The world was already his. He just had to take it.

Vaughn Morozov stood at the top of Brighton Beach’s hierarchy, the heir to an empire of blood and power. Son of the Pakhan, the next in line to rule the Bratva. He wasn’t just a name whispered in fear—he was a force. Everyone knew it. Everyone respected it. Or they suffered the consequences.

His friends—the Heathens—stood beside him like shadows. Killian, all sharp grins and brutal fists. Jeremy, the strategist with a wicked mind. Garrett, the one who could charm his way out of murder. And Nikolai, the quietest but deadliest of them all. They were feared, untouchable, kings of their world.

No one dared cross them. No one except her.

The past had a way of clawing back, even when buried deep. She had been the thorn in his side, the one person who never backed down, never cowered. But she had left years ago, sent away after that night. The night everything changed. Vaughn hadn’t thought about her in years. Didn’t care to.

She was gone. Out of his life.

Or so he thought.

The Heathens’ mansion was alive with music, the deep bass rattling against the walls, shaking through the marble floors. The pool glowed under the lights, bodies tangled together in the water, laughter echoing through the warm night air. Vaughn leaned back against the edge of a lounge chair, a cigarette dangling from his fingers, watching the scene unfold.

Girls whispered his name. Some stared, some touched, but none of them mattered.

"You're brooding," Jeremy muttered, sinking into the chair beside him, a drink in hand.

"I'm thinking," Vaughn corrected, exhaling smoke into the humid air.

"About what?" Garrett asked, slipping a hand around a blonde’s waist.

Vaughn didn’t answer. Because he didn’t know.

Something felt off tonight. A shift in the air. A storm brewing in the distance.

And when the past finally walked through those doors, wearing a new face, carrying a name he hadn't spoken in years—Vaughn would realize that some wars never truly end.

They only wait.