t breathe with Sergei so near. He couldn’t focus with the way the man’s leg pressed into his most sensitive area, creating a delicious, almost painful friction Mikey had never experienced from anyone before. Let alone another man.
Sergei paid no mind to the boy’s complaints and, blinded by a barely controlled lust, continued to nibble and kiss Mikey’s exposed neck hungrily, leaving a trail of marks in his wake.
Without stopping his attack on the boy’s skin, Sergei picked Mikey fully up off the ground as if he weighed as much as a feather and pressed the flushed boy against his muscled chest so that he was completely trapped in his arms, feet dangling in the air. With one arm wound under the younger man’s bottom, a large hand palming his thigh, and the other still placed firmly on the back of Mikey’s neck to hold him in place, there was nowhere for the boy to go except deeper into the older man’s embrace.
Sergei’s kisses intensified with the new position, growing faster and more feverish, while Mikey’s struggles weakened. With each push and jerk of his body against the desk and Sergei, Mikey’s lower half pressed harder into Sergei’s abdomen. The sensation became overwhelming.
Biting his lips hard, Mikey groaned as his body and mind surrendered completely, clouded over with pleasure. Suddenly, instead of pushing away, his left hand tangled in Sergei’s pale, silky hair, yanking it with each feverish kiss the man planted on the boy’s neck. Mikey’s other hand moved back, firmly gripping the arm that supported him, fingers digging into the firm skin as he began to writhe in pleasure, a white-hot heat surging through him.
Mikey struggled to fight off the urge to release his pent-up desires for as long as he could. But finally it was all too much, and with a loud, breathy cry of pleasure, his whole body shuddered against Sergei. It was a sensation unlike anything he had ever experienced before, even by his own hand.
Bolts of pleasure shot through his lower body long after he was spent, and his cock softened rapidly in his pants as the front of his jeans grew damp with his cum. Breathy pants of pleasure leave his lips as his limp cock continues to twitch harshly, struggling to come down from the aftereffects of his release. A long moment pass’s before he is able to catch his breath.
Sergei continues to lay long, wet kisses along the boy’s jaw even after the boy goes still. A deep laugh rumbles from the man’s throat as he releases the boy, placing him down onto the top of his desk, making sure to place his hips directly between the boy’s trembling thighs so he cannot close his legs.
“Wha-uhm,” Mikey mumbled softly. Mikey’s brain couldn’t seem to force a single thought; his mind was buzzing with his post-orgasm high.
“Who told you that you could cum?” Sergei inquired, his hold on the boy’s lower half and neck in place as his lazy gaze inspected the wet stain on Mikey’s crotch.
“I-I didn’t.” Mikey denied, unable to hide the flush in his cheeks at the idea of admitting what he had just done in his pants.
“You lie to me again. Mikhail, what did I tell you about lying?” Sergei all but growls, grinding his abdomen into Mikey’s sensitive cock for emphasis.
A soft whimper leaves Mikey’s throat at the overwhelming sensation. It’s all too much so soon after coming.
“I-I didn’t,” the boy whines softly, shaking his head frantically.
Suddenly, Sergei’s weight is gone from him, and the older man says nothing as he looks down at the trembling boy with pale eyes, dark and unreadable.
He jerks Mikey off the desk, forcefully moving the boy to where a large black couch sits against the right-hand side of his office. Sergei’s grip is too tight, but before Mikey can complain, the man releases him, and Mikey stumbles forward, barely catching himself in time to see Sergei sit back on the couch with a burning gaze and a set jaw. Nothing was said for a long moment as Mikey starred with wide eyes at the man before him.
“Here. Now.” Sergei snapped.
The man didn’t have to gesture much for Mikey to know what he wanted, but the boy was scared. He didn’t want to be punished. His feet wouldn’t move. A lump formed in his throat, and he anxiously wrung his hand on his black hoodie, yanking it down over the large wet spot on his crotch.
“I didn’t mean to,” Mikey finally admitted, his voice whining with anxiety—so unlike him—as he shuffled nervously on his feet.
“Mikhail.”
"Dyadya please. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.” Mikey pleads frantically, but it’s too late. The damage is already done, and a punishment is in order.
“And I won’t ask again. Here. Now.” Sergei’s tone had somehow gotten darker, quieter, and more velvety as his voice had gotten lower. This man did not yell when he was angry; that much Mikey knew. He didn’t need to.
With a scared yelp and quick feet, Mikey shuffled forward. He is still jerking his hoodie down over his crotch as he comes to stand between Sergei’s strong and thick thighs.
“Good.” Sergei rasped, still in that low, smooth tone. “Now look at me.”
Instantly, Mikey’s gaze jerks up, and the fire he saw in the man’s usually pale blue orbs burned him to his core. It was like he was in a trance from the moment their eyes met. Mikey seemed to go weak at Sergei’s every command. His mind went blank, his senses buzzing, and it felt good.
But it also scared Mikey down to his bones.
“Show me.” The older man said softly.
“W-wha...?” Mikey stuttered, confused.
“Move your hands and show me, Mikhail.” Sergei elaborated, never breaking eye contact.
The protest that wanted to escape him lodged itself in his throat, but he shakily did as he was told. With nervous and ragged breath, Mikey released his grip on his hoodie, letting the fabric relax back to its normal position at his waistband. His heart was racing, his blood pumping a mile a minute, and the humiliation he felt from the very obvious dark spot on his crotch was almost too much to bear.
“Good boy. Now I want you to take them off.” Sergei said, his gaze no longer burning a hole into Mikey’s own, but instead pointed at his zipper. Mikey swore he could feel that gaze to his core.
“Take t-them off..?” Mikey repeated hollowly, confused.
“Take off your pants Mikhail.” Sergei echoed once again. “I won’t asked again.”
“B-but I” began, but the hard gaze that was sent his way had him getting to work unbuttoning his pants. His hands were trembling as he tried and failed to pull the button on his jeans, but Sergei was patient. Quietly waiting as the boy fumbled around until finally he popped the button and opened the zipper.
“All the way shchenok." Sergei commanded. His voice low but firm.
Mikey was certain the sound of his pounding heart could be heard all the way on the bottom floor of the hotel. He shifted his weight nervously, weighing his options, and then dropped his jeans to his ankles, kicking off his Converse as he did so.
And so there the boy stood, in nothing but his red boxer briefs, black hoodie, and old white socks, nervously wringing his hands together as he awaited his next command.
“All of it,” Sergei growled. His hand was clenched, knuckles bone white against his black trousers.
“My underwear too?” Mikey asked in shock, “B-but—”
“Do as you’re told, or do you want to be in even more trouble than you already are?” Sergei stated, leaning forward slightly with narrowed eyes.
Letting out a shaky breath, Mikey shook his head ‘no’ and hooked his thumb in the waistband of his soiled boxers, pulling them down. The cold air on his soft cock and sensitive head caused a whimper to leave his throat. He was still half erect, though he couldn’t comprehend why, and the wetness all over his front made the biting cold of the room all the worse. Even if the heat was on it was still winter after all.
At the sound of his boxers hitting the floor with a soft thump, Mikey flinched.
“Now. Come, sit.”
Hesitantly, Mikey did as he was told, kneeling shakily between Sergei’s legs.
“Spread them.” Sergei wasn’t asking, and quite frankly, he had never been. His tone left no room for argument. Still, Mikey hesitated.
"Dyadya, I—I am sorry.” Mikey pleaded softly. Silently asking Sergei with his eyes not to make him do it. But he knew it was no use. There was no compromise with this man. And the stony look that was sent his way was all the push he needed to press his knees against the insides of Sergei’s dress shoes.
The sound of a belt being pulled through loops instantly had Mikey vibrating like a leaf in the wind.
“Now,” Sergei spoke softly. “You will receive ten swats, and for each swat, I want you to tell me you are sorry for lying to your Dyadya. Do you understand me, Mikey?”
Tears welled in Mikey’s throat as he nodded his head yes. Tightly clenching his hands on his pullover in fear.
“Tell me you understand, Mikhail,” Sergei demanded. Sergei took the belt and gently folded it in on itself. Slowly. Methodically.
“I understand, Dyadya.” Mikey whimpered softly.
“Good boy. Now, I want you to place your hands behind you and lean back on your heels. Show me that pretty cock.”
Mikey shook as he pulled his hands from where they were wrung tight against his hoodie and moved them behind his back, leaning backwards onto his feet till his semi-hard cock was on full display. Then, closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, ready, waiting.
The swats with the belt weren’t done with nearly as much force as the spankings had been, but the tender flesh of his inner thighs still stung fiercely with each blow. As the sharp sound of the leather hitting skin echoed throughout the room, and as the first tears fell, Parker recited his apology.
“I’m sorry for lying to you, Dyadya.”
Another thwack, this time to his opposite thigh, and Mikey cried out sharply, fighting not to flinch away.
In between ragged breaths, he whimpered out, “I’m sorry for lying to you Dyadya.”
thwack
“I’m sorry for lying, Dyadya.”
Mikey’s body heaved; his sniffles had escalated into full-blown sobs as he struggled against his instincts to close his legs and shy away from the pain. Each blow landed more painfully than the last on his soft skin.
thwack
“I’m sorry for lying, Dyadya.”
thwack
“A’ah! I’m sorry for lying, Dyadya!”
thwack
“I’m sorry for lying, Dyadya!"
Mikey had lost count at a number he couldn’t remember. And at some point, he couldn’t even recall what it was he was crying for. Had it been due to the swats and the throbbing red skin of his inner thighs, or were these tears of sadness and of sorrow for misbehaving? All he knew was that his vision was swimming, his nose was running, and the soft flesh of his inner thighs smoldered. But worst of all, he knew his cock was throbbing, standing tall and proud and aching for relief. Mikey truly believed that his throbbing desire was the main reason for his tears.
thwack
“I’m sorry for lying, Dyadya!" the boy cried.
thwack
“I’m sorry for lying, Dyadya!"
thwack
“I’m sorry for lying, Dyadya!”
As the final blow fell, Mikey couldn’t even cry out; he was reduced to a blubbering ball of snot and tears, sobbing out his apology.
thwack
“I’m so sorry, Dyadya, please! I’m sorry!”
After ten swats and ten apologies, the punishment was finally over.
It was then that Sergei finally grabbed the younger mans throbbing cock fully and tugged; the warmth and rough texture of the older man’s grip finally sent the boy over the edge, and his orgasm crashed into his frayed nerves like a tsunami. Spilling over Sergei’s large hand and down his overheated thighs.
He knew he should be ashamed of how fast he had finished, but his breathing came out in heavy pants, and his legs were throbbing and twitching. Everything felt to overwhelming to think.
It was in that moment that Mikey finally sensed soft, warm, soothing hands gently caressing his legs, moving inward and then back out in a circular motion. He continued to cry, tears streaming down his flushed cheeks, fast and heavy like rapids rushing over a cliff.
"Mne zhal’ Dyadya. Mne zhal’." The boy blubbered on, bringing his clenched fists to his face to rub the tears away.
“I know you are.” Sergei soothed, “You did so well, my little shchenok.” The man cooed, continuing to rub the tender flesh softly.
Warm arms enveloped him, lifting the boy from his kneeling position and settling him onto Sergei’s lap. As Sergei cradled him gently against his chest, he soothingly rubbed Mikey’s back until the boy cried himself to sleep.
...
Mikey woke with a sputter and jolted upright, tangled in a sea of satin sheets so dark green they were nearly black. He struggled against them, thrashing and jerking until his own frantic movements only bound him tighter. Flashes of earlier today slammed into him—what Sergei had done, what he had done—and they pulsed with the frantic rhythm of his racing heart and the dull ache in his thighs. His face still burned, raw and puffy from tears.
At last, he tore himself free, stumbling from the bed in a blur of panic. He didn’t bother to rub the sleep from his eyes or even glance around the room. The only thought in his head was escape. He dashed for the door, but terror seized him when the knob rattled uselessly in his hand. Locked.
A deep voice rumbled behind him. “Off to somewhere important, shchenok?”
Mikey spun, his expression twisted with fear, and gasped out a breathy, “Let me out.”
Sergei’s face darkened with displeasure. He shook his head slowly a strange sort of smile on his face, a wolf studying a trembling hare. “Mind your manners, boy.”
Mikey’s embarrassment curdled swiftly into panic as Sergei rose from where he’d been lounging on a sleek leather couch across from the massive four-poster canopy bed. The man was enormous—just like everything else he owned. Pale hair caught the last of the evening light, and his eyes gleamed with the same icy brilliance. His broad chest and powerful shoulders stood in sharp relief, the starkness of his skin making the black ink sprawling across his torso and back seem even darker, almost alive in the dimness. Muscle coiled under tattooed flesh, and his face—nearly free of lines despite forty-some years—only heightened the unease. They were also both as naked as the day they were born.
He was stunning of course. He had always been stunning. Mikey had known that since he was just a boy of seven, staring up at the untouchable figure who seemed more legend than man. Sergei was none other than the White Wolf, after all—and even now, that truth pressed down on him like a snare he couldn’t wriggle free from.
The room itself felt suffocatingly grand—every piece oversized, indulgent, as though the White Wolf required the world to bend around him. Was everything in Sergei’s life built on excess...or was Mikey simply so poor that it all felt obscene?
His spiraling thoughts shattered as Sergei began a slow, deliberate advance. Mikey knew that walk—measured, patient, predatory. Trouble always followed.
“N-no, no—get away!” Mikey stammered, scrambling backward as fast as the room would allow. His shoulders hit the locked door with a dull thud, the knob rattling uselessly at his back.
Sergei didn’t slow.
Mikey’s chest heaved as the older man closed the distance with the fluid grace of a predator, his striking figure seeming larger with every step. There was no mistaking it—he’d cornered himself.
“Why do you continue to play coy? Or are you unable to remember how painstakingly hard you came only a few hours ago? How your cock throbbed for more while my belt kissed your thighs. He hummed softly. “Should I remind you?”
“No, I—” Mikey mumbled weakly, his back thudding against the door a second time, the hollow sound echoing in his ears.
“Mikhail...” Sergei’s voice was soft, almost indulgent, as his arms came to rest on either side of the younger man’s head.
When had he gotten that close? Mikey’s breath hitched, his pulse thrumming in his ears. He felt like a cornered animal, panic rising like bile in his throat. And Sergei kept leaning in, inexorable, his broad frame blotting out the room until it felt like there was nothing left in the world but the heat of his body and the press of his shadow.
“Back up, please!” Mikey gasped, his head knocking against the wood that penned him inside Sergei’s arms.
The room went deathly quiet. Mikey’s frantic eyes darted everywhere but the man in front of him. It felt as though the whole world was holding its breath—waiting.
Then Sergei’s lips curved into a small smile, and that collective breath exhaled. The tension in the air loosened, but not for Mikey. His stomach still churned, his pulse still clawed against his ribs.
“Back up, please...what?” Sergei murmured, leaning closer again, his shadow devouring the space between them.
He blurred the line between man and beast with every inch. In Mikey’s eyes, there was no uncle, no Pakhan—only the Belyy Volk on the hunt. And his prey? Mikey.
“Back up, please, s-sir,” Mikey squeaked, spine digging into the doorframe as if he could draw strength from it. But his knees trembled, seconds from collapsing beneath him.
Sergei dipped his head until his mouth hovered at Mikey’s ear, his breath warm against trembling skin. An irritable smirk tugged at his lips as he whispered, low and deliberate:
“What if I don’t want to...shchenok?”
His lips were so close, so incredibly close. Mikey shivered in anticipation, his nerves alive and buzzing as Sergei’s bare thigh pressed between his own. Rubbing against the sensitive underside of his balls and spreading his legs until his thighs quivered.
There was a sharp bite of teeth to Mikey’s ear, but this time he did not cry out, only moaned as Sergei’s rough palms moved down from the door and over his bare chest, pulling and tweaking at the soft points of his nipples.
“Hm? My little shchenok? Lost for words, are we?” Sergei asked, his voice low and devious, a sly smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He licked a line down Mikey’s neck. When he reached the base where his collar bones sat, he nipped again sharply, then lowered even further, hoisting Mikey up partially against the door with his thigh so that he could reach the boy’s tender nipples with his mouth.
Mikey wanted to be annoyed by Sergei’s smugness and felt the urge to protest, to demand that Sergei open the door. However, his mind was occupied with the pleasure Sergei was providing, and in the end, that desire prevailed. Even as Sergei picked him up by his thighs, forcing Mikey to straddle his waist as he walked them back toward his too-large bed is mind was awash with the sensation of it all.
Sergei splayed Mikey out across the sheets, then leaned back to take in the sight of the younger man’s lanky but toned build. He was tall for his family, taller than his father and even Boris who was more on the short and stocky side, but Sergei was taller than everyone, and it showed in the way he dwarfed most people.
Mikey’s cock was hard, standing tall and jutting toward Sergei in an invitation he took readily into his mouth. The sound that left Mikey then as Sergei sucked him into the back of his throat sent a chuckle rumbling from the older man’s chest, but he did not linger long. He was less intent on allowing Mikey to experience his release alone, as he had done so many times before. It was time for the boy to learn a new pleasure of the body. Something that would bring both of them to a heightened state of ecstasy. Multiple times if Sergei had his way. Which he would.
Sergei pressed Mikey’s knees fully apart, almost into the mattress, and the boy compiled without complaint, watching with a hooded gaze as Sergei brought three fingers to his mouth and prompted him to open. He seemed curious, if not confused, by what this meant but did not flinch away as Sergei swiped his fingers past the boys teeth, over his tongue and around his mouth.
“Such a good shchenok. You’re listening so well, Mikhail.” Sergei cooed as he pulled fingers free with a pop and brought them to his own mouth to mix their saliva. “Sit still for your Dyadya for a bit longer.”
It wasn’t until Sergei brought his fingers to Mikey’s entrance and pressed past the tight ring of muscles there that Mikey finally had some complaints. No matter though, Sergei hushed them quickly by slanting their mouths over each other, distracting the boy from his discomfort with a deep, almost punishing kiss full of tongue and teeth and desire.
The boy moaned into the older man’s mouth, his breath coming in labored gasps as Sergei worked his thick fingers, pressing and stretching him, pushing to the knuckle as far as he could reach.
For the first time in his life, Sergei felt almost impatient. Control had always been his greatest weapon, his sharpest edge—but here, with Mikey trembling before him, it slipped. He wanted more. Now. The thought curled in his chest like fire, an ache that demanded to be fed, and his pale eyes darkened as if even the pretense of restraint had worn thin.
His fingers pulled free, there was a soft exhale from the boy, which quickly transformed into a heavy groan as the tip of Sergei’s cock, larger and thicker than all three of his fingers, took their place. That first thrust was deep and fast and all-consuming, seating Sergei fully inside Mikey before the boy even had a chance to cry out at the intrusion.
Sergei fucked just like he took over this city: fast, hard, and all-consuming, their hips smacking together in time with Mikey’s racing heart as he flailed to grab onto anything for purchase. He settled on Sergie’s massive bicep, his fingers and nails digging into the skin there until deep, long lines marred the pale flesh.
His cock pistoned in and out of Mikey so frantically the boy could hardly breathe, the would-be pain of his first time lost to the panting of his breath, the fullness as Sergei filled him so completely he felt it in his stomach. The older man lifted Mikey from the bed to better control him, his large fingers and palms spanning the length of Mikey’s hips as he watched transfixed by the boy’s pleasure, which overwhelmed him. Mikey’s eyes rolled back in his head, his mouth hanging open, as nothing but nonsense moans and Russian cries of pleasure left him.
Sergei decided then he would have to do this more often. Fuck any nonsense thoughts, like running away, from the boys’ brains until he was a crying, needy mess below them. Just as he was now.
And it was a beautiful sight indeed. His dark, unruly hair was wild and damp with sweat, and his dark eyes were glossy with tears that ran down his face and jaw. They tasted delicious against Sergei’s tongue, and he lapped at that feverish flesh like a starved animal.
Sergei easily flipped the boy onto his stomach, pressing against his flushed-toned back to thrust deeper and, in turn, grind the boy’s cock into the sheets. Sergei reached his arms around the boy’s shoulders and neck, grabbing hold and pulling the boy’s upper body up to meet him thrust for thrust.
Mikey’s cries turned into breathy sounds as his back bowed and his mouth fell open. There was nothing he could do but take what was given, but Sergei was giving too much too fast, and Mikey didn’t know how much longer he could hold out. Would he be punished for coming without permission again?
He found he didn’t have it in him to care. He didn’t even attempt to stop himself as his release overwhelmed him completely, totally, and forcefully, causing his entire body to spasm and his vision to fade to black.
This happened to Mikey again and again for an unknown amount of time. Mikey waking to a mix of pleasure and pain, with Sergei positioned above him, below him, and next to him, moving and using Mikey’s body for his own pleasure until Mikey either came or blacked out again.
Sergei persisted even after Mikey ran dry, his cock and hole twitching with orgasm despite the lack of cum. And even after the man himself had finished more than enough to be satisfied, he continued to thrust, reveling in the mess he had created with the younger man’s body. The warmth of Mikey’s flesh against his own was like a drug he would rather not relinquish, so he left himself seated deep inside the sleeping boy for much longer than necessary, until he fell asleep himself.
...
The sun hadn’t even risen yet, the only light in the room the faint amber glow of the lamp behind Mikey’s head. His lashes fluttered against the weight of exhaustion, and for a long moment he couldn’t place where he was. The scent of expensive tobacco, leather, and something sharper clung to the air, grounding him before memory had the chance to catch up.
It wasn’t until his stiff muscles screamed at him when he shifted that the truth struck home. He wasn’t in his cramped one-bedroom with its peeling paint and rickety mattress. He was here. With him. With Sergei.
Sergei was draped over him like a second skin, their legs tangled together and arms wrapped tightly around Mikey’s waist and beneath his chin. And his cock. A hiss of mixed feelings—pain, exasperation, and shock—escaped Mikey as he realized that Sergei had fallen asleep with his cock still inside him.
Their mixed fluids coated them both, leaving Mikey’s thighs and ass slick. His mouth tasted dry and cottony, and he was acutely aware of the odor of sweat, sex, and cigarettes clinging to him. Everything reeked of Sergei. The man’s scent seemed to seep into Mikey’s mind, driving him to the brink of insanity.
The White Wolf. He had had sex with the White Wolf.
He must be insane.
He was sure of it.
What other reason could there be for letting himself get caught up in this mess?
Caught up in Sergei.
There was no other explanation.
Mikey exhaled a long breath, compiling the strength and will to slide off Sergei’s manhood with a sound that made his stomach clench and out from under the man’s arms. He wanted water and a shower and possibly an ice pack if he could find one. His lower back was killing him. And his asshole throbbed something terrible.
Mikey crept toward the bedroom door, each step careful, deliberate. He had to get out before the psycho woke up. He hadn’t made it more than a few paces when a low throat-clear froze him in place. He felt like a fish dragged out of water, thrashing silently for air.
“It’s still pretty early, Mikhail. Why don’t you come back to bed?” Sergei’s voice was thick and gravelly with sleep.
“O–oh, well, I would, Dyadya, but I’ve got...a thing I need to take care of, so...” Mikey stammered, turning back on shaky legs to face the bed.
A deep chuckle rolled from Sergei’s chest, soft but full of promise. “Very well then.” He gestured lazily toward a small pile of folded clothes sitting neatly on the chest at the foot of the bed. “You’re going to need those.”
Heat climbed Mikey’s neck as he realized—only now—that he was completely naked. He rushed forward, snatching up the neatly folded stack. Everything had been washed: his worn jeans, his faded red boxer briefs, even his socks. The boy dressed in silence, the freshness of the clothes a stark contrast to the unwashed ache of his body.
Shoes laced in haste, he risked a glance up just in time to see Sergei rise. The man moved with slow, deliberate grace, completely unashamed at his nakedness, gliding across the room before placing one large hand on the door that had been locked only hours before. With a smooth motion, he pulled it open wide.
Mikey glanced at Sergei uncertainly, but the man gave him the smallest of nods. That was all the permission he needed. He bolted through the doorway, his sore legs carrying him as fast as they could toward the safety of the elevator.
“Oh—and Mikhail?”
The boy froze mid-step, wincing. Slowly, he turned back, teeth sinking into his bottom lip as his gaze met Sergei’s. “Y-yes, sir?” His voice cracked, betraying his unease. What more could this man possibly want?
Sergei’s expression was unreadable, his pale eyes glinting like steel. “No more getaway bags. Are we clear?” It wasn’t really a question.
Mikey swallowed hard, nodding quickly. “Yes, sir.”
The reply seemed to satisfy. Sergei shut the door without another word, the heavy wood closing with finality.
Mikey lingered in the hallway, eyes tracing the ornate carvings, his chest tight with something he couldn’t name. The elevator chimed in the distance, breaking the spell, and he forced his legs to move—one slow step, then another.
He wasn’t truly free. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
The silence pressed in, every carved detail of the hall a reminder: once the Wolf sank his fangs in, he never let go. The White Wolf didn’t feel the need to lock him up—he knew Mikey would try to run, and he didn’t care. Sergei could drag him back anytime, no matter how far he went. And still, Mikey knew, even if it was futile, he would try again.
He always would. He couldn’t do otherwise. He would not end like his father—no matter what.
Belyy Volk be damned.
The End
Translations:
(Disclaimer I do not speak russian! any mistakes are unintentional! If you know a better way just let me know! Google translate is a mudak lol)
- avtoritet//authority
-Belyy Volk // White wolf
-Seryozha, Shef // Respectful terms for Sergei like boss or leader
-Semya vsegda podderzhivayet svoikh // Family always supports its own.
-Shchenok // Puppy, Brat
-Mudak // asshole
-Shpana // street thug
-Tupoy ublyudok // dumb bastard
-Chyort poberi // Devil Take it (god damn it)
-Kuzen // male cousin (Kuzan would be female form)
-Konechno // of course (another way to say yes or da)
-skestyorka // errand boy or low level associate.
-Sovetnik // advisor to the head
-Pakhan // the head of the organization
-dyadya // uncle
- Proshu proshcheniya // I apologize. a respectful ‘I am sorry’
- Mne zhal’ // more casual ‘I’m sorry’
