Chapter 4
Viktor
The darkness outside blurs into hazy lights, tunnels, and endless road. I’m wide awake, my mind contemplating everything that’s just happened. But fifteen minutes into the drive and he’s already out.
His head has slipped sideways against my shoulder, sandy-blonde hair spilling across the dark wool of my coat like spilled sunlight.
Every few seconds a small, hiccupping breath escapes him, the remnants of tears still drying on his cheeks.
His fingers are curled loosely around the golden mane of that stuffed lion.
Goldie, he called him earlier… I shouldn’t care about such trivial details, but the boy mumbled it once when he thought I wasn’t listening.
I don’t move him.
I don’t dare.
The last of the city lights blur past the tinted windows in streaks of red and white. My driver—Alexander, the one with the smart mouth and the steady hands—keeps his eyes on the road and his mouth shut. Smart man. He knows when questions will get him a bullet instead of an answer.
But I can trust him at least. I’m sure of that.
My mind is a war zone.
Who the fuck were the shooters?
First the lone gunman who dropped my associate like trash—clean work, professional.
Then the second wave crashing through, uncoordinated but determined.
Not a hit squad sent for me specifically, surely?
It felt too sloppy for that. But they knew I’d be there.
They knew the building would be empty except for Milo’s art setup and… him.
How?
Why?
I know there are a million potential reasons. I’m a pakhan, I’m always under threat. That’s the reality of my life. But something about this feels different. Chaotic but clearly planned too. I don’t know what to think.
My phone is burning a hole in my pocket. I should be calling Niko. Should be waking up every captain, every lieutenant, every fucking street sweeper I pay to keep eyes open. But the second I reach for it, paranoia clamps down like a vice.
What if the leak came from inside?
What if one of my own men sold the meet to a rival family? Or worse—to the feds?
My associate—the one bleeding out on polished concrete—was loyal. But loyalty is a currency that devalues fast in this life. Look where it got him. Who is to say that he wasn’t my last ally in the whole damn family and that’s why they took him out first.
Fuck. I need to get some clarity. Somehow I need to piece this together.
I lean forward just enough to speak low.
“Change of plan. Take us upstate. The house on the lake.”
Alexander’s eyes flick to the rearview. “You sure?”
“Yeah. And slow it down. No sudden moves. I need the time.”
He nods once. No more questions. The SUV eases into the right lane, signaling for the turn that will take us north out of the city. Two hours, maybe two and a half with traffic. Enough time to think. Enough time to count my enemies.
I glance down at the boy again.
Eddie.
He whispered it in the alley, barely audible over the ringing in my ears. Eddie Luck. And that’s when it hits me…
The name on the flyer still sitting crumpled in my coat pocket. The sculptor. Twenty-two. Barely more than a kid. A Little, if the stuffie and the hint of a romper I glimpsed earlier in his backpack are any indication.
Fuck.
I don’t do complications. I don’t do witnesses. I especially don’t do soft, fragile things that cry and cling and look at me like I might be the monster or the savior depending on their mood.
And yet here he is, asleep against the Devil himself because I couldn’t leave him to die behind his own damn art work.
My jaw tightens. I force my breathing to slow and even out.
One problem at a time.
The boy might be a pain in the ass, but at least he’s not trying to kill me.
Yet.
The city fades. Suburbs give way to dark highway, then rolling hills, then the long stretch of moonlit trees that guard the approach to the property.
The electric gates slide open at the sensor—no need to call ahead.
I keep the place staffed minimally: a groundskeeper who lives off-site, a housekeeper who comes twice a week.
But tonight it’s empty.
Good. That woks for me.
Alexander pulls up the long gravel drive and kills the engine in front of the main house. Stone facade, tall windows, wraparound porch that overlooks the private lake. It’s not ostentatious. It’s secure. High fences, cameras, motion lights, a panic room in the basement I’ve never had to use.
I shift, sliding one arm under the boy’s knees, the other behind his back.
He stirs, lashes fluttering.
“Easy,” I murmur. “We’re here.”
Eddie’s eyes open—wide, glassy, confused. He tenses in my arms.
“Where…?”
“Safe place. My place.” I carry him up the steps, across the threshold. He’s light. So light I can feel the rapid flutter of his heart against my chest.
Inside, the house smells freshly cleaned, as expected. I set Eddie on his feet in the foyer. He sways, clutching the stuffie to his chest like a shield.
I flick on the low hall light.
“Do you have any idea who I am,” I say, less of a question and more a statement of intent.
He blinks up at me, lower lip trembling. Then the dam breaks.
Big, fresh tears spill over. His shoulders shake. A raw, hiccupping sob rips out of him.
I wait. Five seconds. Ten.
“Enough,” I say, voice flat. “You’re safe. That should be enough. Pull yourself together.”
He stamps one foot—small, furious, socked foot on hardwood.
“Like that’s going to make me feel better!” he cries. “People died! There was blood everywhere! And you’re just… just standing there like it’s nothing!”
My Daddy side, the one I keep locked down tight because emotion gets men killed, stirs inside me. I don’t appreciate being sassed under any circumstances. That’s simply not how I live my life. I wouldn’t expect it from a lieutenant, and I certainly don’t expect it from a boy.
I step forward, close enough that he has to tilt his head back.
I take his wrist. Firm. But not too hard, not enough to bruise.
“Listen to me, little one,” I say, low and deliberate. “You keep crying like that, you’re going to make yourself sick. And if you don’t stop right now, I will put you over my knee and spank your bottom until you can’t sit. Do you understand?”
His breath catches. Eyes huge. Cheeks flushed red.
But the sobs quieten down. He sniffs hard, nods once.
“Good boy,” I say. Softer now, but still like this is business. “Now be brave. Can you do that for me?”
Another nod. Salty, mutinous, but obedient.
“Come on,” I say, leading him by the hand.
I take Eddie through to the kitchen—big oak table, farmhouse sink, windows that look out over dark water. I point to a chair.
“Sit.”
He does. Backpack and stuffie on the table like offerings.
I move to the counter, pull bread from the breadbox, toaster from the cabinet. Two slices. Thin scrape of butter. Thinner layer of strawberry jelly. I set the plate in front of him.
“Eat.”
He stares at it like it might bite him. Then picks it up, takes a small bite. Chews slowly. Another bite. His stomach growls loud enough for both of us to hear.
“More?” Eddie asks, his voice small.
I make another slice. Same rules: butter, but this time no jelly. The last thing this boy needs is too much sugar this late at night. I need him as calm as possible—and this is what’s best for him too.
His eyes narrow. “Forget it then. I only want it with strawberry jelly”
Stubborn little thing. He’s testing me, seeing what he can get away with.
I shake my head, set the plate down anyway.
“This might be a long night,” I mutter, mostly to myself.
I sit across from Eddie. He decides to swallow his pride and take the fresh slice, eats in silence, watching me from under his lashes. When the toast is gone, he licks jelly from his thumb and picks up his stuffie and hugs it tight.
“His name is Goldie,” Eddie says, defiance in his voice. “And he thinks you should have given me strawberry jelly.”
I lean forward, elbows on the table.
“Here’s how this works,” I say, not rising to the bait. “I’m going to keep you safe. But you’re in my world now, whether you asked for it or not. That means you obey me. Every order. No questions. No arguments. Your life might depend on it. Understand?”
He swallows. Nods slowly.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Eddie looks toward the hallway. “I… I want to go to bed.”
I stand, point toward the wide staircase at the far end of the living room.
“Upstairs. We’ve got six or seven guest rooms. Pick whichever one you want. Clean sheets. Towels in the bathroom. Don’t open windows. Don’t touch the alarm panel in the hallway. And, this should go without saying, do not leave the house for any reason unless it is on my direct instruction.”
Eddie gives me a look of acknowledgment, slides off the chair, grabs his backpack and stuffie. I watch as he trudges toward the stairs like he’s carrying the weight of the night on his shoulders. And, hell, maybe he is right now.
I watch him go.
Small frame. Messy hair. One sock slipping down his ankle.
Definitely a Little.
The thought settles in my gut—warm, possessive, dangerous.
I wait until his footsteps fade on the upper landing, listen until a door clicks shut.
Then I walk to the window, stare out at the black lake.
This is the worst moment I’ve had as Pakhan, and it’s not even close.
I’ve killed. I’ve buried friends. I’ve stared down barrels and walked away.
But betrayal from inside? That’s different.
I don’t know who to trust.
Niko?
My driver?
The men who were supposed to be working my security?
Right now it’s hard to contemplate trusting anyone.
Even Alexander as he guards the house doesn’t get an entirely free pass.
For all I know, he’s letting my enemies know where I am right now.
Fuck. This isn’t me. This isn’t how I’ll beat this situation.
I need to lose the paranoia and look at the cold, hard facts.
I pull out my phone. No calls yet. No panicked texts. That’s either very good—or very bad.
I pocket it again.