Chapter 17 Landon
Landon
The bus lurches to a halt with a hiss of air brakes and the low groan of hydraulics. I jolt awake, my cheek stuck to the cool window where I must have dozed off sometime after the suburbs gave way to denser streets.
My neck aches from the awkward angle, and my mouth tastes like stale bus air and an old chewing gum the kid opposite me offered me a while back.
Outside, the city depot is already alive with mid-morning chaos: diesel fumes, shouted announcements, travelers dragging suitcases, a street musician strumming a guitar case open for tips.
I’m back in the city, and don’t I know it.
But this isn’t the time to be getting bogged down in a country life vs city hustle debate. Far from it. I need to get moving, and fast.
I blink hard, trying to shake off the fog. My backpack is still wedged between my feet, and Claw’s fuzzy head peeks out the top zipper like he’s keeping watch. I pick the bag up and hug it tight to my chest.
The kindly old man who paid my fare is already standing in the aisle, adjusting the brim of his flat cap. He turns and offers me a small, steady smile.
“You take care of yourself now, dear,” he says quietly. “Whatever’s chasing you… you’re stronger than it is.”
I manage a nod, throat too tight to speak properly.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “For everything.”
The old man tips his cap once, then disappears down the steps.
I wait until most of the passengers have filed out before I stand. My legs feel unsteady, like they’ve forgotten how to move after so many hours of sitting. I sling the backpack over both shoulders and follow the last stragglers off the bus.
People surge around me—commuters in business casual, students with earbuds in, a family arguing over a lost ticket. I keep my head down, hood up, moving fast but not running.
Running draws eyes.
And that’s the last thing I need.
I’m still afraid. The fear sits under my ribs like a second heartbeat, all sharp, insistent. But I refuse to let it swallow me whole.
I am a Galkin.
My father may have written me off as expendable, but that doesn’t erase the blood in my veins. It doesn’t erase the lessons he drilled into me when I was small: never show weakness, never beg, never break.
If my father won’t save me, I’ll save myself.
It’s time to end this… for good.
I head toward campus on foot. It’s a long walk—almost forty minutes—but I don’t trust buses or rideshares right now.
Too many cameras. Too many chances for someone to spot me.
The city feels different today—sharper, louder, every face a potential threat.
I keep my pace steady, shoulders back, eyes forward.
Hey, I’m just another college boy walking to class.
Yeah, right.
Todd’s lecture ends soon. I reach the building with ten minutes to spare and find a bench half-hidden by a row of overgrown bushes. I sit, hood still up, pretending to scroll on a phone I don’t have. My heart hammers every time someone walks past, but no one looks twice.
Right on cue, Todd comes through the double doors—backpack slung over one shoulder, phone in hand, laughing at something one of his classmates just said. His hair is that perfect Todd bed-head messy, and he’s wearing the same denim jacket he’s had since sophomore year.
But when he sees me he stops dead.
His mouth drops open.
“Landon?”
I stand. “Shh,” I warn. “Keep walking. Act normal.”
Todd blinks once, twice—then nods sharply. He falls into step beside me without another word, though I can feel his eyes burning holes into the side of my face.
We don’t speak until we’re two blocks away, cutting through a side street lined with food trucks.
“What the hell happened?” Todd whispers fiercely. “I’ve been texting you for days. You just disappeared. I thought… I thought something awful—”
“I’m okay,” I say. “But we need to move. Quickly. Your apartment. Now.”
My old friend doesn’t argue. We speed-walk the rest of the way, sticking to side streets, avoiding main intersections. Todd keeps glancing at me, worry etched into every line of his face, but he doesn’t push. Not yet.
His apartment building looks exactly the way it always does—kinda cool, hip, but a little on the messy side. Hey, I’m in no place to judge. There’s way more important things afoot right now.
I drop my backpack and sink onto the sofa. Todd locks the door behind us, then crosses to the kitchenette and opens the fridge. He pulls out two bottles of orange juice, twists off the caps, and hands me one.
“Drink,” he says. “You look like you haven’t eaten in days either. Shall I order in?”
I take a long swallow. The cold sweetness helps ground me.
“No time,” I say, in between gulps.
Todd sits beside me, knees drawn up, studying my face.
“Talk,” he says. “Now.”
I take a deep breath.
“I’m in real danger,” I tell him. “I can’t explain everything. Not yet. But I need cash. Only cash. As much as you can get quickly. I can’t use cards, can’t go to an ATM myself. They’ll be watching.”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t ask who they are. Part of me suspects that Todd knows, but is wise enough to not push things and retain a degree of plausible deniability that might come in useful later down the line.
“How much?” Todd asks.
“As much as you can pull without triggering any flags. A few thousand if possible.”
He nods once. “We’ll go to my bank. You stay out of sight in case of cameras. I’ve got a high-limit ATM card. We can take out the daily max, then hit another branch later if we need more.”
Relief floods me so fast my eyes sting.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “You’re a real friend.”
He reaches over and squeezes my hand. “You’re my best friend. Of course I’m helping. Durrr.”
We both laugh for a moment and then I look down at our joined fingers.
“There’s… someone,” I say. “A man. I thought he could be… I don’t know. My Daddy. The real kind. I trusted him. I let him in. And then I found out he was supposed to…” My voice breaks. “He was supposed to kill me. For his boss. I ran before he could.”
Todd’s grip tightens.
“Oh, what the actual hell,” Todd says, unable to keep his composure momentarily. “A killer Daddy. Great. That’s just what we need in our lives.”
Another moment of much needed levity passes between us before I let it all flow out of me. It’s a relief to talk, that much is true.
“I don’t know what was real,” I admit. “The way he looked at me. The way he held me. The way he called me his good boy. I thought maybe… maybe he felt it too. But then I saw the message. And I ran.”
Todd doesn’t speak for a long moment.
When he does, his voice is steady.
“We’ll talk about all of it,” he says. “Every detail. Once this is over. Once you’re safe. But right now we focus on getting you money, getting you somewhere they can’t find you, and getting you breathing room. Okay?”
I nod. Tears slip down my cheeks anyway.
“Okay.”
He pulls me into a hug—tight, fierce, the way only Todd hugs.
“We’re going to fix this,” Todd murmurs into my hair. “I promise.”
I cling to him. Deep down, I’m not sure I believe him though.
The truth is that I’m terrified I won’t come out of this alive.
But for the first time since I ran from the B&B, I don’t feel completely alone.
And right now, that’s just about enough.
Todd stands beside me while the ATM machine hums and counts out crisp twenties—five hundred dollars in total, the daily maximum on his card without triggering a fraud alert.
He insisted on coming inside with me even though I told him it wasn’t necessary. When the cash spits into my hand I fold it carefully, tuck it into the inner pocket of my hoodie, and zip the pocket shut. My backpack feels heavier now, not from weight but from possibility.
Todd watches me with worried eyes.
“That’s all I can get today without questions,” he says. “I’ll pull more tomorrow if you need it. Just… text me. Or call. Or show up again. Anything.”
I nod. My throat is tight.
Todd steps forward and pulls me into a fierce hug. I hug him back just as hard, breathing in the familiar scent of his coconut shampoo and the faint vanilla of his lip balm. For a second I let myself pretend this is normal—just two best friends saying goodbye after a quick coffee run.
“Be careful,” Todd whispers against my hair. “Promise me.”
I pull back just enough to look Todd in the eye.
“I can only promise to do what I need to do,” I say quietly. “That’s the best I’ve got right now.”
I watch as Todd’s mouth trembles, but he holds it together and nods. He knows me well enough not to argue when I’m in this kind of mood. And I know him well enough to know that he’s good on his promises too.
We embrace one more time—longer this time, tighter—then I step away.
“I love you,” Todd says.
“I love you too,” I answer, steeling myself.
I turn and walk out of the vestibule without looking back. If I look back I might not leave.
The city swallows me again—noise, movement, the press of bodies on the sidewalk. I keep my hood up, my pace steady but not panicked.
I head east toward the old neighborhood, the one my father’s people still treat as their unofficial territory. The diner is there, barely lit but unmistakable. It’s been a front for decades: good coffee, better privacy, and a back booth that’s always reserved.
I push through the glass door.
The bell jingles.
Heads turn—some out of habit, some out of recognition. Conversations stutter and then resume in lower tones.
I spot him immediately: Sergei, one of my father’s oldest soldiers.
Mid-fifties, salt-and-pepper hair, scarred knuckles, the same leather jacket he’s worn since I was in high school.
He’s sitting at the counter with a cup of black coffee and a half-eaten slice of cherry pie.
When he sees me his fork freezes halfway to his mouth.
Shock flickers across his face—raw, unguarded—before he schools it into something closer to his usual stoic mask.
“Artyom,” he says quietly, using my real name the way only the old guard still do. “You’re supposed to be. I thought you were. Fuck. You’re here and that’s what counts.”
“You thought I was dead?” I finish for him. My voice is steady. “Yeah. I heard. But I’m a Galkin. I’m a lot tougher than people might think.”
He sets the fork down. Looks around once—quick, professional—then stands.
“What are you doing here?”
“I want to see my father,” I say. “Right now. And I want you to take me to him.”
Sergei studies me for a long moment. I can see him weighing the risks, the orders, the blood ties. Finally he nods once.
“The car is out back,” Sergei says, evidently not comfortable with this, but going along with it anyway.
I follow him through the kitchen—past the sizzling grill, the clatter of dishes, the curious stares of the cook and two waitresses—out the rear door into a narrow alley.
A black SUV waits there, engine already running from the remote start.
Sergei opens the rear passenger door for me without a word.
I slide inside. He gets behind the wheel. The doors lock with a soft click and we drive in silence across the city.
I stare out the tinted window as familiar streets slide past—neighborhoods I grew up in, storefronts I used to walk past holding my father’s hand, corners where deals were made and lives ended. Everything looks the same and completely different at once.
I know this could end terribly.
My father might still see me as a liability.
He might decide the cleanest solution is to finish what Viktor started.
Or he might listen. He might realize I’m not the little boy he tried to keep safe and separate anymore.
I’m the one who survived a kidnapping, outran a hit order, and walked back into the lion’s den of my own free will.
Either way, I’m done being a pawn.
When we pull up outside the restaurant, the one that’s been my father’s unofficial headquarters since I was in diapers, the front windows are dark, the CLOSED sign still hanging even though it’s barely past lunchtime. Sergei parks in the alley behind the building. He kills the engine.
“Stay here,” Sergei says.
He gets out, disappears through the service door.
Five minutes later he returns.
“He’ll see you.”
I step out of the car.
My heart is hammering so hard I can feel it in my fingertips.
Sergei leads me through the back kitchen—empty except for one dishwasher who doesn’t look up—past the walk-in cooler, up a narrow staircase, through a heavy door that opens into the private dining room on the second floor.
My father sits at the far end of the long table.
He looks older than I remember. The lines around his eyes are deeper, the silver in his hair more pronounced. He’s wearing a charcoal suit, no tie, top button undone. A glass of vodka sits untouched in front of him.
My father doesn’t stand when I enter.
He just watches me.
I stop three feet from the table.
“Papa,” I say.
His eyes flick over me—head to toe—searching for wounds, for weakness, for proof I’m real.
“Artyom.”
I lift my chin.
“Well... I’m alive. But I’m done hiding,” I tell him. “I’m done being your secret weapon you’re too afraid to use. You wouldn’t pay the ransom. Wouldn’t negotiate. Wouldn’t save me. Fine. I get it. You can’t show weakness. But I’m not weak.”
He doesn’t speak.
I take one step closer.
“I want in,” I say. “The family business. The real one. Not the clean shell company you tried to groom me for. I want a seat at the table. I want to learn. I want to fight. And I want you to forgive yourself for being willing to let me die… because I’m going to make sure no one ever thinks the Galkin line can be cut again. ”
Silence stretches.
Then my father stands—slowly, deliberately.
He walks around the table and stops in front of me. For a long moment we just look at each other—father and son, pakhan and heir.
Then he reaches out.
Places one hand on my shoulder.
And nods.
“Welcome home, Artyom.”
I don’t cry.
I don’t flinch.
I simply meet his eyes.
And for the first time in my life, I feel the weight of the Galkin name settle on my shoulders—not as a burden, but as armor.
I’m not going legit.
I’m going to become a mobster as notorious as any who ever carried the name.
And no one—not Viktor, not Ivan, not even my father—will ever see me as expendable again.