Chapter 4 Ivan
Ivan
It's just before dawn.
I’ve got a feeling this meeting is going to be interesting. The nighttime ones always are. I’ve been in the game long enough to know when Viktor is about to make a move, and now feels like that kind of time.
Viktor is already there when I arrive, sitting in a corner booth with his back to the wall—old habits die hard. Two of his security guys occupy the booth behind him, nursing mugs of something black and steaming, their eyes scanning the room without ever landing on anything for too long.
They’re two of Viktor’s trusted lieutenants, men who would lay their lives on the line for him without giving it a second thought.
He’s a man who demands that kind of loyalty without asking for it.
Hell, I’m no fool. The security men would spray me with bullets without asking why as long as the order came from Viktor.
Here goes.
It’s time to talk to the pakhan.
And it ain’t a social call…
I slide into the seat across from Viktor, the vinyl creaking under my weight. He's nursing his own coffee, black as his soul, and he looks up with that half-smile that's equal parts warmth and warning.
"Ivan," he says, his voice gravelly from years of barking orders. "Good to see you. You look rested. Or as rested as a man in our line of work can be."
I nod, signaling the waitress for a cup of the same sludge.
"Pakhan,” I say. “Always a pleasure. Though meeting at this hour usually means it's not just for the company."
He chuckles, low and rumbling. “Ivan, please. We’re friends. But you… straight to business, as always. First, pleasantries. How's life treating you? Still playing the lone wolf?"
The waitress drops off my coffee, and I take a sip—bitter, scalding, perfect for shaking off the last dregs of sleep. "Life's the same. Jobs come, jobs go. Men fall. Money arrives. And I have no complaints."
Viktor leans back, studying me over the rim of his mug.
"You know, Ivan, I've been thinking. A man your age should consider settling down.
Find a boy, like I did with my Eddie. It changes things.
Grounds you. Gives you something worth protecting beyond the next paycheck. Come on, you know what I say is true."
I humor Viktor with a wry smile.
Eddie is his Forever Little, the one who softened the edges of the Downtown Devil without dulling his claws. I've seen how he looks at him, like he’s the only light in this dark world we navigate.
"Sounds nice, Viktor,” I answer. “But me? I'm better off focusing on the business. Relationships complicate things. And in our world, complications can get you killed."
I watch as Viktor waves a hand dismissively, but there's a glint in his eye—like he's planting a seed he expects to sprout later. "Ah, but that's the beauty of it. The right boy doesn't complicate. He clarifies. Makes the risks worth it. Think about it."
I nod again, noncommittal.
We've danced this dance before.
Viktor's got his domestic bliss; I've got my solitude. It suits me. No one to worry about when I'm out on a job, no one to explain the bloodstains to. And no one to hurt me either.
We finish our coffees in companionable silence for a moment, the security guys behind us shifting subtly, ever vigilant. Then Viktor's expression hardens, the pleasantries evaporating like steam from our mugs.
"Alright, enough bullshit," Viktor says, lowering his voice even though the diner's empty save for us and a half-asleep cook in the back. "The real reason we're here. The Galkin family. Word is, they're plotting to break the peace treaty."
I lean in, my interest piqued.
The treaty's been holding for years—a fragile truce between our outfit and theirs, keeping the streets from running red again.
"Galkin?” I ask. “Mikhail's been quiet. Reforming, last I heard. Going legit. Or maybe that’s just the front. A play to make us all relax a little too much."
Viktor snorts.
"Indeed. Reforming my ass. Mikhail wants one last shot at the crown. Thinks he can be the undisputed pakhan of the city. My sources say he's planning hits on my top generals. Maybe even me."
I process that, the implications unfolding like a bad hand in poker.
Mikhail Galkin's a legend—ruthless, cunning, but aging. If he's gunning for Viktor, it's suicide. Or genius. Either way it could change the whole landscape for everyone—including me.
"You want me to take him out?” I ask, my voice low and gruff. “Clean, quiet? Or I could try something a little more elaborate, just to make sure all the other pakhans know what happens to those who push the wrong buttons."
Viktor shakes his head, a predatory smile creeping across his face.
"Maybe” he answers. “But not yet. Killing him outright starts a war. No, I want to break him first. Show the other families what happens when you cross the Volkovs. Make a real example. An example that the world will never forget."
I wait, knowing there's more. Viktor's not one for half-measures.
"He's got a son," Viktor continues. "Artyom, goes by Landon Lane to fly under the radar. Smart boy, law school, Ivy League, the works. Mikhail's grooming him to take over the business. But the so-called legit side of things. He’s smart as hell, but he’s Mikhail’s weak spot too."
Ah. There it is.
"Kidnap him,” I say, my voice cold, my mind seeing the play. “Hold him for ransom."
"Exactly." Viktor's eyes gleam. "We'll use him as a test. See how far Mikhail's willing to push his plot.
If he backs down, caves to our demands… territory concessions, maybe a cut of his operations, we let the boy go.
If not... well, that's why I need someone I trust. Someone precise.
Someone who will do what needs to be done. "
I see where this is headed, and it doesn't surprise me.
"You want me to handle the grab,” I say. “Take him to a safehouse."
"A penthouse on the east side," Viktor confirms. "It’s never been used before. Totally secret. Top floor, secure as a vault. Hold him there under your control until I say otherwise. No harm unless necessary. But make sure he knows who's in charge."
I nod, already mapping it out in my head. "Consider it done."
The meeting wraps quickly after that. Viktor slides me a burner phone with the details: his routine, address, photos.
We shake hands, and I head out into the pre-dawn chill, the security guys trailing Viktor to his armored SUV.
The job is straightforward, but something nags at me.
Kidnapping is not my usual gig. Far from it. I’m more of a one-shot and done kind of man. Hits are clean. This could get messy. Personal.
But orders are orders.
And in this life, you follow them or end up in the sewer with your own knife in your back.
Landon Lane is coming with me. That’s all there is to it. And whatever Viktor wants at the end of it all, well I’ll deliver that too.
No matter what.
The abduction went to plan. A single clean hit, enough to knock him out. I had to be careful not to overdo it, but I think I struck the right balance between force and care.
Whatever.
The boy is alive and he’s with me just as I planned.
The car's interior is dim, the city lights streaking past like comet tails through the tinted windows. Landon slumps against me in the backseat, his body limp from the calculated blow I delivered to the base of his skull. He’s drifting in and out, mumbling incoherently, his head lolling onto my shoulder.
I hold the boy close, one arm wrapped around his waist to keep him steady as the driver navigates the empty streets. It's practical—I don't want him flopping around if he comes to—but there's something else there too.
He’s warm, soft in a way that contrasts the hard edges of my world.
His hair smells like vanilla and something zesty, innocent.
I glance down at his face: high cheekbones, full lips parted slightly in his haze.
Damn, he’s cute. Not what I expected from Galkin's son. He’s way more like a college kid than a mafia prince.
Which, I suppose, is precisely what he is.
According to his details he’s in his early twenties and has a background in sports too.
Always good to know ahead of time. The last thing I need is to realize I’m dealing with an athlete when he’s attempting to sprint away from me during an escape attempt.
Not that I’m planning on letting it get that far.
No. The boy will learn very quickly that he needs to respect and observe my rules.
He stirs, his eyelids fluttering. "Wh... who..."
"Shh," I murmur, my voice low, almost soothing despite myself. "Don't fight it. Just rest."
He doesn't respond, slipping back under.
Good.
The less he sees, the better.
The driver—a trusted Volkov foot soldier named Pavel—pulls up to the nondescript high-rise on the east side. It's one of our safehouses, disguised as luxury condos, with reinforced doors and surveillance that rivals the Pentagon. Pavel kills the engine, nods to me in the rearview.
"All clear, Ivan," Pavel says. “Pakhan has arranged for basic supplies there. More can be ordered by request. Got it?”
I simply nod.
I slip a black blindfold from my pocket—silk, because why add insult if not necessary—and tie it gently over his eyes. He’s out cold now, his breathing even. I scoop him up easily, the boy’s slight frame no burden for my build.
Pavel stays with the car as I carry him through the private entrance, up the service elevator to the top floor. No sooner than we’re through the door, I know the SUV will be growling off into the night.
It’s just me and the boy now.
The penthouse’s main door clicks open with my keycard, and I step inside, kicking it shut behind me. I engage the triple bolts—steel-reinforced, impossible to breach without heavy artillery—then lay him down on the large leather couch in the living room.
Landon sighs softly, curling into himself instinctively.
I step back, taking in the space. The penthouse is spectacular: floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering skyline, polished marble floors, a state-of-the-art kitchen with granite counters and appliances that could feed an army.
The living area alone is bigger than my own apartment, furnished with sleek modern pieces—plush rugs, abstract art on the walls, a massive flat-screen.
There's a fully stocked bar, a gym room, multiple bedrooms with ensuites. Security cams in every corner, feeding to a control room only Viktor and I have access to.
It's a gilded cage, designed for holding high-value assets without them feeling too imprisoned. At least, not at first.
I watch the boy for a moment, his chest rising and falling.
He’s twenty-three, according to the file—young, ambitious, oblivious to the full extent of his father's shadows.
Or maybe not so oblivious. Who the hell knows.
Galkin blood runs thick.
Still, staring at him like this, vulnerable and peaceful, I can't help but wonder: Will I have to kill him?
There's no guarantee Mikhail will break.
He's a tough old bastard, forged in the same fires as Viktor.
If he calls our bluff, pushes back... well, examples require follow-through.
The thought sits heavy in my gut. I've ended plenty of lives—scumbags, rivals, threats—but a boy like this? It'd be a waste. A damn shame.
I shake it off.
No point borrowing trouble.
The job's the job. A kill is a kill.
I cross to the bar, pour myself a generous vodka—top-shelf, chilled—from the crystal decanter.
The burn down my throat is familiar, grounding.
I take a seat in the armchair opposite the couch, legs stretched out, glass in hand.
The city's lights twinkle below, indifferent to the drama unfolding up here.
Landon stirs again, a soft moan escaping his lips.
The blindfold's still in place, his hands twitching like he’s trying to reach for it in his dreams.
I sip my drink, watching.
This could be a long night.
Hell, a long few days. Or weeks, even, depending on how the negotiations play out.
Part of me—the professional part—catalogs the details: secure the perimeter, check the cams, prep for when he wakes.
But another part, the one Viktor keeps poking at, sees the softness of his stomach, the way his hair rests on the cushion. Cute doesn't begin to cover it. He’s got fire, too—I saw it in the way he walked those last blocks, sensing me but not panicking.
He’s a Galkin through and through.
And maybe that worries me a little more than it should.
I down the rest of the vodka, pour another. The alcohol warms me, but it doesn't dull the edge.
If Mikhail folds, he goes home.
If not... well, I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.
For now, I wait. The penthouse is silent save for his breathing and the hum of the city below.
Dawn is breaking, painting the windows pink.
Another day in the life.
But something tells me this one's going to be different. And something tells me that Landon Lane is going to be a job like no other…