Chapter 20 Ivan
Ivan
The muzzle flashes have died away, leaving only the ringing in my ears and the slow drip of something wet hitting the hardwood floor. Mikhail has Landon pinned against his chest, one arm now off his hair and clamped around his throat, the other pressing the muzzle of his pistol to his temple.
Th boy’s eyes are wide open, locked on mine—fear, yes, but also something fiercer. Trust. Or maybe just the last shred of hope he has left.
Mikhail is moving—small, erratic steps from side to side, dragging him with him like a shield.
Every time I try to line up a clean shot he shifts again, keeping his head in the way.
The old tyrant is breathing hard, sweat shining on his forehead, eyes darting between Viktor and me.
The man who once ruled half the city with an iron hand is unraveling in front of us.
There are proper, dignified ways for old kings to go out on their shields. But this isn’t one of them. And it makes me hate Mikhail even more, knowing that this is the last thing his son will remember of him.
Viktor stands calm in the doorway, Glock steady but lowered, voice carrying over the sudden quiet like he’s negotiating a business deal instead of a hostage crisis.
“It’s over, Mikhail,” he says. “You’ve got no more men. No more cards to play. Let the boy go. I give you my word, no one touches him. Not today. Not tomorrow. He’s not the target anymore. You are.”
Mikhail laughs. It’s short, jagged, almost gurgle.
“You think I believe you?” Mikhail snarls. “You think I trust the Downtown Devil’s word? You think I won’t take the boy with me? I am Mikhail Galkin. The family begins and ends with me.”
Viktor doesn’t flinch.
“I don’t want to hurt your son,” Viktor says. “Never did. He was leverage. That’s all. I wasn’t kidding. You surrender to your fate now and I swear on my life he walks out of here unharmed. You have my word.”
Mikhail’s arm tightens around Landon’s throat. He gasps, small and sharp. His finger twitches on the trigger.
I feel it more than see it—the subtle tightening of muscle, the fractional shift of weight. He’s not listening to Viktor. He’s not calculating escape routes. He’s done. And in his mind, if he’s going down, he’s taking my darling boy with him.
My pulse slows. The world narrows to a tunnel: Mikhail’s finger on the trigger, Landon’s eyes on mine, the steady rise and fall of his chest against his arm.
I breathe in.
Hold.
Exhale half.
And fire.
The suppressed .45 bucks once in my hand. A single round—clean, center-mass through the forehead. Mikhail’s head snaps back. His arm goes slack. The pistol clatters to the floor. Galkin crumples like a cut puppet, dragging Landon down with him for half a second before he wrenches free.
Landon stumbles forward—two steps, three—then launches himself at me.
His arms wrap around my neck so hard I stagger.
I drop the pistol, catch him around the waist, lift him off the ground.
He buries his face in my throat and sobs once—raw, broken—before his knees give out completely once more.
I lower us both to the floor, cradling the boy against my chest while his body shakes.
Viktor watches us for a long beat.
Then he holsters his weapon.
“Take him,” Viktor says. “Get him out of here. Cops will be here any minute. I placed a delay with a contact downtown, but he won’t be able to hold off much longer. This place is burned.”
I don’t question it.
I don’t thank Viktor either, not yet.
I simply lift Landon into my arms—bridal style, his head tucked under my chin—and carry him past the bodies, past the splintered door, past the stunned Volkov crew still holding position in the hallway.
No one stops me.
Outside, the air hits like a slap—cold, clean, smelling faintly of rain accompanied by the sound of distant sirens. Viktor’s SUV is still idling at the curb. The driver opens the rear door without a word. I slide Landon inside, climb in after him, and pull the door shut.
“Drive,” I tell the man behind the wheel. “Fast.”
The driver doesn’t argue.
We peel away from the curb. Sirens swell in the distance—multiple units, closing fast. The city lights streak past the tinted windows in red and blue smears.
Landon is shaking in my lap, face pressed to my chest, breathing in shallow, uneven hitches. I stroke his hair, murmur against his temple… “You’re safe, baby, Daddy’s got you, it’s over” until the shaking begins to ease.
He lifts his head eventually. Eyes red-rimmed, cheeks wet.
“You killed him,” Landon whispers.
I swallow hard.
“I had to, boy,” I say, my voice heavy with the knowledge of what I have done. “I can only ask for your forgiveness. I did what I had to do. This whole time. It was never easy. But I had to follow my instincts.”
Landon searches my face for a long moment.
Then he leans up and presses his forehead to mine.
“I forgive you,” Landon says. “I forgive you for everything. For the lies, and for the way you looked at me when you thought you had to pull the trigger. I love you, Daddy.”
My throat closes.
He kisses me—soft, trembling, tasting of salt and relief.
“I want you to be my Forever,” Landon whispers against my lips. “I don’t care about the rest. I don’t care about the city or the families or what happens next. I just want you. Always.”
I cup his face with both hands.
“Nothing would make me prouder,” I tell him. “Nothing in this world.”
He smiles—small, shaky, but real—and curls back into my chest.
I hold him the rest of the drive.
The sirens fade behind us.
The city lights blur past.
And for the first time in years—maybe ever—I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, we might actually make it out the other side.
They used to call me the dagger man. But today I took a gun and found true love.