Chapter 18 Ivan
Ivan
My life…
This could be the final chapter.
And if it is… I need to protect my boy.
I pull the Accord into a narrow side street two blocks from the main depot and kill the engine. The city presses in around me—horns, sirens, the low rumble of delivery trucks, the constant chatter of people who have no idea who I am or what I’m capable of.
I sit there for a long minute with both hands still wrapped around the wheel, knuckles white, staring at the dashboard like it owes me answers.
Landon is somewhere in this concrete maze.
He’s scared.
Angry.
Probably convinced I was going to put a bullet in his skull.
Landon has no money, no phone, no safe place to run. Every instinct I have is screaming to tear the city apart looking for him—check the bus terminal first, then the subway lines, then the shelters, then every cheap motel within walking distance of the depot.
He’s smart, but he’s not invisible.
Someone will have seen him. Someone will remember the boy with the backpack and the teddy bear peeking out the top.
Fuck. Who am I kidding? This place is a metropolis where people keep their heads down and try not to draw attention.
But I have to believe it’s possible, I have to believe there’s a chance I can find him sooner rather than later.
But another part of me—the colder, more calculating part that Kasper spent years training—is running a different calculation. And I hate myself for it.
If I go after him now, I’m burning every bridge I have left.
Viktor will know I’ve gone rogue the second I miss the next check-in.
He’ll put out a hit on me, and he won’t stop at me—he’ll widen the net to include him.
But if I walk into his office and tell him the truth—that I couldn’t pull the trigger, that I let the boy run—he’ll see betrayal.
He’ll see weakness. And Viktor has never tolerated either.
I lean my head back against the seat and close my eyes.
The memory comes sharp and uninvited, the way it always does when the stakes are high…
I was young. Kasper was forty-nine and already looked like he’d lived three lifetimes.
We were in a condemned warehouse on the edge of the docks, waiting for a shipment that never showed.
The supplier had flipped. Kasper knew it before I did.
He didn’t panic. He just sat on a crate, lit a cigarette, and started talking.
“You ever wonder why some men make it and some don’t?” Kasper asked, exhaling smoke that curled toward the rusted rafters.
I shrugged. I was still young enough to think I already knew the answer.
“Conviction,” he said. “You can be smart. You can be fast. You can be strong. But if you don’t have conviction behind what you do… if you’re just following orders because they’re orders, you’ll hesitate at the wrong moment. And hesitation kills.”
He took another drag.
“I’ve killed men I liked,” Kasper continued. “I’ve killed men I respected. I’ve killed men who begged. Never once did I hesitate. Because I believed every single time that what I was doing was necessary. That’s the difference between surviving and becoming a ghost.”
I didn’t speak. I just listened.
He flicked ash onto the concrete floor.
“When the time comes… and it always comes… you’ll have to decide what you believe in. Not what the pakhan believes. Not what the family believes. What you believe. Because once you make that choice, there’s no going back.”
I open my eyes.
The city noise presses against the windows once more.
I know what I believe.
I believe Landon deserves to live.
I believe I would never forgive myself if I abandoned my boy now.
I believe that whatever comes after—Viktor’s wrath, Mikhail’s revenge, the full weight of two families hunting me—I will face it.
But I have to find him first.
I reach for the ignition.
Before my fingers touch the key, two black SUVs slide into the street—one blocking the front, one the rear. Doors open in unison. Four men step out. I recognize them instantly: Viktor’s personal crew. No attempt at subtlety. No need for it. They run these streets and act like it too.
The passenger door of the lead SUV opens.
Viktor steps out.
He’s wearing a dark overcoat, collar turned up against the wind. His face is calm, almost bored. But his eyes are locked on me through the windshield.
He raises a hand—two fingers, casual—and beckons.
I exhale slowly.
No choice.
I kill the engine, step out, and lock the car behind me. The crew closes in, flanking me without touching. Viktor waits until I’m standing directly in front of him.
“Get in,” Viktor says.
I walk to the open rear door of his SUV and slide inside. The leather is cold. Viktor climbs in beside me. The door closes with a soft, expensive thud.
Before I can comprehend or try to game out what’s happening, the convoy moves out—smooth, coordinated, on the surface as calm as daybreak.
Viktor doesn’t look at me right away. Instead, he stares out the tinted window as the city rolls past.
“We’re hitting Mikhail,” Viktor says finally. “Right now. His restaurant. Full crew inside. We go in hard, fast, bloody. No survivors. No witnesses. When the smoke clears, the Galkin name dies with him. And the city understands who’s in charge.”
I keep my face blank.
Inside, my stomach twists.
If Mikhail dies today, the leverage against Landon disappears. No more reason to kill him to send a message. The boy becomes… irrelevant. Safe, maybe.
But Viktor’s next words kill that flicker of hope.
“You’ve been quiet,” Viktor says, still not looking at me. “Too quiet. I don’t like quiet men, Ivan. They tend to have thoughts. And thoughts can be mapped out, pieced together. I guess you forgot that even our burners come with trackers in built.”
Viktor knows I’ve had my doubts over the boy. He must do. Viktor might be a master of the poker face, but right now every instinct I have tells me that he knows I love Landon.
He turns his head slowly.
“I’m going to need you on point for this one,” Viktor growls. “Front door. You lead the entry team. You make sure Mikhail sees your face before he dies. I want him to know exactly who ended him.”
I nod once. “Understood.”
He studies me for a long beat.
“Good.”
The convoy turns onto a side street near Mikhail’s restaurant.
I stare straight ahead.
Viktor is suspicious. I can feel it in the air between us—thick, electric, dangerous. He hasn’t said the words yet, but they’re coming. Once Mikhail is dead, once the message is sent, Viktor will clean house. He’ll tie off every loose end.
Starting with me.
Because he knows.
He always knows.
And when he decides I’m a liability, he won’t hesitate.
The restaurant comes into view.
The SUVs slow and then stop.
Viktor turns to me one last time.
“Show me you’re still my man, Ivan,” Viktor says. “Show me that you are the man of honor I always believed you to be.”
I meet his eyes.
And I nod.
Because right now, there is no other answer.
But inside, I’m already calculating.
Mikhail has to die today.
Landon has to live.
And somehow—somehow—I have to make sure that when the dust settles, I’m still breathing beside him.
It’s time.
No fuss, just the soft metallic clicks of magazines being checked and safeties flicked off. Viktor sits beside me, coat open, the butt of his custom Glock visible against the black wool.
The plan is simple, brutal, and final: go in hard through the front, overwhelm the security detail, push to the second floor rear private dining room where Mikhail always retreats when trouble comes knocking, and end it.
I stare through the tinted windshield at the darkened facade of the restaurant. Windows blacked out. No movement visible from the street. But I know better. Mikhail never leaves himself completely exposed. There will be men inside—loyal ones, armed ones, ready ones.
Viktor finally breaks the silence.
“Front door,” he says. “No subtlety. We want them shocked. We want them running. And when we reach Mikhail, I want him looking into your eyes when you pull the trigger.”
I nod once. My mouth is dry.
The driver cuts the engine. Doors open in near-perfect sync. Eight of us spill out—black leather, black gloves, suppressed weapons already low but ready. I lead. Viktor is close. The rest fan out, three covering the alley on the left, three moving to flank the rear service entrance.
We cross the street fast, boots quiet on asphalt. I raise a gloved hand. Hold it. Then look to Viktor.
“Go!” Viktor barks, his eyes aflame with controlled fury.
We move.
The front door is unlocked—arrogant, or bait. Viktor steps ahead and kicks it wide. The bell jangles once, absurdly cheerful.
Gunfire erupts instantly.
Muzzle flashes light the interior like strobe lights.
Glass shatters. Terrified screams cut through the noise—waitstaff, a hostess, a couple of kitchen porters who must have been finishing cleanup.
They bolt for the exits, hands up, aprons still tied.
We let them pass. No point wasting rounds on civilians. That’s not how we move.
Volkov men pour inside, weapons up.
I follow Viktor through the main dining room—tables overturned, chairs skittering across the floor as bullets punch through wood and upholstery.
Return fire comes from the back hallway—sharp, disciplined bursts.
Mikhail’s people are dug in, they might have been caught by surprise but they’re not going to fold easily.
A Volkov soldier drops beside me, chest blooming red.
Another takes his place without hesitation.
We push forward.
Viktor is relentless—cool, precise, putting rounds exactly where they need to go. A Galkin man appears in the doorway to the kitchen and Viktor shoots him through the throat before he can raise his weapon. Blood sprays across the stainless-steel pass.
We reach the rear corridor.
More gunfire—automatic now, sustained. Bullets chew the drywall, ricochet off metal shelves. One of our men grunts and falls. I drop to a knee, return fire, see a shadow jerk and collapse behind an overturned prep table.
Then I see him.
Just a glimpse—dark hair, his face pale and terrified—darting behind a doorway at the end of the hall.
Landon.
My darling boy.
My heart slams into my ribs so hard I almost lose my breath.
He’s here.
He’s fucking here, in the heart of the action.
Viktor’s hand clamps onto my shoulder, hard enough to bruise.
“He’s in there,” Viktor says, voice flat. “With him.”
I don’t answer.
He leans closer, breath hot against my ear over the gunfire.
“You do the job, Ivan. No matter what you feel for the boy. You kill Mikhail. You kill anyone who stands in the way. Or I kill you myself—right here, right now. Your choice.”
I force my eyes away from the doorway where he disappeared.
“I’ll take Mikhail out myself,” I say. Voice steady. “But I won’t harm the boy.”
Viktor studies me for a long, dangerous second.
Then he nods—once, curt.
“Fine,” Viktor says. “But if he gets in the way, you put him down. Or if you don’t, I do. No hesitation.”
I don’t reply.
We press forward.
The room—Mikhail’s private dining space—is barricaded from the outside as two of his loyal soldiers do their best to protect their king.
Heavy oak table overturned against the door.
File cabinets dragged in front. Gunfire pours from the gaps.
Bullets punch through the wood, splintering, whining past our heads.
Viktor signals. Two men lob flash-bangs over the barricade. Twin detonations—blinding white light, deafening cracks. Shouts from inside.
It’s deadly chaos.
We rush the door.
It’s time to end this once and for all…