Chapter 18 MAKSIM #2
"I need resources," Ivan states, cutting through the nostalgia. "Cash. Clean phones. A vehicle that can't be traced back to the estate. Weapons, if you have them."
Lev leans back in his chair, which groans under his weight, and spreads his hands. "And what do you offer in return? Sentiment doesn't pay bills, Little Prince. And waging war with Boris isn't cheap."
Ivan reaches under his sleeve and unfastens a watch.
It's not the Patek he used to wear daily; this one is different—a Breguet. Platinum. The kind of "backup" asset that's worth more than this entire building.
He places it on the desk, the metal clinking against the scarred surface.
Lev picks it up, turning it in his fingers as if assessing more than just its gears and gold.
"Your father gave you this," Lev states, not quite a question.
"Yes."
"For your twenty-fifth." Lev's gaze lingers on the watch longer than necessary. "Are you certain?"
"The man who gave me that would trade me to Boris if it meant keeping the organization stable," Ivan replies, devoid of bitterness, just cold fact. "I don't need it. I need a car."
Lev sets the watch down delicately, as if placing a fragile memory. He slides it into a drawer and locks it.
Then he turns his attention to me.
"Who is this one?" he asks Ivan, gesturing at me with a nod. "Not Bratva. I would recognize the face."
"Maksim Orlov," Ivan says. "My bodyguard."
Lev makes a sound like a grinder stripping a gear. "Bodyguard. I've seen bodyguards. They stand like furniture, checking the door and looking tough." He jabs a thick finger at me. "This one, though, stands as if he's calculating how many people he can kill in this room before the door opens."
His gaze sharpens. "Kennel?"
The word lands heavily in my stomach.
I don't flinch; flinching betrays information.
"You know it," I say.
"I know what comes out of it," Lev replies, his eyes steady—not afraid, not impressed, just factual. "Weapons wearing human skin. No offense."
"None taken," I respond. It's not untrue.
Lev studies Ivan again, and an unspoken understanding passes between them—a silent question about loyalty and risk.
"He's not just your bodyguard," Lev states.
Ivan doesn't deny it; he remains silent.
Lev exhales slowly, smoke drifting toward the ceiling. "Wait."
He stands and disappears through a back door reinforced with three locks.
I hear heavy objects shifting—metal against metal—the sound of someone accessing a place not listed on any official inventory.
Ivan leans back in the chair, his eyes fixed on the door.
"He recognized the training," I say quietly.
"Lev recognizes everything," Ivan replies. "He's been in this world longer than my father has worn his crown."
"How do you know him?"
A pause. Ivan traces a scratch on the arm of the chair.
"He was my grandfather's driver, then his enforcer, then.
.. his friend." Another pause. "When my grandfather died, Lev walked away from my father's version of the organization.
He didn't like the corporate style; he preferred the old ways.
But he checked on me when I was young, taught me things Sergei considered beneath his notice. "
"He called you Little Prince."
"He's called me that since I was eight," Ivan says, an edge of amusement creeping in. "I hated it. Now it reminds me I existed before I became... this."
Before the heir. Before the file. Before he learned to build people the way other men build empires.
Lev returns with a heavy duffel bag.
He drops it on the desk and unzips it.
Inside are stacks of cash—used bills, non-sequential—two burner phones still sealed in plastic, keys with a tag and a plate number, and beneath it all: two clean Glock 19s, spare magazines stacked beside them, and boxes of hollow-point ammunition.
Exactly what we need.
"The car is next door," Lev says, pushing the bag toward Ivan. "Old Civic. Boring. Gray. Runs well. Plates are clean enough for city work."
Ivan takes the bag and stands. "Thank you."
Lev catches his forearm before he can turn away. His grip is firm.
"Don't thank me yet," Lev warns. "You're going after Boris."
"Yes."
Lev's grip tightens. "He has men. He has loyalty bought over decades. He has the Estate security. You have a wounded dog and a reputation that just burned with your cabin."
Ivan's expression is unchanging. "I know."
"Good," Lev replies. "Then you understand that you cannot confront him directly. A knife cannot overpower a hammer. You need to be clever."
Ivan's gaze sharpens. "I don't plan to fight him head-on."
Lev raises his eyebrows. "Explain."
"I plan to starve him," Ivan states.
Lev becomes still, then nods slowly as the idea takes shape in his mind.
"Supply," Lev murmurs. "Distribution."
"Three points," Ivan continues. "I know where he moves his product and the warehouses he keeps off the books—the ones he uses to fund his side deals. We hit them quickly and make it appear like rival action. He'll divert men to protect his inventory instead of hunting shadows."
"His people will grow anxious," Lev says, a grin spreading across his face. "Hungry men don't hold loyalty tightly."
"And my father values stability above all else," Ivan adds. "Instability will force his hand. If Boris seems unable to maintain his territory, Sergei will cut him loose."
"Exactly."
Lev studies Ivan for a long moment before clapping him on the shoulder.
"Dmitri's blood," he says, his voice rough. "Go."
He looks at me again, his eyes narrowing.
"And you," he says. "Keep him alive. Princes are easy to kill."
I don't respond verbally.
Instead, I nod to indicate: I know.
We leave.
The sun has broken through the clouds while we were inside, illuminating the lot in a harsh, revealing light. Ivan carries the bag as if it weighs nothing. I follow, my leg throbbing with each step, the stitched muscle pulling as if it wants to tear open.
The Civic is parked in the garage next door—dull paint, a dent in the rear bumper, utterly unremarkable.
Ivan tosses the duffel into the back seat and slides behind the wheel.
I ease into the passenger seat, adjusting my leg carefully and gritting my teeth against the sharp pain.
"The watch," I say once we're moving. "You gave up something valuable."
"I gave up something noisy," Ivan replies. "Value isn't the same thing."
He drives with both hands on the wheel, his eyes scanning the mirrors and taking turns as if he's already plotting attack routes in his mind.
"The plan," I say. "You've already chosen the targets."
"Three distribution points," he confirms. "South Side warehouse. The transit hub on the West. And his private holding facility near the docks. We'll hit them in sequence, burn the product, and scatter the personnel."
"And what if your father still refuses to act?" I ask.
Ivan's jaw tightens. "Then we make it impossible for him to refuse."
I lean back and watch the city pass by.
This is the Ivan the file never captured—not softer or kinder, but stripped down to a function that's not about control for its own sake. Control aimed outward now, a weapon pointed at the right enemy.
He's not building a cage. He's building a path.
"Lev noticed," I say quietly. "Us."
Ivan glances at me. "What about us?"
"The way we move," I say. "The way you didn't deny it when he asked. I'm not just your bodyguard anymore."
Silence hangs for a moment, punctuated only by the hum of tires on pavement.
Then, without looking at me, Ivan replies, "No."
It's neither romantic nor dramatic.
It's worse than that—it's the truth.
The words settle between us like an unspoken rule, one we both understand and will follow.
I shift my weight, my leg pulsing, and ask the only question that matters now.
"First target," I say. "When?"
Ivan's mouth curves—not a smile you'd show someone you wanted to trust, but a small, dangerous grin that tells me he's already embraced the violence in his mind.
"Tonight," he says. "We'll spend the day watching. Then we strike."
I close my eyes for a moment, not to sleep, but to let the anticipation seep into my bones like the pain has.
Boris wanted us dead. Instead, he received ash, smoke, and a story.
Tonight, we'll give him something different.
Something he can't bury with fire.