Chapter 10
Ivan
Dawn has come and gone, leaving the penthouse bathed in pale, watery light.
I stand in the doorway between the hallway and the living area, arms folded, watching him.
That boy.
He’s quite something.
Infuriating. Dangerous even. But something special…
Landon sits cross-legged on the wide window seat that overlooks the city, sketchpad balanced on his knees, pencil moving in slow, meditative strokes.
He’s wearing one of my old black t-shirts—it swallowed him whole when he pulled it on—and nothing else. Claw the stuffie is propped against the glass beside him like a silent guardian.
It’s a sight I could get used to seeing, there’s no denying that.
And more than anything, he looks… peaceful.
A far cry from the sobbing, trembling boy I held against my chest at first light. The welts on his ass have already started to fade to a soft rose, and the clothespins are long gone, his nipples no doubt still slightly swollen but no longer angry red.
Now I watch the careful way he shades the skyline, the gentle concentration on his face, and something uncomfortable twists behind my ribs.
He’s too calm.
Too compliant.
After what happened—after the belt, the clamps, the way his hard, juicy cock erupted so violently—is he really this settled?
Or is he playing possum, waiting for the next opening?
That’s the thing. Despite everything, the way we connected when the punishment became so sensual, he’s still a Galkin deep down. Or perhaps not even that deep down. Mikhail is a known master of deception and subterfuge. Perhaps the apple hasn’t fallen far from the tree in Landon’s case.
But anyway, I have to leave in twenty minutes.
Viktor summoned me to the usual diner. No excuses, no delays. I can’t take him with me. Can’t leave him unbound and unsupervised either. Not after last night.
I make the decision before I can talk myself out of it.
I cross the room in four strides.
Landon looks up as my shadow falls across his page. Green eyes wide, questioning.
I don’t speak. Just extend my hand.
The boy hesitates—only a heartbeat—then sets the pencil down and places his fingers in mine.
“With me,” I command and pull the boy to his feet, then lead him through the archway into the kitchen. “Move.”
The wooden bench sits against the far wall—long, sturdy, built into the island like an afterthought. Perfect height. Perfect purpose.
I stop in front of it and release his hand.
“Strip,” I say, my voice low. Calm. “To your briefs.”
“Daddy?” Landon asks, but does as I command.
Color floods his cheeks instantly. He glances toward the windows—even though the glass is tinted one-way—then back at me. Flustered. But not frightened.
His hands move to the hem of the t-shirt. He pulls it over his head in one slow motion, hair ruffling as he goes. Chest bare, his nipples already tightening in the cool air.
He’s now naked except for the thin, flimsy briefs that are cut high on his appetizing upper legs. He stands there, arms loose at his sides, chin up, waiting.
My cock stirs behind my zipper. It hardens fast.
I smile—slow, wicked.
“Good boy.”
I step closer. Close enough that he has to tilt his head back to meet my eyes.
“On your knees,” I command.
He sinks immediately. Graceful. Obedient.
I unbuckle my belt. Undo my trousers. Free myself.
My cock is thick, heavy, already leaking at the tip.
“Open,” I growl. “You’ve got a big cock, but Daddy’s is bigger.”
Without hesitation, his lips part and I guide myself into his mouth—slow at first, letting him adjust—then deeper. His tongue swirls. He hollows his cheeks. Takes me like he was made for it.
I thread fingers through his hair. Not pulling. Just holding. Guiding the rhythm.
He moans around me—soft, needy, eager to please.
Heat coils tight in my gut.
I don’t last long. Not after last night. Not with him looking up at me like that, eyes glassy, lips stretched around my cock.
I pull free just before the edge and take my cock in my hands and pump myself twice. I cum hard across his face and chest—thick ropes landing on pale skin, dripping down his chin and the space between his pecs.
He gasps but doesn’t wipe it away.
“Daddy, that was…” Landon says, his eyes wide and expectant.
I tuck myself back in. Zip up. Steady my breathing.
“Up on the bench,” I tell him. “Face down.”
He climbs without a word. Lays himself across the smooth wood—breasts pressed flat, ass presented, legs dangling off the end.
I pull more of the black cord from the drawer and bind his ankles to the legs of the bench. Then his wrists—stretched forward, secured to the far supports.
He’s spread. Helpless. His cock pressed against the smooth wood.
I lean down, place my lips against his ear.
“I’ll be gone an hour. Maybe two.”
The boy shivers in excitement. I know what I’m witnessing. He wants this. This is something that Landon has craved for a long, long time. And I’m the Daddy to give it to him.
“Under no circumstances are you allowed to make yourself climax against that wood. No grinding. No rocking. Nothing. If I come back and find you’ve disobeyed…” I let the threat hang.
He swallows, the nods.
“I’ll be good,” he whispers. “I promise, Daddy.”
I study the boy for a long moment—flushed cheeks, parted lips, the slow rise and fall of his back.
Then I turn and walk out.
The triple bolts engage behind me.
My boy is behaving better than I could ever have expected. The only question is how much detail I’ll need to give to Viktor…
The diner smells like burnt coffee, fryer grease, and a hint of alcohol. It’s far from a five star establishment, but that doesn’t worry me in the slightest. I’m comfortable here and have seen a lot worse, trust me.
And there are bigger things on my mind right now.
Way bigger things.
Viktor is already in the back booth, same as always. Two of his guys at the table behind him, pretending to read newspapers. I spot them immediately but to everyone else they’re just another pair of paying customers idling away their time.
I slide in opposite Viktor.
This time, he doesn’t waste time on pleasantries.
“Talk.”
“Everything’s fine,” I say. “He’s cooperating. No escape attempts since the first night. He’s… settled.”
Viktor lifts an eyebrow. “Settled?”
I keep my face blank. “He understands the situation. I don’t anticipate any further issues. You can count on that.”
Viktor studies me for a beat too long.
Then he leans forward, voice dropping.
“Mikhail’s not budging,” Viktor says, his voice stern. “Not an inch.”
My stomach turns over. I know what this means. But I need to listen carefully to pick up every detail and nuance of what Viktor is saying. This is serious.
“He won’t give up a single block of territory,” Viktor continues. “The motherfucker won’t pay a dime in ransom. Says if we want to play hardball, we can keep the boy. He says he’ll make more children.”
The words land like punches. I force my expression neutral though. The last thing I need is for Viktor to sense that I’m in any way personally invested in the boy.
“He’s bluffing,” I say. “It’s the obvious play. He was never going to cave right away. It’s a test.”
“Maybe.” Viktor shrugs. “Maybe not. Old bastard’s always been stubborn. But if he’s willing to let his son rot… or worse… it makes us look weak if we just hand him back with nothing to show for it.”
I swallow, compose myself, do everything I can to retain total unflappable composure despite the fact that I have a sick feeling in my stomach that is getting worse by the moment.
“So what’s the play?” I ask.
Viktor’s eyes are flat. Merciless.
“We may have to kill him,” Viktor answers, his voice low.
The room tilts.
I feel it: physical vertigo. Nausea rises sharp and hot.
I lock it down. Force air into my lungs.
“When?” I manage to say, my entire body rigid, my mind running at a million miles per hour.
“Not yet.” Viktor taps the table once. “We give him another forty-eight hours, maybe more maybe less. Let him sweat. If he still won’t bend…” He spreads his hands. “An example has to be made.”
I nod. Once. Mechanical.
Inside I’m screaming.
Viktor signals for the check and stands like it’s just another day at the office. Which, for him I suppose it is.
“Keep him breathing for now,” Viktor says. “But don’t get attached, Ivan. You know how this ends. Either way he’s out of your life, so what difference would it make?”
I nod and watch as he walks out. His men follow, and I watch the diner door slam shut. It barely raises a single look from the other patrons, but they haven’t heard what I’ve just heard. They don’t understand who was just in here and how easily he was weighing up someone’s life.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
I sit there another minute—maybe two—staring at the cracked Formica tabletop. Then I push to my feet and walk out into the gray March morning.
The weight of the world sits on my shoulders, and every step back toward the penthouse feels like walking to my own execution when in fact I’m feeling more like the executioner by the moment.
I stand on the sidewalk for a long minute, hands shoved deep in my coat pockets, Viktor’s words looping in my skull on repeat.
We may have to kill him.
Forty-eight hours.
I should go straight back to the penthouse. Check the ropes. Make sure he’s still exactly where I left him—face down on that bench, body trembling from denial. Instead my feet turn east, away from the high-rise, toward the old neighborhood.
He can’t go anywhere, I tell myself wryly. Not tied like that. Not with the building locked tighter than a vault. But the thought doesn’t comfort me. It just makes the knot in my gut pull tighter.
I need air.
Perspective.
Someone who’s seen this life chew up better men than me and spit out the bones. And I know just the man…
The dive bar is still there: same chipped red door, same neon sign that’s only half lit these days.