Chapter 3 Ivan
IVAN
I wake up without the usual weight pressing down on me.
This surprises me even more than the light filtering in. Most mornings, waking feels like a threat—a physical pressure on my chest, a list of problems scrolling behind my eyelids before I even open them. Dread often arrives first, seeping into the room while I sleep, waiting for my acknowledgment.
But today, the room feels... quiet.
Not safe. Just quiet. As if the air isn't trying to force its way into my lungs.
The ceiling above me is white plaster, familiar and high. The sheets are gathered at my waist, warm where my skin has been. Beyond the bedroom doorway, I hear a soft mechanical hiss.
The espresso machine.
I didn't turn it on.
I sit up slowly, testing my joints. The blackout curtains are still drawn, but a thin gray seam of light bleeds around the edges, outlining the room in soft charcoal shapes: the sharp corner of the dresser, the shadow of the nightstand, the rectangle of the door leading to the main space.
I actually slept.
No chemical assistance. No jagged, half-formed dreams that left me sweating through the sheets. No waking with my jaw clenched so tightly that my teeth ache.
The reason is painfully clear, and I hate it.
Maksim is out there.
The thought that he spent the night in that chair, armed and alert, tightens something in my chest. It isn't guilt; guilt is for those who can afford to be wrong. This feeling is rougher. It's possessive.
I find my robe and step into the main room.
Maksim stands at the kitchen counter, angled at forty-five degrees to the granite island. This posture allows him to keep an eye on both the elevator entrance and my bedroom door. He is still, but not relaxed. Stillness is a discipline; relaxation is a mistake.
The espresso machine clicks off.
Maksim reaches for my preferred porcelain cup without looking at me.
He places it on the counter precisely where my hand will land if I keep walking forward.
The sugar is already in it, stirred just the way I like—three turns, no more—because I once mentioned six months ago that overworking the crystals ruined the texture.
He remembered.
We don't speak. We don't need to. The low hum of the refrigerator and the wind against the glass fill the silence where words would usually stumble.
I take the cup, feeling the heat seep into my palms. I drink. It's perfect.
I watch him over the rim.
His hands rest on the counter, fingers slightly spread, grounding himself against the stone.
These are the hands that stopped Viktor Sorokin before the blade could clear the table.
The hands that locked my door from the outside.
The hands that could dismantle a human neck with less effort than it takes to brew coffee.
If I had any doubts about his loyalty, I wouldn't be able to close my eyes in this building.
But I don't have doubts anymore.
"You didn't sleep," I state.
"No."
"You should have. We could've taken turns."
A fleeting expression flashes across his face—a tightening around his eyes.
"You required rest," he replies.
He's not arguing. Maksim doesn't argue; he simply states facts as he sees them and waits for the world to conform.
You required rest.
As if my needs are an objective truth he feels entitled to manage. As if he has been observing me closely enough to know when I'm running on empty before I even admit it to myself.
I should feel suspicious about that level of scrutiny. I should be annoyed.
Instead, I finish my espresso and set the cup exactly where he expects it.
"Get ready," I say. "We're going to the Estate."
Maksim nods once and heads toward the guest bathroom to change. I watch him go, my eyes tracking him involuntarily, drawn to him like a tongue probing a chipped tooth.
He moves silently, not for show, but as if gravity doesn't affect him in the same way it does other men.
My phone sits on the dining table, its screen pulsing under my thumb.
Alexei. Three messages.
I read them in order, and the strange calm I woke up with begins to decay.
The first message is a list. Viktor talked. Alexei applied pressure, and Viktor broke. I see names I didn't expect—men who have sat at my table, drunk my vodka, and sworn loyalty while waiting for a better offer from the Italians.
The second message hits harder.
It confirms that our logistics coordinator—the unseen backbone of our distribution network—was picked up by federal agents an hour ago. That's not bad luck; that's a fed lead. Someone handed him over to apply pressure from the outside while the inside crumbles.
Then I open the third message.
I go still.
Shipment compromised. Route 4. Total loss.
Route 4. The warehouse district. The observation point on Halsted.
The place I was supposed to be last night.
I canceled the inspection because the penthouse felt too quiet, and I didn't want to leave the perimeter. I stayed here, locked in this glass cage with Maksim guarding the door.
If I had gone, I would be dead.
I read the text again. The words remain unchanged. My body reacts—a cold wave of adrenaline followed by a slow, clinical anger.
Someone knew where I was meant to be. Someone targeted my location. When I didn't show, they torched the shipment anyway, just to prove they could reach me.
The list of people who knew my schedule is short enough to carve onto a bullet.
My father.
Boris.
The logistics man currently in federal custody.
And Maksim.
Maksim has access to my calendar through the security protocols. He was locked in this room with me when the hit
occurred. His hands are the ones that made my coffee exactly the way I like it.
I'm still staring at my phone when he steps out of the bathroom.
He's dressed in tactical black: a fitted shirt, cargo trousers, and a weapon holstered at his hip. I know there's a backup piece tucked into his boot, even if I can't see it. His eyes lock onto mine immediately.
He doesn't blink as he scans my face, assessing the situation.
"Report," he commands, not waiting for a question.
"The shipment—the one I was supposed to oversee," I reply.
His posture shifts subtly, a change in weight, and a muscle in his jaw twitches.
"You were scheduled to be on site," he states.
"Yes."
"You didn't go."
"No."
The silence between us is heavy. Maksim looks at me with an intensity that borders on insubordination. Beneath his professional facade, I detect relief—sharp and violent.
"The Estate," he says. "Your father will want an explanation."
"My father will want a head on a spike." I set the phone down. "Get the car. We leave in ten."
Today, we move heavily.
The route to the Estate cuts through contested ground—neighborhoods where the Baranov name buys silence and others where it buys a bullet.
Maksim has arranged a convoy: two chase cars and one lead vehicle. The drivers are pulled from the inner circle—men whose families live in homes we pay for.
I sit in the back of the armored
Mercedes while Maksim takes the front passenger seat, a deviation from the norm. Usually, he sits next to me, a human shield. Today, he's positioned forward, scanning the road with tense shoulders. He's angry.
"Advance team reports clear through Division," the driver says. "Construction on Ashland, but no bogeys."
Maksim doesn't respond. His hand rests near the SIG Sauer on his thigh, fingers poised to turn violence at the twitch of a muscle.
We clear the first checkpoint without incident. The streets are gray and wet with morning mist. It's quiet—too quiet.
Then Maksim
moves, a slight tilt of his head.
"Black sedan," he says. "Six o'clock. Holding distance."
The driver checks the mirror. "Could be civilian."
"It's matching our lane changes," Maksim replies flatly. "It's a tail."
I glance out the rear window. The sedan is there—nondescript, domestic make, tinted windows—three car lengths back, pacing us perfectly.
"Options?" I ask.
"We can push speed to break contact, or we can pull off and force an engagement."
"I don't want a firefight on open streets."
"Then we force them to show their hand," he says. "Driver, take the next right into the industrial park."
"That's off route," the driver protests.
"Do it."
The turn is sharp as we veer into the industrial district—a grid of abandoned factories and rusted loading docks. The streets are empty.
The black sedan follows.
It neither accelerates nor retreats; it maintains a constant distance, as if tethered to us.
Maksim draws his weapon, holding it low, beneath the dashboard.
"Stop the car," I command.
The convoy halts, blocking the narrow street and forming a defensive V-shape.
The black sedan stops fifty yards behind us.
For a long moment, silence reigns. The engine idles, and mist swirls around the tires.
Then, the rear door of the sedan opens.
Two men step out, dressed in gray and unremarkable. They don't draw weapons or shout; they simply stand by the open door, observing us.
One of them raises an arm and points toward the alley on our left.
Then they return to the car. The sedan reverses, tires spinning on the wet pavement, and speeds away.
Maksim is out of the car before the sedan disappears. He moves toward the alley, weapon raised, clearing the corner with fluid precision.
I follow.
I shouldn't. Protocol dictates I remain in the armored vehicle, but curiosity tugs at my gut.
The alley reeks of wet trash and rusty metal, with chain-link fences enclosing us. At the far end, near a dumpster, lies a shape on the ground.
A body.
We approach. Maksim takes point, shielding me with his body. When we get close enough, he halts.
I peer over his shoulder.
It's Grigori
Volkov—my logistics coordinator, the man the feds allegedly picked up an hour ago.
He isn't in federal custody.
His throat is slashed from ear to ear, the blood dark and tacky against the concrete. He has been placed carefully—arms at his sides, eyes open, staring up at the gray sky.
Pinned to his chest is a piece of paper.
Maksim reaches down, checking for wires—traps—before pulling the note free. He hands it to me without looking, his eyes still scanning the rooftops.
I unfold it.
Cheap printer paper with typed text.
THE FATHER PROTECTS THE SON. BUT WHO PROTECTS THE FATHER?
I read it twice.
Maksim watches me, his gaze a physical presence. He awaits my order, waiting for me to interpret the violence.
This isn't the work of the Italians; they would have shot up the convoy, dealing in chaos.
This is theater—a message meant to be read, not merely felt.
Someone is threatening my father—someone who knew I would take this route if pressed, someone aware that Volkov was the leak.
My mind shifts to the only person with the reach, access, and ambition to stage this.
Boris.
I fold the note and slip it into my pocket.
"We're going to be late," I say.
Maksim nods, asking no questions about the note or the body. He turns, weapon still raised, and escorts me back to the car.
He doesn't glance back at the dead man; he keeps moving, keeps functioning.
That's why I chose him.
We get back in the car, and the engine rumbles to life.
"Estate," I say.
Maksim's hand rests on his thigh, just inches from his gun. I watch his fingers—steady and lethal.
As the city blurs past outside, I focus on my thoughts.
My father is waiting.
My uncle is waiting.
And I need to find a traitor before dinner.