The Capo's Devotion: Own by the Don

The cold bit him deeper than hunger, but hunger was more louder. It clawed inside Alexei’s stomach, twisting. He had eaten nothing since yesterday—only water stolen from a fountain.

Now the bakery’s window mocked him, its rows of bread shining like treasure.

His hand moved before his mind caught up. One loaf, warm, stolen in a blink. He ran.

The baker’s shout tore through the street. “Thief! Help please.”

People turned. Boots pounded. Rough hands grabbed his collar and yanked him back. The bread tumbled into the mud.

Alexei thrashed, teeth bared, but he was no match for grown men. The crowd swelled, angry voices rising from every corner.

“Vermin!”

“Russian beggar!”

“Teach him a lesson! The cloud coursed him”

A man shoved him down. His boot pressed on his chest. Another spat on his face.

“Steal again, we’ll burn him,” someone muttered from behind.

The mob cheered.

Alexei’s throat went dry. He had heard stories of street justice, but stories were never this close, never this real. A muscular man dragged him to the square. His wrists were tied with rope.

The smell of kerosene struck him before he saw the can.

“God, he prayed. No!” He rasped, thrashing hard enough to skin his arms. “Please, I was hungry he cried—”

Laughter swallowed his words. A torch flared.

The crowd gathered in, hungry not for bread but for blood.

The flame came closer. His lungs already hitting. His mind flashed to Russia—his mother screaming, his father’s body in the snow, fire raining from the sky. He thought he had escaped war. But death had followed him through the borders, waiting here in Brussels.

The torch, closer.

Alexei squeezed his eyes shut.

Then a voice cut through the chaos.

“Stop.”

It wasn’t shouted, but it silenced the mob like a blade against grass.

Boots clicked on cobblestones. A powerful figure stepped in, tall, neat suit, coat billowing in the wind. His hair packed back, face hoarse. He moved like someone who never asked for permission.

Lucien Devereux.

Even the name hit the whole crowd in whispers.

The torch wavered. The hand holding it trembled.

“Put it out,” Lucien ordered.

No one argued. The flame vanished in smoke.

Lucien’s eyes shifted to Alexei. Those strange eyes pierced deeper. For the first time, the mob grabbed him, Alexei’s chest freed—but only for a moment. This man was not savior. He was danger wrapped in silence.

Lucien crouched, his fingers brushing the rope at Alexei’s wrist. “A thief?" He murmured, not mocking, just weighing. “Small hands, smart eyes. You survive;”

Alexei’s mouth opened, but no any words spoken.

Lucien cut the rope with a flick of a knife. He stood, turning to the crowd. “This one belongs to me.”

The mob hesitated.

“You have debts. Shops protected. Streets safe. Who do you think buys that peace? Me. Which means…” His eyes swept through them like a scythe. “…this boy is mine.”

The crowd parted without another word. No one met his eyes.

Lucien pulled Alexei to his feet. The boy stumbled, weak, filthy and trembling, but Lucien’s grip was iron. He led him out of the square as if walking a dog on a leash.

Behind them, the mob scattered. The bread still lay trampled in the mud.

The car waited—a black machine humming by. Lucien pushed Alexei inside. The warm leather swallowed him whole, a world away from the cold stones outside.

Silence. Only the sound of the engine as the car rolled through the city.

Alexei pressed himself against the door, every nerve screaming escape. Yet something darker than fear kept him still. He had seen death a moment ago. Now he sat beside the man who had stolen it back.

“Your name,” Lucien asked at last.

Alexei’s throat scraped. “…Alexei Volkov.”

“Russian?” Lucien mused. “How long in Belgium?”

“A year.”

“And in that year, what have you learned?”

Alexei’s fists clenched. “To survive.”

Lucien’s lips curved, not a smile but close. “Good answer.”

The car pulled into a gated estate, walls higher than any prison. Guards opened the iron gates at a glance from Lucien. Inside, the mansion loomed—stone and glass.

Lucien led him in without slowing.

Every breath in that hall smelled of smoke. Men with hard eyes lounged on couches, guns resting on tables. They looked up, saw Alexei, and grinned like wolves.

Lucien’s voice cut them all. “He’s mine.”

No one laughed after that.

The room Lucien gave him was too large, too clean. A bed too large enough to drown in. Food waiting on the table. Alexei ate like an animal, stuffing bread and meat into his mouth until he choked.

Lucien stood by the window, watching and laughing.

When the boy finished, breathless, Lucien asked, “Do you know why I saved you?”

Alexei wiped crumbs with the back of his hand. “Because… you pity me?”

Lucien’s laugh, dangerously. “I do not pity. I invest.”

Alexei stiffened. “In what?”

“In you.”

Silence.

Lucien stepped closer to Alexei. “You owe me your life. That means it belongs to me now. You will not waste it.”

Alexei’s pulse hammered. “What do you want me to do?”

Lucien leaned closer.

“Everything I teach you.” He answered.