Chapter 14 Ivan
Ivan
After our early morning breakfast refuel, we walk back to the motel in near silence, our footsteps the only real sound against the empty pre-dawn road.
Landon keeps his hand in mine, fingers loosely threaded, and every few paces he gives a small squeeze—like he’s checking I’m still there. I squeeze back. The air is cold enough that our breath clouds in front of us, but neither of us hurries.
There is something almost ceremonial about the walk: two people who should be running, choosing instead to move slowly, deliberately, as though they can stretch these last quiet minutes before the world catches up.
Savor this.
Feel every moment.
You’re his Daddy now, you need to accept that…
When we reach the Accord, I open the passenger door for him.
He slides in without comment, backpack settling between his feet, Claw safely tucked inside.
I circle to the driver’s side, start the engine, and let the heater cough to life.
The radio comes on automatically—some soft pop station.
Landon reaches over and turns the volume up a notch.
A familiar chart song from a few years back starts playing.
He hums the intro, then begins to sing—quietly at first, then with growing confidence.
Landon’s voice is clear, a little rough from sleep, but sweet.
He knows every word. When the chorus hits he closes his eyes and sings louder, one hand tapping the rhythm against his thigh, the other still resting on my forearm.
I keep my eyes on the road.
The highway is nearly empty this early. Streetlights slide past in steady golden pulses. I drive with both hands on the wheel, ten and two, the way I was taught when I first learned to handle a car under pressure. My mind, though, is racing far ahead of the speedometer.
Viktor’s voice keeps replaying in my head—low, matter of fact, final.
The order to kill Landon hasn’t come yet. But it will. Sooner than forty-eight hours, probably. When it does, protocol is clear: execute immediately, no hesitation, no witnesses, proof sent within the hour.
I’ve done it before.
More times than I care to count.
I know the drill like the back of my hand.
Except this time the target is the boy currently singing off-key to a Olivia Rodrigo song in the passenger seat. And I just so happen to have some very real feelings for him.
For the first time in my life, I’m seeing what life could be like outside of the business. And it’s causing some major doubts to run wild in my mind.
I run the possibilities again, same as I did all night while he slept against my chest…
Option one: obey the order. Kill him. Send the proof. Return to Viktor with blood on my hands and a clear conscience in the eyes of the organization. Live the rest of my life knowing exactly what I destroyed.
I discard that one before the thought even finishes forming.
Option two: fake the kill. Stage a body—some Jane Doe from a morgue, right height, right hair color, right dental records if I can pull strings fast enough.
Tell Viktor the job is done. Put Landon on a plane with new papers, a bag of cash, and instructions never to come back.
He disappears. I stay behind, play the loyal soldier, wait for suspicion to fade.
Problems: Viktor isn’t stupid. He’ll want visual confirmation—DNA if he’s paranoid, which he often is. And even if I manage the fake-out, Landon will spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder. Alone. And I’ll never get to hold him again.
Option three: run with him. Disappear together. New names, new country, cash stashed in safe deposit boxes across three continents. Start over. Small town somewhere quiet—maybe Canada, maybe New Zealand. No more Volkov. No more Galkin. Just us.
Problems: Viktor will hunt. Not out of sentiment—out of principle. A defector is a loose end. Loose ends get tied off. And Mikhail… if he ever learns I took his son, he’ll want me dead too. Two organizations looking for the same two people. Long odds.
Option four keeps circling back, dark and seductive: find Mikhail first. End him. Quietly. Decisively. Remove the leverage point entirely. If the pakhan is gone, the ransom demand dies with him. Viktor loses his reason to kill Landon. The Volkov machine grinds on without this particular vendetta.
I could do it.
I know the Galkin protocols, the safe houses, the security gaps. One clean shot from distance. Or closer—knife, garrote, something personal. I’ve done it before.
But then I’d have to keep it from Landon.
Forever.
He’d never forgive me if he found out. And he’s smart too, so a single slip or misstep and he’d figure it out.
Even if he understood the logic, even if he knew it was the only way to keep him breathing, he’d look at me and see the man who murdered his father. The man who took the last piece of family he had left.
I can’t live with that look in his eyes.
Not now, not ever.
The song ends. Another begins—something upbeat, synth-heavy. Landon sings along again, softer this time, like he senses the shift in my mood.
I reach over and turn the radio off.
He stops mid-note.
“I need quiet,” I say, rougher than I mean to. “Just for a bit.”
My darling boy pouts—small, playful, but there’s a flicker of worry in his eyes.
“Okay, Daddy,” Landon says. “I get it.”
He doesn’t push. Instead he pulls Claw fully out of the backpack, settles him in his lap, and begins smoothing his fur with gentle fingers. Every few seconds he glances at me, like he’s waiting for permission to speak again.
I keep my eyes on the road.
We drive in silence for nearly twenty minutes.
Eventually the first big sign appears: MALL & MULTIPLEX – NEXT EXIT.
I take it.
Landon sits up straighter. “We’re going to the mall?”
“Multiplex,” I tell him. “Dark theater. Lots of people. Good place to disappear for a couple of hours. You know how this works.”
His face lights up—genuine, unguarded joy. “A movie?”
“Yeah, that’s kind of the only option at the theater!” I chuckle. “Pick whatever you want.”
He bounces a little in the seat. “Really?”
“Really.”
I find parking in the underground garage—level B2, far corner, away from the main entrances. The Accord blends perfectly with the rows of commuter sedans. I kill the engine. Check the mirrors. No tails. No loiterers.
Landon is already unbuckling.
I reach over, catch his chin gently between thumb and forefinger, turn his face to mine.
“Hey,” I say softly. “Whatever happens today—whatever you see, whatever you hear… you stay close. You do exactly what I say. No questions. No hesitation. Understand?”
His smile fades a little, but he nods.
“I understand.”
I lean in and kiss the boy—slow, deliberate, tasting coffee and marmalade and the faint sweetness that is simply him.
When I pull back his pupils are dilated and his smile is wide.
“Let’s go watch something loud and stupid,” I mutter. “Nothing gangster. No guns. No pain. No drama.”
Landon laughs—bright, relieved—and grabs his backpack.
We walk toward the escalators together, hand in hand. We must look like any other couple on a weekday morning.
And for the next two hours, at least, that’s exactly what we’ll pretend to be…
The movie lets out just after noon. The multiplex is still quiet—midweek, early showings don’t draw crowds—and most of the people who were inside have already scattered to the food court or decided to do some shopping.
Landon walks beside me with his arms folded tight across his chest and his lower lip pushed out in the most exaggerated pout I’ve seen since we left the penthouse.
He’s been sulking since the credits rolled.
It looks like the bratty side of his Little-self has come out to play…
“I still think we should have stayed for the double feature,” Landon mutters for the fourth time as we step through the glass doors into the underground garage. “That second movie looked reeeeeally good. And we don’t have anywhere else to be right now.”
I keep my tone even. “We’re not staying. We don’t stay in one spot for too long. It’s not how this works.”
He huffs and kicks a stray pebble across the concrete. It skitters away and disappears under a sedan. “You’re no fun.”
We walk deeper into the garage. My Accord is parked in the far corner—darkest spot, no cameras overhead, flanked by two concrete pillars. The perfect place to disappear for a couple of hours without drawing attention.
Our footsteps echo louder than they should as we walk and there’s a tension building between us.
Landon keeps up the commentary the whole way too…
“You could have said yes just once. One more movie. It’s not like Viktor is going to burst through the screen with a gun. We’re in a mall, Ivan. Malls are safe, dumb ass!”
I don’t answer.
He stomps his foot—actually stomps it as hard as he can, not just for show—when we reach the car. The sound bounces off the walls.
“Unless you take me back inside right now,” Landon declares, planting both hands on his hips, “I’m going to scream. Loud. And I’ll keep screaming until security comes.”
I stop and turn slowly to face him.
He lifts his chin, defiant, eyes sparkling with that bratty challenge I’ve come to recognize.
I step closer. Close enough that he has to tilt his head back to hold my gaze.
“You keep sassing me like that, see what happens,” I say quietly. “I will spank you right here. Right now. In this parking lot. Don’t think I won’t, boy.”
His pout wavers for half a second—then hardens.
“Try it,” he snaps.
I don’t hesitate.
I catch his wrist, spin him firmly so his front faces the car, and press his palms flat against the driver’s-side window. The glass is cool and he gasps at the contact.
“Daddy!”
“Hands stay there,” I order. “Stick that butt out.”
He freezes.
I hook my fingers into the waistband of his jeans and tug them down in one smooth motion—jeans and briefs together, past his hips, past his thighs, pooling at his knees. Cool air hits his bare skin. He squeaks as his cheeks wobble.
Before he can protest further I bring my hand down.
“Stay still!” I growl. “These white cheeks are turning red. That’s all there is to it.”
The first swat lands sharp and loud, echoing off the concrete pillars and parked cars like a gunshot. Landon yelps and stomps his foot.
Second swat. Third. Fourth.
Each one rings out, crisp and unmistakable in the near-empty garage.
Landon struggles to keep his cries contained—small, bitten-off whimpers that turn into grunts and moans. His hips jerk with every impact, but he doesn’t try to twist away.
I pause after the sixth.
He’s breathing hard, forehead pressed to the glass, cheeks flushed.
I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out the small, brightly wrapped candy I’d grabbed from the concession stand earlier—a novelty cock-shaped lollipop on a stick, bright pink and frankly ridiculous. I unwrap it quickly.
“Open,” I command.
Landon turns his head just enough to see what I’m holding. His eyes widen.
“Daddy!” Landon protests.
“Open,” I repeat. “Now.”
He parts his lips and I slide the candy between them. He closes around it automatically, cheeks hollowing as he sucks.
“Good boy.”
I resume the spanking.
Ten more measured swats—hard enough to sting, not hard enough to bruise. The sound bounces around us again and again. Landon’s muffled cries vibrate around the candy. Tears gather at the corners of his eyes, but he doesn’t spit the lollipop out.
When I finally stop his bottom is glowing pink, hot to the touch. He’s trembling, breathing in short, shaky bursts.
He looks up at me with wet lashes and flushed cheeks, the ridiculous pink cock-pop still between his lips.
I take it from his mouth, wrap it in the discarded cellophane, and slip it back into my pocket.
“Better?” I ask quietly.
He nods. Sniffles once.
“I’m sorry,” Landon whispers. “I just… I didn’t want the fun to end. I didn’t want today to be over.”
I cup his face with both hands, thumbs brushing the tear tracks on his cheeks.
“I know,” I say. “I know, baby boy.”
He leans into my touch.
I kiss his forehead. Then his nose. Then his mouth—soft, slow, tasting sugar and salt.
“Come on,” I murmur against his lips. “Let’s get in the car.”
He nods again.
I open the passenger door for my boy. He slides in gingerly, wincing as his tender bottom meets the seat. I circle to the driver’s side, start the engine, and crank the heat.
Before I put the car in gear I reach into the center console and pull out a small tube of cooling gel—the kind athletes use, mentholated, instant relief. I hold it up.
“Bend over the seat,” I tell him. “We’ll get this butt cooled off just a little and then you can pull your briefs and jeans back up like a big boy.”
My disciplined Little doesn’t argue.
He twists, braces his hands on the rear seatback, and arches his back so his bottom lifts toward me.
I squeeze a generous dollop of gel onto my fingers and smooth it over his cheeks—gentle circles, careful pressure. He sighs as the cold sinks in, tension melting from his spine.
“Better?” I ask again.
“So much better,” Landon breathes.
I pull his clothes back into place, help him settle properly in the seat, and fasten his belt.
He looks at me with soft, grateful eyes.
“Thank you, Daddy.”
I lean over the console and kiss him once more, lingering this time.
“You’re welcome, little one.”
I put the car in reverse, back out of the spot, and head for the exit ramp.
The day isn’t over yet, but at least now I know I have a boy who has a fresh reminder to do as his Daddy tells him—and the deeper we get into this situation, the more important that could become…