Chapter 10
Anton
Boris drives like he’s transporting eggs. Steady hands, smooth turns, no sudden movements. The kind of care that comes from years of moving bodies and evidence through Vegas traffic without drawing attention.
Forty-three minutes back to the penthouse from the warehouse district.
The industrial landscape slides past the windows. Empty lots. Chain-link fences topped with razor wire. Billboards advertising bail bonds and divorce lawyers. The glamor of Vegas stops about ten miles from The Strip, and this is what’s left. Concrete and rust and businesses that operate in cash.
Lev rides shotgun, drumming his fingers against his thigh. Dima’s in the back corner, silent as always, but I can feel him processing what just happened. The tension in the car is thick enough to choke on.
Twenty minutes pass before Lev breaks.
“Boss,” he says, not turning around. “Are we really going to let this slide?”
My jaw tightens. I don’t answer immediately because the answer is complicated, and Lev doesn’t do complicated.
“Let what slide?” I ask finally.
“That fucking theater back there.” He twists in his seat to face me. “Timofey just rewrote history in front of us. Viktor’s dead. Our evidence is garbage. And Igor basically told you to go sit in the corner.”
Boris’s eyes flick to the rearview mirror, watching my reaction. Dima shifts slightly, listening.
“Igor gave an order,” I say. “We follow orders.”
“Bullshit.” Lev’s voice has an edge now. “Since when do we follow orders that fuck us over?”
The anger starts low in my chest. Slow burn. The kind that builds from years of swallowing things that should be spit out.
Fifteen years.
Fifteen years of following orders. Of cleaning up messes. Of putting Igor’s interests ahead of my own. Of sleeping with one eye open and a gun under my pillow because loyalty in this world is measured in blood.
I’ve killed for Igor. Bled for him. Watched my father die loyal to this organization while Igor sat in his office counting money.
And for what?
So his nephew can waltz in and paint me as a traitor? So I can get benched while Timofey rewrites reality to fit his agenda?
“Nineteen years,” I say quietly. “Nineteen fucking years I’ve been loyal to this family.”
“And what’s it got you?” Lev asks. “Timofey just threw you under the bus, and Igor believed him.”
Boris takes a left turn, heading toward the main road. The city lights start to appear in the distance. Civilization creeping back into view.
“It’s got me alive,” I say. “It’s got all of us alive.”
“For how long?” Lev shoots back. “You think Timofey’s done? He just eliminated the one witness who could expose him. Next move is cleaning up loose ends. And, boss? We’re loose ends.”
Dima finally speaks. “Lev is right.”
I look at him in the mirror. Dima doesn’t waste words. When he talks, it matters.
“Timofey will move against us,” he says. “Tonight was a test. To see if you fight back. You didn’t. Now he knows.”
“So what?” I snap. “I should have started a war in front of Igor? Put bullets into his nephew with the Pakhan standing right there?”
“Maybe,” Lev says. “Maybe Igor needed to see you had balls.”
The car goes quiet. Boris navigates through traffic, steady and calm, while the rest of us sit in the wreckage of what just happened.
Then Lev says it. The thing that cuts deeper than any blade.
“You know what, boss? You’re just like your old man.”
My blood goes cold. “Excuse me?”
“Your dad. Loyal to the bone. Did everything Igor asked. Followed every order. Put the family first.” Lev’s voice is matter-of-fact. Clinical. “And where did it get him? Six feet under while Igor moved on to the next useful idiot.”
“Watch your mouth,” I warn.
“I’m not disrespecting your father. I’m stating facts. He was loyal. He was useful. And when he stopped being useful, he got buried. Just like you will if you keep playing this game.”
Boris takes the on-ramp to I-15. The speedometer climbs. We’re making good time.
“You don’t need to take shit from anyone,” Lev continues. “Not Igor. Not his psycho nephew. You’re the Reaper. You’re the one they call when they need real work done. But you act like you owe them something.”
“I do owe them something.”
“What? A lifetime of servitude, then a bullet when you outlive your usefulness?”
My hands clench into fists. Because he’s not wrong. And that’s what makes it worse.
Papa died loyal. Died believing that honor meant something in this world. Died thinking Igor would take care of his son because that’s what family does.
And here I am, almost two decades later, making the same fucking mistakes.
That’s when the world explodes.
The first shot takes out our rear window. Safety glass spiders and collapses inward, spraying across the back seat. Dima rolls left, gun already in his hand.
“Contact rear!” he shouts.
Boris doesn’t panic. Hands steady on the wheel, he accelerates smooth and clean. Professional. But I can see his knuckles whiten on the steering wheel.
Two motorcycles. Black sport bikes, riders in dark helmets. They came out of nowhere, threading between traffic like ghosts.
The second shot punches through the passenger door. Lev ducks, cursing in Russian.
“How many?” I ask, pulling my Glock.
“Two bikes, maybe more in cars,” Dima reports, scanning the mirrors.
I twist to look through the destroyed rear window. The bikes are close. Too close. Professional riders, moving like they’ve done this before.
This isn’t random road rage. This is a hit.
Boris takes a hard right, tires screaming, trying to lose them in surface streets. But the bikes follow, weaving through traffic like they know exactly where we’re going.
“They’re herding us,” I realize. “Away from main roads. Toward—”
The third shot comes from ahead. Muzzle flash from a sedan parked in an alley. The bullet shatters our windshield, and Boris has to fight to keep the car straight.
“Ambush,” Dima states. “They planned this.”
Multiple vehicles. Coordinated attack. Professional execution.
Timofey’s not wasting time.
Boris yanks the wheel hard left, trying to break the trap, but it’s too late. The sedan pulls out, cutting off our escape route. The bikes close from behind.
I see the shooter lean out of the sedan’s passenger window. Rifle. Military precision.
“Down!” I shout.
The bullet catches me high on the ribs, spinning me sideways. Hot fire spreads across my chest. Blood seeps through my shirt, dark and warm.
Not fatal. But enough to send a message.
Lev returns fire through the broken rear window. The bikes scatter, but they don’t retreat. Just repositioning.
“Boss!” Dima’s voice is sharp with concern.
“I’m fine.” I grip my ribs, feeling the blood seep between my fingers. “Flesh wound. Keep moving.”
Boris finds an opening and guns it, tires screaming against asphalt. We break free of the kill zone, but I know this isn’t over.
This was a warning. A demonstration.
Timofey showing me what happens when I don’t play along.
Twenty minutes later, we’re pulling into the underground garage of my building. Safe. Alive. But everything’s changed.
Lev helps me out of the car, his face grim. “Still think we should let this slide, boss?”
I look at the blood on my shirt. Feel the fire in my ribs. Think about Mary upstairs, waiting.
“No,” I say quietly. “I don’t.”
Because Lev was right. I am just like my father.
But maybe it’s time to be something else.
I pull out my phone, scroll until I find the number Ray gave me this morning. The one for “emergencies only.”
This qualifies.
I hit dial.
“That was fast,” Ray’s voice, amused. “Let me guess: the apartment’s not working out?”
“I need more than an apartment.”
The humor dies in his voice. “What kind of more?”
I look at the blood seeping through my fingers. “The kind that requires your old skill set.”
Long pause. “Anton, I told you—I’m out. I’ve got a family now.”
“I’m not asking you to get back in. I’m asking you to make a call. One call.”
“To whom?”
“Someone who can make problems disappear. Permanently.”
Another pause. I can hear him weighing the cost of getting involved.
“What the hell happened?”
“Timofey’s reminding me who’s boss.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then: “Huh. Bold.” Another pause. “I think I know who to call.”
“Good. Because it’s time he remembers who he’s dealing with.”