Chapter 19
Anton
The door slams shut.
I stand there like an idiot, staring at where she was.
Where she just… ran.
What the fuck did I just do?
I let her go. I actually let her walk out that door with a target on her back.
I run both hands through my hair, pacing to the window.
The pasta’s still warm on the counter—made from scratch, every piece shaped by hand.
The kind of effort my babushka used to put into her cooking before the Bratva took everything soft out of my life.
I spent two hours on that shit. Two hours cooking for a woman who just chose death over me. Clever girl.
I should eat it. Waste of good food, otherwise. But my stomach’s twisted into knots I don’t recognize.
This is insane.
I’m Anton Malikov. The Reaper. I’ve killed forty-three people with my bare hands and slept like a baby afterward. I don’t cook pasta for traumatized bank tellers. I don’t save random women from rape attempts. And I sure as hell don’t let them run into traffic when there’s a bounty on their head.
But here I am. Acting like some lovesick teenager instead of a professional killer.
My eyes drift to the couch. To her purse.
The ugly brown leather bag she was clutching like a lifeline, even when she was unconscious. Still sitting there on the floor where I left it.
I walk over, pick it up. Heavier than it looks.
I shouldn’t go through it. It’s an invasion of privacy, and despite what she thinks, I’m not a complete animal.
I open it anyway.
Because she’s about to get herself killed, and I need to know how much damage she can do first.
Jesus Christ.
It’s like a roadmap for every assassin in Vegas.
Her wallet: driver’s license with her home address, work ID for Brightside National, credit cards, insurance cards. Her phone: contacts labeled “Grandma Home” and “Grandma Cell,” photos of a yellow house with a ceramic gnome. A ring of keys: apartment, mailbox, what looks like a house key.
Lip balm. Mints. A packet of tissues. A tampon that’s seen better days. A pen that’s chewed to hell. A crumpled receipt from some coffee place.
And folded papers. Crisp, white, like she printed them recently.
I unfold them.
Bingo.
Account statements. Transaction records. Names and numbers and offshore routing codes that make my pulse quicken for all the wrong reasons.
W.R. Holdings. Petrov Enterprises. Kozlov Industries.
But there’s more. Companies I don’t recognize. Shell corporations with addresses in the Caymans, Switzerland, Cyprus. Transaction amounts in the millions, not thousands.
This isn’t just Viktor’s operation.
This is a network.
A fucking empire of dirty money, and somehow this little bank clerk stumbled into the mother lode.
I scan the names again. Cross-reference them with what Boris sent me.
Holy shit.
Three of these companies tie back to Timofey Volkov, Igor’s nephew, the one who runs East Coast operations. The one who’s been sniffing around Vegas for months, looking for an excuse to expand territory.
And here it is.
Viktor wasn’t just skimming from Igor. He was feeding information to Timofey Volkov, helping him build a parallel laundering operation right under Igor’s nose.
A coup.
And Mary has the proof.
I set the papers down, stare at them.
She’s more than a witness. She’s a fucking goldmine.
With her access to the bank, her knowledge of the accounts, her innocent face that no one would suspect, she could get me inside information that would take my crew months to gather.
She could help me take down Timofey’s operation before it destroys Igor’s empire.
She could be the key to everything.
If she lives long enough.
I grab my phone, dial Dima. He picks up on the first ring.
“She ran,” I say without preamble.
Silence. Then: “How far?”
“Building exit. Maybe three minutes ago.”
“I’ll track her.”
“Quietly. Don’t approach unless she’s about to die.”
“Copy.”
I hang up, look at the papers again.
Maybe I’m not losing my mind after all.
Maybe this isn’t about some misplaced protective instinct or whatever the hell’s been eating at me since I pulled her unconscious body against my chest.
Maybe this is strategy.
Pure, cold, calculated strategy.
I need her alive because she’s useful.
Because she’s access.
Because she’s the perfect little spy who doesn’t even know she’s playing the game.
I fold the papers, put them back in her purse.
The lasagna’s getting cold, but I grab a fork anyway. Take a bite.
It tastes like ash.
But I keep eating.
Because this is about business now.
Nothing else.
My phone vibrates. Text from Boris.
Picked the lock. Took longer than usual. This girl has three deadbolts on a door worth fifty bucks.
I almost smile. Almost.
Another text.
Boris: Jesus Christ, Anton. You see her fridge? Energy drinks and yogurt cups from 2019. I found bills stacked like Jenga blocks. This woman is broke as shit.
Then:
Boris : What the hell do “trauma recovery clothes” look like? All I see are work blouses and pajama pants with holes.
She’ll be back. She has to be. Which means I don’t need to tell Boris she ran off like a spooked deer. Better to let him think this is still going according to plan.
I lean back against the counter, fork suspended halfway to my mouth. Boris breaking into Mary’s apartment, trying to figure out what constitutes appropriate kidnapping attire. The absurdity isn’t lost on me.
Just grab basics.
I text back.
And don’t judge her decorating skills.
Boris: Too late. She has a plant collection that looks like a fucking nature preserve. And get this—she’s got a photo of her and some old lady making cookies. Taped to the bathroom mirror. Who does that?
Someone who has people worth loving.
I don’t text that back.
Instead, I take another bite of lasagna and turn on the TV. Local news is starting, and I want to see how well our cleanup crew performed.
The anchor’s voice fills the apartment, all professional concern and manufactured gravity.
“—four bodies discovered this morning at a Twain Avenue laundromat. Police are calling it a robbery gone wrong, though the motive remains unclear.”
Four bodies. Dave and the three gunmen. No mention of survivors.
Perfect.
“Among the deceased is David Thornton, forty-two, regional manager at Brightside National Bank. Thornton leaves behind two children and a wife. Police say the three other victims have not yet been identified, but sources suggest they may be connected to organized crime.”
They flash Dave’s photo on screen. Corporate headshot, fake smile, the same one from the Brightside National website. He looks exactly like what he was: a weak man who made bad choices.
My phone buzzes again. Boris.
Neighbor lady keeps asking about Mary. Says she hasn’t seen her since yesterday. Had to tell her Mary’s visiting family. Woman looks like she could bench press a Buick. Note to self: avoid confrontation with building security.
I can picture it. Boris, all six-foot-nothing of him, trying to charm some linebacker grandmother while sneaking around with Mary’s underwear.
The news drones on about investigation status and public safety, but I’m not really listening anymore. Because Dima’s calling.
“Where is she?” I answer.
“Bus stop on Maryland. Been there twenty minutes. Keeps checking over her shoulder.”
“Mistakes?”
“She’s exposed. No disguise, same clothes. Security cameras are picking her up everywhere.”
Amateur hour.
“She’s scared,” Dima adds, which for him is practically a psychological profile.
“Keep watching.”
“Copy. Anton?”
“Yeah.”
“She’s not going to last twelve hours out here.”
He’s right. Mary’s smart, but she’s not street smart. She doesn’t know how to disappear, doesn’t understand that in this world, being invisible is a skill that takes years to master.
She thinks she can run from the Bratva like it’s an overdue credit card bill.
“Maintain distance,” I tell him. “But if anyone else gets close—”
“They won’t.”
I hang up just as my phone starts ringing again. Different ringtone. The one that makes my blood pressure spike.
Igor.
“Pakhan,” I answer.
“Anton. There was an incident this morning.”
His voice carries that particular weight that means he already knows more than he’s saying. Igor’s been running Vegas operations for thirty years. Nothing happens in his territory without him hearing about it.
“I heard,” I say carefully. “Robbery at a laundromat.”
“Four dead. Including a bank manager.”
Silence stretches between us. On the TV, they’ve moved on to the weather. Sunny skies, light winds, temperature climbing.
“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?” Igor’s question is casual. Too casual.
“Should I?”
“The bank manager was David Thornton. Brightside National.” Another pause. “The same bank we’ve been monitoring.”
Fuck.
“Interesting coincidence,” I say.
“Timofey doesn’t think it’s a coincidence.” Igor’s breathing is labored, probably from his morning cigarettes. “He’s been helping me analyze these recent disruptions. Very insightful, my nephew. He thinks we have internal threats.”
My blood chills. Timofey’s already poisoning the well.
“What kind of threats?”
“The kind that develop when trusted soldiers start making unauthorized moves. When they begin to think they know better than the Pakhan.” His tone sharpens. “Timofey’s concerned about loyalty, Anton. About people who’ve gotten too comfortable with their positions.”
The words hit like ice water. He’s not talking about external threats. He’s talking about me.
“Your people are loyal,” I tell him, which isn’t exactly an answer.
“Are they? Because Timofey’s intelligence suggests otherwise. He thinks someone in my inner circle has been operating independently. Making decisions without clearance.”
“What do you need from me?”
“I need absolute transparency. Timofey’s flying in the day after tomorrow for a family meeting. All senior leadership. We need to identify these internal threats before they destroy everything we’ve built.”
A family meeting with Timofey present. The perfect setup for a coup.
“The family is everything,” Igor continues, and I can hear the conviction in his voice. “Blood runs deeper than business, Anton. Timofey understands that. He’s the only one I can completely trust right now.”
Yeah. He’s trusting the man who’s about to put a knife in his back.
“I understand.”
“Good. Because Timofey wants to discuss territorial security. Particularly around our financial operations.” Another pause. “I hope you haven’t been careless with sensitive information, Anton. Family loyalty requires absolute discretion.”
I stare at the documents spread on my counter. The proof that Igor’s own cousin is orchestrating a coup. Information that could save Igor’s empire or destroy it, depending on how I play this.
Information that Mary stumbled upon because she was too conscientious to ignore suspicious transactions.
“I’m always transparent with you,” I lie.
“Good. Because I’m calling a meeting tomorrow night. All senior leadership. We need to discuss recent developments.”
Another meeting. Which means Igor’s either planning to eliminate threats or identify them.
Either way, by tomorrow night, people are going to die.
“I’ll be there.”
“Excellent. And Anton? Bring anything interesting you might have discovered. Any information that might be relevant to our current situation.”
He knows. Somehow, the old bastard knows I’m sitting on something big.
“Of course.”
The line goes dead.
I set the phone down, stare at Mary’s purse.
Twenty-four hours ago, I was hunting Viktor Kozlov for stealing casino money. Simple job. Clean execution.
Now I’m hiding evidence from my Pakhan, protecting a bank clerk with a death wish, and sitting on intelligence that could start a war.
All because I couldn’t walk away from a woman who smelled like soap and fear.
My phone vibrates. Boris again.
Mission accomplished. Got enough clothes to last a week. Also grabbed some toiletries because I’m not a monster. Heading back now. Please tell me you haven’t burned down the penthouse in my absence.
I look around the pristine apartment. At the cold lasagna that I can’t finish. At the purse full of evidence that’s about to make my life infinitely more complicated.
Penthouse is fine,
I text back.
But we need to talk when you get here.
Boris : Uh oh. That sounds ominous. Should I bring vodka?
Me: Bring everything.
Because tomorrow night, Igor’s going to ask me what I know.
And I’m going to have to decide whether to hand over the woman I can’t stop thinking about, or start a war I might not survive.
The lasagna tastes like cardboard now.
But I keep eating anyway.
Because some habits die hard.