Chapter 19 Landon
Landon
“Destiny,” my father roars. “Galkin blood will not be given without blood in return. Even if it means death for all.”
The heavy oak door—reinforced with steel plating and three thick bolts—still stands between us and the Volkov crew, but it won’t for long.
Every few seconds another muffled thud shakes the frame.
They’re using something heavier than shoulder charges now.
The walls tremble. Dust sifts from the ceiling.
The two remaining Galkin men—Sergei and a younger soldier named Yuri—stand braced on either side of the door, rifles raised, faces grim.
They know what’s coming.
We all do.
I’m pressed against the far wall beside an overturned table, arms wrapped around my knees, trying to make myself small. My heart is hammering so hard I can feel it in my teeth. I look across the room at my father.
Mikhail stands in the center of the chaos like he’s carved from the same stone as the building. His suit jacket is torn at the shoulder, blood streaking one sleeve—not his. His pistol is steady in his right hand, but his eyes are wild, pupils blown wide with fury and something darker.
Desperation, maybe.
Or shame.
Who knows. Maybe he doesn’t think he’s ever done wrong?
I know different. I wait for him to look at me. To say something—anything—that will make me feel like his son again instead of a liability he’s been forced to drag along. I wait for the reassurance he used to give me when I was very small and nightmares woke me screaming…
Papa’s here. Nothing can hurt you.
But he doesn’t look at me. Instead he rounds on me suddenly, voice low and venomous…
“This is your fault,” Mikhail growls, his eyes wild.
The words hit like a slap.
I stare at him.
“You ran,” my father continues, stepping closer. “You let the Volkov dog get inside your head. You trusted him. And now look where we are. Because of you.”
My mouth opens, then closes. For years I swallowed every accusation, every disappointment, every cold dismissal. I told myself he was protecting me in his own way. That his hardness was love in disguise.
Not anymore.
I stand. Slowly, legs shaking but holding.
“No,” I say. My voice is quiet at first, then stronger. “This is not my fault.”
Mikhail’s eyes narrow.
“You were supposed to stay hidden,” he snaps. “Stay clean. Stay legitimate. That was the entire point. And instead you let yourself be taken. You let that Volkov animal touch you. You—”
“I hate you,” I snap, my voice brittle but my words fierce.
The words rip out of me before I can stop them.
The room goes still.
Sergei and Yuri freeze. Even the distant gunfire seems to pause.
Mikhail blinks. Once. Then again.
I take a step forward, voice rising.
“I hate you for letting Mom die,” I say.
“You always said it was an accident… an ambush meant for you. But you never protected her properly. You never changed your habits. You let her walk into danger because you couldn’t imagine the world touching you.
And when they took me. When Ivan took me.
You didn’t pay. You didn’t negotiate. You didn’t even pretend to care.
You let them put a price on my head and decided I was expendable.
And don’t give me any bullshit excuse about the business. I’m your fucking son.”
His face darkens. “You don’t understand—”
“I understand perfectly,” I cut in. “Ivan was a better Daddy to me in weeks than you were since Mom died. He made me feel safe. He made me feel seen. He protected me when you wouldn’t. And you… you were ready to let me die to save face.”
Mikhail’s hand twitches, pistol ready in hand.
I don’t flinch.
“Ivan is different,” I say. “He’s not scum. He’s the only man in your world who ever treated me like I mattered.”
For a moment I think my father might actually strike me. It wouldn’t be the first time. His face twists—rage, shame, something broken.
He lashes out.
But not with his fist.
With words…
“You stupid little boy,” he hisses. “You think that Volkov dog loves you? He was going to kill you. That’s what they do. That’s what we do. And you fell for it. You’re weak. Just like your mother was weak.”
The insult lands.
But before I can answer—before the hurt can fully bloom—the door explodes.
Literally.
A shaped charge rips the hinges apart. The steel-plated oak buckles inward, showering the room with splinters and smoke. Sergei and Yuri open fire instantly. Volkov men pour through the breach—black-clad, armored, weapons blazing.
Gunfire fills the room—deafening, chaotic. Yuri takes a round to the chest and drops without a sound. Sergei manages to drop one attacker before another burst catches him in the throat. He collapses, gurgling.
Mikhail moves faster than I expect. My father grabs me by the hair, yanks me in front of him, and jams the muzzle of his pistol against my temple.
“Back off!” Mikhail roars.
The Volkov men freeze in the doorway.
Viktor steps through the smoke, coat billowing, Glock steady in his hand. Behind him—heart-stoppingly familiar—comes Ivan.
Our eyes meet across the room.
For one heartbeat everything stops.
Then Viktor raises his free hand.
“Easy,” Viktor calls. “Let’s not make this messier than it needs to be.”
Mikhail’s grip tightens in my hair. The barrel digs into my temple.
“Your move asshole,” Mikhail snarls. “You want this boy’s death on your conscience? Or maybe I kill him myself? Or… perhaps you let us both leave.”
Viktor tilts his head, considering.
Ivan takes one step forward.
“Don’t,” Viktor says, his voice low, urgent, aimed at Mikhail. “Don’t do this.”
“You think you can talk me down, Volkov dog?” Mikhail laughs, his voice bitter. “After everything?”
Ivan’s eyes never leave mine.
Viktor glances at Ivan—sharp, assessing—then back at Mikhail.
“Last chance,” Viktor says. “Drop the gun. Or we finish this the hard way. You know it’s over Mikhail. But your son doesn’t need to die.”
Mikhail’s breathing is ragged against my ear.
I close my eyes.
And pray.
Because this is it.
This is where it ends.
One way or another.