Chapter 3
Landon
“Bleurgh,” I groan. “Already?”
The city is still asleep when my eyes snap open. No alarm, just the familiar pull of routine and the quiet determination that has become my second skin.
The sky outside my window is the deep indigo that comes right before dawn thinks about showing up. And despite my instinctive complaint at how quickly my sleep went, I like this hour. No traffic noise, no notifications, just me and the work that needs to be done.
“Okay, let’s do this,” I mutter to myself, now over the shock of waking.
I pad across the cool hardwood floor in my oversized sleep shirt, flick on the small desk lamp, and settle into my chair.
The laptop hums to life.
Next to it sits Claw, propped against a stack of highlighters so he can watch me study. His little black button eyes look encouraging in the soft light. I give his paw a quick squeeze for luck, then reach into the mini fridge for the glass of orange-carrot-ginger juice I blended last night.
“Wowzers,” I say, my eyes almost watering as the sharp tang wakes up my senses immediately. “Okay. Let’s go.”
Today’s mission: conquer the mountain of case law on merger regulations and antitrust implications that Professor Grover dumped on us last week. If I want to graduate top of the class—and I definitely do want that—there’s no room for half-measures.
Every A matters.
Every perfect score is another brick in the wall I’m building to prove to my father that his investment in me wasn’t wasted, that I can be the legal shield the Galkin family needs in this new, cleaner era he’s carving out.
I open my annotated PDF of United States v. Soft Tech Corp. and dive in, pen scratching notes in the margins of my legal pad. The words blur together after a while—market power, predatory pricing, barriers to entry—but I keep pushing.
This is what I was raised for.
Not guns or territory or blood feuds.
Documents. Contracts. Loopholes. Power disguised as paper, and exactly what my father always spoke about when he gradually let me into his life. Well, as much as I’m ever going to get.
Half an hour passes.
Maybe forty minutes.
My focus slips, the way it sometimes does when the apartment is too quiet and my brain has space to wander backward.
I remember being nine, maybe ten, and sneaking out of bed because I heard raised voices downstairs: Russian, sharp, urgent.
I padded down the curved staircase in my fuzzy slippers, hugging the banister, heart hammering. The living room lights were low, but I could see the shapes clearly enough.
My father stood in the center like always, broad shoulders filling the room. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar and streaked crimson across the chest and sleeves. Not a lot, but enough.
The metallic smell hit me a second later.
Copper. Iron. Blood.
Around him were four or five of his most trusted men.
Men whose names I wasn’t supposed to know but did anyway.
Sergei with the scarred eyebrow. Dmitri who always smelled of cigars and leather.
All of them spattered the same way. One held a dark cloth pressed to his forearm.
Another stared at the floor like he was memorizing the pattern in the rug.
I must have made a sound—a tiny gasp—because my father’s head snapped toward the doorway. His eyes found mine instantly, cold and unreadable in that moment.
“Artyom,” he barked, using my real name like a whip. “Bed, child. Now.”
I bolted. My legs shaking, I scrambled back upstairs and dove under the covers, pulling them over my head like they could erase what I’d seen. I lay there for hours, staring at the ceiling shadows, replaying the image over and over.
Was someone hurt?
Dead?
Had my father hurt them? Or had someone tried to hurt him?
The next morning he appeared at breakfast alongside my mother as if nothing had happened. Fresh shirt. Calm voice. He poured my orange juice, set the glass in front of me, then sat across the table with his coffee.
I waited. And waited. Finally I whispered, “Papa… last night…”
“Forget it,” he said, not looking up from his newspaper. “It was nothing. Go to school.”
That was it. No explanation. No comfort. Just an order to erase it from my memory. And the way he uttered his words, accompanied by a hard look in his eyes, told me that under no circumstances was I to press him any further on the matter. My father had a temper, and I knew what his limits were.
I never brought it up again. But I never really forgot either.
But that was then. In the here and now, a soft buzz pulls me back to the present. My phone lights up on the desk and I reach over and pick it up…
TODD: Morning sunshine! Up for a sauna sesh before lectures? The one on 14th just opened at 6. Steam + gossip = perfect start to the day. You in?
I smile despite the heaviness still sitting in my chest. Todd always knows exactly when to appear, even if it’s just via text.
LANDON: Yes please. Meet you there at 6:30? Need to sweat out some stress.
TODD: Yessss! See you soon dude!
I set the phone down, take a long sip of juice, and force my attention back to the screen. Forty more minutes of focused reading before I have to get ready.
I can do this.
No, I will do it.
Because once I set my mind to something, it would take a hundred men to stop me.
The air outside is crisp and smells faintly of rain that never quite arrived. I pull my hoodie up, sling my gym bag over my shoulder, and head toward the subway.
The city is truly waking up now—delivery trucks rumbling, joggers in neon, the first coffee carts opening their windows. I’m a true city boy, and this is my playground.
I arrive at the upscale spa-sauna place on 14th a few minutes early. Todd is already there, bouncing on his toes in bright green shorts and a cropped sweatshirt, looking far too awake for this hour.
“Landonnnnn!” He throws his arms around me in a quick, fierce hug. “You look like you’ve already conquered the world this morning.”
“More like the world is trying to conquer me,” I laugh, hugging him back. “But I’m hanging in there. Some of these legal documents are just… gargh.”
Todd laughs and nods his head in acknowledgement. We both love the law, but there’s no getting around the fact that some of it is pretty damn dry.
We check in, change into the provided robes and towels, and head to the private sauna suite we always book. It’s small, cedar-lined, and blissfully hot. The moment we step inside and the door seals behind us, the tension in my shoulders starts to melt.
“Oooh, this is it,” Landon says, stretching his legs. “This is what I needed.”
“Yup,” I reply, smiling as the heat sinks onto me and grounds me in a way that gives me no choice but to submit.
We settle onto the upper bench, leaning back against the warm wood. The heat wraps around us like a blanket. For a few minutes we just breathe, letting the steam do its work.
“So… Jonathan McEvoy,” Todd says, fanning himself dramatically even though we’ve only been in here two minutes. “I still can’t get over how unfairly gorgeous he is. That jawline should come with a warning label.”
I roll my eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t fall out.
“He’s a walking red flag, Todd,” I say. “A total sleaze. Remember yesterday? The way he just marched up and said I was sexy like I was a piece of meat on display? Hard pass.”
Landon sighs, long and theatrical. “I know, I know. He was a dick to you. I’m not defending him. I’m just… appreciating aesthetics. From a safe distance.”
“Appreciate aesthetics somewhere else,” I mutter, but there’s no real heat in it. “There are plenty of hot guys in the world who aren’t condescending assholes.”
“True.” Todd stretches his legs out once more. “But finding a real Daddy? Someone who actually gets it. You know, the structure, the care, the… everything? That feels impossible lately.”
I nod slowly. “Yeah. It’s way easier said than done. Half the guys online are just playing dress-up. They want the kink without the responsibility. The control without the aftercare. Urgh. Screw men.”
“Exactly!” Todd slaps the bench for emphasis. “I want someone who’ll tell me to drink my water and mean it. Someone who notices when I’m spiraling and pulls me back. Not just someone who wants to bend me over for a quick fuck and call it dominance.”
We both go quiet for a second, the only sound the soft hiss of steam and our breathing.
“Maybe we’re asking too much,” I say finally.
“Maybe the right ones are just… rare,” Todd says, a hint of hope in his voice. “We’re too good to settle!”
I chuckle and we sit with that thought until the heat becomes almost too much. When the timer beeps, we step out, cool off with cold towels on our necks, and change back into street clothes feeling lighter, looser.
The sauna definitely hit the spot, that’s for sure. But the day is rolling on and we’ve both got plenty to do.
“Afternoon coffee after your corporate finance lecture?” Todd asks as we push through the front doors into the now-bright morning.
“Absolutely. Text me when you’re done.”
“Deal.” Todd squeezes my hand. “Love you, dude. Go slay those mergers.”
“Love you too. Don’t let any fake Daddies slide into your DMs before then either!” I guffaw.
He laughs and waves as he heads the opposite direction.
I watch him go for a second, smiling, then turn toward campus. The strange heaviness from my early-morning memory lingers, but it’s quieter now. Manageable.
Anyway… I have class to keep me occupied.
I have goals.
I have a best friend who makes even the hardest mornings feel survivable.
And somewhere deep down, buried under layers of ambition and carefully constructed control, I have the same quiet hope Todd does.
That maybe, just maybe, the right person is out there.
Someone strong enough to handle the parts of me I don’t show the world.
Someone who sees Artyom Landon Lane Galkin… and still wants to stay.
The streetlights on this stretch of 18th are spaced too far apart. I’ve always noticed it during the day. Another case of lazy city planning, probably. But at night the gaps feel deliberate, like someone designed the darkness on purpose.
My sneakers slap against the sidewalk in a rhythm that’s faster than usual.
I’m not running. Not yet.
I’m simply moving… with purpose.
I first felt it maybe three blocks back. That prickle at the base of my neck. The same one I brushed off this morning on my way to the sauna, the one Todd laughed away as classic over-caffeinated law-student paranoia.
Except now the caffeine is long gone, my afternoon lecture notes are stuffed in my backpack, and this part of the city has gone quiet in the way it only does after nine on a Tuesday.
No cabs honking.
No groups laughing outside bars.
Just the low hum of distant traffic and my own breathing.
I don’t look back.
Looking back is an invitation. It says I know you’re there. It says I’m scared. Instead I lengthen my stride, shoulders square, chin up. The move is automatic, something my father drilled into me years ago without ever calling it training.
If you feel watched, move like you belong to the street more than they do.
My apartment building is two blocks away now. I can see the green awning, the warm glow behind the doorman’s desk.
I’m almost there.
My phone sits heavy in my coat pocket. One long-press on the side button and it would speed-dial Yuri—my father’s head of personal security, the man whose number is labeled simply EMERGENCY in my contacts.
Yuri would have a car rolling within ninety seconds, probably already tracking my location because that’s how my life works even when I pretend it doesn’t.
But I hesitate.
I’m twenty-three. I live alone. I walk home alone most nights. If I call Yuri over a feeling, I’ll hear about it tomorrow. Not from him—he’s too professional for that—but from my father.
The disappointed silence.
The quiet implication that I’m still the little boy who peeked around banisters instead of the man who’s supposed to one day run the legitimate half of an empire.
One more block, that’s all I’ve got.
It will be fine. I know it will. I’m just being silly.
I cross to the left side of the street because the right has more shadows. My pulse is loud in my ears now, but I keep my gait steady.
Almost there. Just have to cross at the light—
Suddenly, the world tilts.
A dull, heavy thud lands at the base of my skull. Not sharp like a blade. Not loud like a gunshot. Just… impact. Sudden and deep. My vision swims white at the edges. My legs buckle.
The sidewalk rushes up toward me but I don’t hit it.
Strong arms catch me under the ribs, hauling me upright before gravity can finish the job. My backpack slides off one shoulder and thumps to the ground. I try to twist, to see, but my head feels like it’s full of wet cotton.
Everything is slow. Too slow.
“W-w-w-wh…” I splutter, unable to speak, my mind clouded.
The arms are thick, corded. The chest behind me is solid, unyielding. Expensive wool blend against my cheek—a suit jacket, definitely. Tailored. Not street clothes. Not a random mugger.
That detail lodges somewhere in the animal part of my brain.
My mouth opens to shout—something, anything—but only a soft groan comes out. My tongue feels thick. Adrenaline is there, buzzing under my skin, but it can’t quite connect to my muscles. I feel like my body is a puppet with half the strings cut.
Then I’m lifted. Not gently, but not roughly either. It’s efficient. Like someone who’s carried dead weight before and knows exactly how to balance it. My legs dangle uselessly for a second before I’m folded into what feels like the backseat of a car.
Leather. Smells new. Or recently cleaned.
I do everything I can to try and force myself to speak, to try and reason with whoever is doing this. I know I need to fight.
My head lolls against the seat. I force my eyes open, blinking hard against the blur. Streetlight flashes through tinted windows, too dark to make out the driver. The man who grabbed me slides in beside me, pulling the door shut with a solid, expensive thunk.
The engine growls to life.
Low, throaty. Not a cheap sedan. Something with power.
I try to sit up straighter. My hand fumbles toward my pocket—phone, pepper spray, anything—but my fingers are clumsy, disobedient.
The man beside me doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. His presence fills the space like smoke.
I manage one word though...
“Who…?”
No answer.
The car pulls away from the curb, smooth and silent. No squealing tires. No drama. Just forward momentum.
My head drops back against the seat. The edges of my vision darken again. I fight it—clench my jaw, dig my nails into my palms—but the darkness is stronger.
A last coherent thought enters my head before everything fades:
This isn’t a mugging.
This is personal.
This is… Galkin business…