Chapter 8 Ivan
Ivan
The morning drags on in that peculiar penthouse quiet… muted traffic far below, the low hum of the aircon, Landon’s occasional spoon clinks against his cereal bowl.
But he’s finished eating now, rinsed his dish without being asked, and drifted back to the living room couch with Claw tucked under his arm.
He’s scrolling through the approved streaming options on the TV remote—nothing live, nothing with news tickers, just pre-loaded movies and shows Viktor’s people vetted months ago.
I know it would drive me insane to be in his position.
I stand, stretch the stiffness out of my shoulders, and head toward the front door. Habit more than necessity: check the triple bolts, test the keycard reader, glance at the hallway camera feed on the small panel beside the frame.
All green.
No surprises.
Everything as it needs to be.
On my way back I pass the second hallway cupboard—the one I’ve never bothered opening. Viktor mentioned it once during our initial briefing call, offhand, the way he mentions anything that isn’t immediately tactical.
“Old toys in the east closet,” he’d said. “Might come in handy.”
I hadn’t paid much attention at the time. Distraction wasn’t my concern, containment was.
But things feel… different this morning.
After what I witnessed on the security feed to my phone last night too. Damn. That was something I wasn’t expecting, but I can’t deny how hot it was. Not to mention the fact that the boy seemed to realize toward the end but carried on anyway.
Whatever. I’m not falling into any potential traps. I can keep my dick under control more than well enough to ride this out.
And besides, Landon hasn’t tried anything stupid since the vent incident. No tantrums, no barbed comments beyond the usual. He even thanked me—twice—for the coffee. Small things, but they add up.
There’s a softening at the edges, a cautious thaw.
Maybe it’s exhaustion.
Maybe it’s strategy.
Either way, Landon isn’t fighting every breath anymore.
Curiosity gets the better of me and I open the cupboard door.
Inside: neat plastic bins from years ago.
Building blocks, stuffed animals in sealed bags, wooden train sets, a collection of die-cast cars still in their original boxes.
Bright primary colors peeking through clear windows.
It’s like a time capsule of someone else’s childhood, carefully preserved.
I reach for the nearest bin without thinking too hard about it. Old-timey racing cars—red, blue, yellow, silver—plus a mismatched set of wooden blocks in primary colors. Enough to build something simple. Enough to kill a few hours.
If the boy hates the idea, he can tell me to fuck off.
If he doesn’t… well. It’ll pass the time. And maybe give me another data point on who he really is under the lawyer-in-training armor.
“Landon,” I call out as I carry the bin into the living area and set it down on the rug in front of the coffee table with a soft thud.
The boy glances over from the couch, eyebrows lifting. “What’s that?”
“Found some old toys in storage,” I say, keeping my tone neutral. “Figured you might want to play with them. Keep yourself occupied.”
He stares at the bin, then at me. A beat of silence stretches long enough that I start to second-guess the whole impulse.
Then he laughs—short, incredulous.
“Why on earth would you think I’d want to play with toys?” Landon snorts. “I’m twenty-three. An adult.”
I shrug one shoulder. “Had a feeling you might enjoy it. If nothing else, it’ll pass the time. Better than staring at the ceiling or rewatching the same three movies.”
Landon then studies me like he’s trying to decide if this is a trick. His gaze flicks to Claw, still tucked against his ribs, then back to the colorful cars peeking out of the box.
A long exhale. “Fine,” he says, almost grudgingly. “I’ll play. But only if you join me.”
I freeze for half a second.
Join him?
On the floor?
Playing with toy cars?
Every instinct trained into me over two decades in this life screams no. It’s undignified. It’s vulnerable. It’s a waste of focus when I should be checking perimeter alerts, reviewing the tactics for this whole thing, staying sharp.
But there’s something in his eyes—half challenge, half hope—that hooks me. It’s irresistible in a way I can’t quite name.
I exhale through my nose. “Fine.”
I lower myself to the rug—knees protesting a little, suit jacket discarded on the armchair first—and sit cross-legged opposite him. He slides down to join me, Claw carefully propped against the couch leg like a spectator.
We dump the blocks out first. Wooden cubes, rectangles, arches. Bright reds, blues, yellows. I start laying out a basic oval track while he sorts the cars by color, lining them up like they’re on a starting grid.
“Mom had an adventurous spirit,” Landon says quietly as he places a red racer at the front.
“She drove Dad crazy. He bought her this vintage sports car, a red Alfa Romeo, early sixties. It was so cool. She’d take corners like she was racing Formula One.
Dad would sit in the passenger seat gripping the door handle, pretending he wasn’t terrified. ”
I glance at the boy. He’s smiling, but it’s the kind of smile that hurts around the edges.
“She sounds like trouble,” I say.
“She was.” Landon pushes the red car forward an inch. “The good kind. I miss her every day.”
The admission hangs there, simple and raw. I don’t know how much of his father’s real business Landon actually knows, how deep the Galkin shadow stretches into his memories. But the grief is real. Undeniable. It makes something in my chest tighten.
Rather than dwell, I nudge a blue car up beside his. “Ready?”
He nods. “Ready.”
We race. No fancy rules, we just push the cars along the block track, make engine noises if we feel like it. He does, I don’t, but I don’t stop him. He crashes his red car into mine on purpose at the first turn, laughing when it spins out.
“Cheater,” I mutter.
“Strategy,” Landon corrects, grinning. “You always need a strategy.”
“Right,” I reply, suspicious at first but then a smile coming over me.
We rebuild the track taller, add ramps. The boy tells me about the time his mom tried to teach him to drive stick on an empty parking lot when he was fourteen.
His dad caught them and nearly had a coronary.
I tell Landon, briefly, about the beat-up Lada my uncle used to let me tinker with in the garage when I was a kid.
Nothing deep. Just surface stories. Safe ones.
For a while the penthouse doesn’t feel like a cage. It feels almost… normal.
After the third lap he sits back on his heels, cheeks pink from laughing. “Okay,” Landon says, quieter now. “I’ll admit it. I’m a Little.”
The words land soft but heavy.
I meet his eyes. He’s watching me carefully, like he’s waiting for judgment. Or rejection.
I could say it.
I could tell him I’m a Daddy, that I have been for years, even if I’ve kept it locked down tight since the last relationship went to hell. The words sit right there on my tongue.
But I swallow them.
Instead I nod once. “Makes sense.”
He exhales, relieved. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
A small smile tugs at his mouth. “So… you’re not going to make fun of me?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I say.
He looks down at the scattered blocks, then back up. “Thank you. For this. For… not being a complete asshole about it.”
I grunt. “Don’t get used to it.”
Landon chuckles and picks up a yellow car, rolls it slowly back and forth between his palms.
“You know… if we’re doing this whole passing the time thing,” Landon begins. “We should probably have proper snacks. Juice boxes would be nice. The little ones with the bendy straws.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Juice boxes.”
“Apple,” Landon beams. “Or fruit punch. Whatever they send on the next supply drop.”
I consider arguing—Viktor’s people don’t run a daycare—but the look on his face stops me. Hopeful. A little vulnerable.
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll add it to the list.”
His smile widens, real this time. “Thank you, Ivan.”
I don’t answer. Instead, I just start stacking blocks again, building a ridiculous jump ramp neither of us will probably land.
For the first time since he arrived, the penthouse doesn’t feel quite so empty.
And I’m not sure whether that’s dangerous… or exactly what I’ve been missing.
Later that evening the penthouse settles into a different kind of quiet.
The lights are dimmed to a warm amber glow, the only real brightness coming from the massive flat screen TV. The game is on—Monday Night Football, one of the few live feeds Viktor’s people allow piped in through the secure line.
I’m not a die-hard fan, but I follow enough to appreciate a good defensive stand or a perfectly timed blitz. And if it means I can sip some vodka too to keep my mind off the bigger picture, then I’m down.
Landon is curled on the opposite end of the sectional in his pale-blue pajamas, knees drawn up, Claw tucked against his chest like a shield. He’s been quiet since we put the blocks and cars away, but it’s a comfortable quiet.
No tension.
No scheming glances toward the door.
It feels like we have an understanding at last.
Suddenly, the quarterback drops back, scans, fires a laser down the sideline. The receiver hauls it in for thirty yards before getting lit up by the safety.
“Nice read,” Landon mutters, almost to himself. “But he should’ve checked to the flat first. Safety was cheating over the top.”
I glance at him, surprised. “You watch a lot of ball?”
Th boy shrugs one shoulder, eyes still glued to the screen.
“Enough. Dad used to have season tickets when I was younger. We’d go to Giants games whenever he could swing it.
Mom hated the cold, so she’d stay home with hot chocolate and reruns of old movies.
But Dad and I… we’d bundle up, scream ourselves hoarse, eat terrible stadium food.
It was one of the few times the world felt normal. ”
I nod slowly.
Another small window into his life.
Another piece that makes him more than a name on a file.
The next play: screen pass. The running back catches it clean, cuts up field. It’s a nice move, and I cast my eyes over toward Landon.
“Watch… watch… he’s gonna stiff-arm the linebacker,” Landon trills. “Hey! There it is!”
Sure enough, the runner plants a palm in the defender’s facemask and powers through for extra yards.
I let out a low whistle. “Good eye.”
Landon grins—small, triumphant. “Just because I’m a Little doesn’t mean I don’t love football.”
There’s no defensiveness in it. Just fact. A playful, innocent fact.
I don’t plan the next move. My arm simply lifts, drapes itself along the back of the small couch, and settles around his shoulders.
Landon doesn’t tense.
He doesn’t pull away.
Instead he shifts—small, instinctive—until his side is pressed against mine, head tipping to rest on my chest. His hair smells faintly of the lavender shampoo from the bathroom. Claw is squished between us like a fuzzy buffer.
On screen the offense is marching. First down. Second down. Clock ticking.
I should move my arm.
I don’t.
The boy’s breathing slows, deepens. His eyelids droop. He fights it—blinks hard, tries to refocus on the play—but gravity wins.
“Bedtime,” I say quietly.
But Landon makes a small, protesting sound in the back of his throat. “Just… until the end of the quarter. Please?”
Those green eyes lift to mine—wide, pleading, ridiculous puppy-dog innocence dialed up to eleven.
I sigh. “One quarter.”
He beams, sleepy, victorious. He then snuggles closer, cheek against my shirt.
Less than five minutes later his eyes flutter shut for good. A soft, rhythmic snore escapes him. Barely audible. And very, very cute.
I roll my eyes.
Then I chuckle—low, quiet, surprised at myself.
Despite the attitude. Despite the Galkin name stamped on his bloodline. Despite the fact that he’s technically my hostage…
Landon is okay.
More than okay.
The boy is sharp. Funny when he wants to be. Brave in small, stubborn ways. And right now, asleep against my side with his little bear clutched tight, he looks impossibly innocent. Impossibly fragile.
My mind flashes to Viktor.
What would he say if he could see this? His loyal assassin letting the Galkin prince nap on his chest like he belongs there?
He’d probably put a bullet in my skull and call it housekeeping.
I know the rules. Emotional involvement is a death sentence. Not just for me—for him, too. If Viktor thinks I’ve gone soft, if he thinks I won’t pull the trigger when the order comes down… he’ll replace me.
And I know exactly what that means. I’ve seen it happen to others.
Whoever comes after me won’t bother with juice boxes and toy cars. They’ll treat the boy like leverage. Disposable leverage.
I can’t afford to care.
Not really.
But keeping him content—maintain his calm, ensuring he is cooperative—reduces the odds of him doing something reckless. Reduces the odds of me having to hurt him. It’s tactical. Strategic.
That’s what I tell myself.
That’s what I have to believe.
The quarter ends. The network cuts to commercial.
I don’t move.
Instead I tilt my head down, brush my lips against his forehead—soft, barely there. A whisper of contact. He doesn’t stir.
“Goodnight, trouble,” I murmur.
Then I scoop him up, Claw still clutched in his arms. He mumbles something incoherent, nestles closer to my chest, and goes right back to snoring.
I carry him down the hall to the his bedroom. Lay him on the mattress. Pull the covers up to his chin. Set Claw beside his cheek.
For a moment I stand there, watching the boy sleep.
Then I turn off the lamp, step out, and lock the door behind me.
Back in the living room the game is already moving into the third quarter. I drop onto the couch. The same spot, same warmth still lingering where he’d been pressed against me, and stare at the screen without really seeing it.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table. Encrypted message from Viktor.
VIKTOR: Update?
I type back one-handed.
Ivan: All quiet. He’s cooperating.
A pause. Three dots…
VIKTOR: Good. Keep it that way.
I set the phone face-down.
The game continues. Tackles. Touchdowns. Crowd noise piped through speakers. But my mind isn’t on the field. My thoughts are down the hall on a sleeping boy who shouldn’t mean anything… and worse, on the dangerous, stupid, impossible feeling that maybe—just maybe—he already does.