Chapter 16 Ivan
Ivan
I’m downstairs in the small dining room that doubles as the B&B’s breakfast nook when the realization hits me that something is wrong.
Michael and Gary—the couple who run Whispering Pines—have been fussing over the menu since I came down ten minutes ago.
Michael is tall and wiry, silver hair slicked back and sharp, while Gary is shorter, rounder, with a perpetual half-smile and flour-dusted hands from whatever he’s baking in the kitchen.
They’re both in their late sixties, retired from city life, and they treat every guest like a visiting grandchild.
Right now they’re debating whether Landon would prefer blueberry compote or fresh whipped cream with his pancakes.
“I can do both,” Gary insists, wiping his hands on the apron tied around his waist. “He looks like a boy who appreciates options.”
Mike nods sagely. “We’ll do a little sampler plate. Pancakes, scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage links, hash browns, fresh fruit, and toast with three kinds of jam. He can pick what he likes.”
I force a small smile. “He’ll love it. Thank you. He’s… not much of a morning person, so I want to make sure it’s worth getting up for.”
Gary winks. “We’ve got you covered. Go on up and wake him gently. Breakfast in twenty.”
I nod my thanks again and turn toward the staircase.
The house is quiet except for the soft clatter of pans in the kitchen and the distant tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway. Sunlight is just starting to filter through the lace curtains, turning the polished wood floors gold. Everything feels peaceful. Domestic. Safe.
I take the stairs two at a time.
When I reach the landing, I freeze.
The door to the Rose Room is open.
Not ajar. Wide open.
“Boy…” I whisper, my voice quiet with a sudden worry.
My pulse kicks hard against my ribs.
I move instantly—silent, predatory—hand already reaching for the concealed carry at the small of my back. The hallway is empty. No sounds of struggle. No broken glass. But the door shouldn’t be open. I locked it last night. Double-checked the deadbolt before I went downstairs.
I approach fast but controlled, sweeping the corners, scanning for shadows that don’t belong.
The room is empty.
No Landon.
No sound from the bathroom.
I step inside.
His backpack is gone from the chair where he left it. Claw is gone too.
The quilt is thrown back on his side of the bed, pillow dented from where his head rested only minutes ago.
My eyes land on the bedside table.
My burner phone has moved. Fuck. I was a fool to not take it with me. I pick it up.
The lock screen is off.
“Boy,” I growl, knowing full well that I’m to blame.
I open the phone and see the fresh message from Viktor. It’s been read already. This is a nightmare. I stare at the screen for one frozen heartbeat.
Then I punch the mattress—hard—once, twice. The frame creaks under the impact. Frustration boils up my throat, hot and bitter.
He saw it.
He panicked.
He ran.
Smart boy. Too smart. He saw the message, connected the dots, and decided the safest thing he could do was get as far away from me as possible.
But he has no idea what he’s running into.
He has no money, no ID, no safe contacts left.
The city is crawling with eyes right now—Volkov, Galkin, Armenians, Italians, every crew waiting for the other shoe to drop.
A lone boy with Galkin blood in his veins?
He’s a walking target. One wrong bus stop, one overheard conversation, one photograph snapped on a phone, and he’s dead.
I grab my duffel, shove the phone in my pocket, check the magazine in my pistol, and sling the bag over my shoulder.
I’m out the door in seconds—down the stairs, past the dining room where Mike is setting out silverware and Gary is flipping pancakes.
“Everything okay?” Mike calls.
“Emergency,” I say without stopping. “We’ll settle up later for the tip. I give you my word.”
I don’t wait for an answer.
Outside, the morning is brighter now—crisp, clear, the kind of light that makes everything look deceptively peaceful. I scan the street in both directions.
Left: toward the center of town—bakery, hardware store, a few shops just opening.
Right: toward the highway—the bus stop we passed on the way in last night.
My boy is smart.
He won’t go deeper into town where people might recognize him or where cameras are more likely. He’ll head for the first way out.
The bus stop.
I sprint to the Accord, yank the door open, throw the duffel onto the passenger seat, and slide behind the wheel. The engine roars to life and I peel out of the B&B’s small lot, tires chirping on gravel, and gun it toward the highway.
My mind is racing faster than the car.
He’s scared. He’s hurt. He thinks I was going to kill him. That everything—the waterpark, the bookstore, the bedtime story—was a long con to keep him docile until the order came through.
He’s wrong.
But he doesn’t know that.
And right now he’s alone, on foot or on a bus, with no money, no plan, and a target on his back the size of the city.
I have to find the boy before Viktor’s people do.
Before anyone does.
Because if they get to him first, they won’t hesitate.
They’ll make it hurt.
And I won’t be there to stop them.
I slam the accelerator harder and the speedometer climbs.
The small town shrinks in the rearview. And all I can think is one thing, over and over…
I’m coming, baby.
Hold on.
Just hold on for Daddy…
The Accord eats up the miles as I push it north toward the city, the engine whining in protest every time I demand more speed.
The highway is still half-empty at this hour—only delivery trucks, early commuters, and the occasional state trooper who doesn’t bother pulling me over when I flash past at ninety.
I keep one eye on the rearview mirror out of habit, but no one is following.
Not yet.
Viktor’s people will be moving soon, though. When they realize I haven’t checked in with a body and a photo, the hunt will begin in earnest.
My hands tighten on the wheel until the leather creaks.
Landon is out there somewhere—alone, scared, convinced I was about to put a bullet in his head the moment I got the green light. He has no money, no phone, no safe place to run.
My darling boy has got academic smarts, but street-smart is different from book-smart, and the streets right now are a war zone waiting to ignite.
Suddenly, the memory surfaces unbidden, sharp and clear, the way old wounds sometimes do when the pressure builds…
It was sixteen years ago—late summer, the kind of heat that makes the air shimmer above the asphalt.
Kasper and I had been sent cross-country to handle a problem in Reno: a mid-level bookie who’d been skimming from our old pakhan’s sports operation.
Nothing flashy, just a quiet disappearance so the message would spread without headlines.
Kasper was the senior man.
Always had been.
He’d run dozens of these jobs before I was even shaving. Normally he called the shots: entry points, timing, exit routes, cleanup. I followed. Learned. Kept my mouth shut unless asked.
But that trip was different. I could sense it from the drive there.
We were two days out from the target when Kasper pulled the truck over at a rest stop somewhere in Nebraska. Dust swirled around the tires. My mentor lit a cigarette, took one long drag, then handed me the keys.
“This one’s yours,” he said.
I stared at him.
“Whole thing,” Kasper said. “Recon, approach, shot, exit. You run it. I’ll watch. I’ll only speak if you ask. But here’s the thing… don’t ask. Do what you need to do. Make the plays. Trust me, you can do it.”
I felt the weight of the keys in my palm like they were made of lead.
“Why?” I asked.
He exhaled smoke through his nose. “Because the pakhan wants to know if you’re ready to lead. And because I told him you were. Now prove me right.”
I didn’t sleep much that night.
We spent the next forty-eight hours moving like ghosts through Reno.
I chose the motel—cheap, no cameras, back exit onto an alley.
I scouted the bookie’s routine myself: same diner every morning at seven, same booth by the window, always ordered the same thing—two eggs over easy, rye toast, black coffee.
I mapped the route he walked home, found the blind spot behind the dry cleaner where the alley narrowed and the streetlights didn’t reach.
I timed the patrol cars. I bought the burner phone we’d use for the final call.
I even picked the weapon—a suppressed .22, small, quiet, easy to ditch.
Kasper never once offered an opinion.
He just watched. Nodded when I explained the plan. Smoked. Waited.
The hit went clean.
Bookie stepped into the alley at 8:14 a.m. I was already there—hood up, back to the wall, weapon low.
One shot to the base of the skull. He dropped without a sound.
I dragged him behind the dumpster, wiped the gun, dropped it into a storm drain three blocks away, and walked out like any other tourist heading to breakfast.
Kasper met me at the diner. Ordered coffee. Lit another cigarette.
“Good work,” he said. That was all.
Later—weeks later, back home—he told me the rest.
“The pakhan gave the order,” Kasper said one night over vodka in his kitchen. “Said if you weren’t up to it, I should handle you myself. Clean. No loose ends.”
I stared at him.
He shrugged. “Don’t worry, you passed.”
I allowed myself a wry smile at the memory now, the Accord humming under me as the city skyline began to rise on the horizon.
The life of a mobster moves in mysterious ways.
Kasper could have killed me that day in Reno. One mistake and I was gone. And Kasper would have done it too. But in his own way he warned me that I needed to make a success of my first lead hit. I listened, I acted, and it all came right.
And now here I am, years later. I’m the lead assassin in every job. I’m trusted, feared, and respected for my ruthlessness. And yet… I’m breaking every rule I’ve ever lived by to keep Landon breathing.
And he’s running from me—thinking I’m the monster.
The irony is almost poetic.
Almost funny.
The highway opens up ahead—wider lanes, heavier traffic, the first signs for downtown exits. I press the accelerator harder. The engine protests, then settles into a steady roar.
If I know Landon, he’ll head for the city that for sure—more people, more places to hide, more ways to disappear. He knows it well, has friends there.
I’ll start at the main bus terminal. Work outward. Check cameras if I have to. Call in favors from people who still owe me. Whatever it takes.
Because if Viktor’s people find him first, they won’t hesitate.
They’ll make it hurt.
And I won’t be there to stop them.
I weave through traffic, eyes scanning every bus shelter, every hitchhiker on the shoulder, every pedestrian crossing.
The city grows larger.
Closer.
I have a date with destiny.
So does Landon.
And I’m not letting him face it alone.
Landon’s time running away is over—from here on out, I’m fighting for him and only him. No matter what the cost for me…