Chapter 14 Viktor
Viktor
The plan is in place.
The boy knows this as well as I do.
Our secluded paradise is about to be interrupted and there’s not a damn thing we can do about it…
Night falls heavy over the house, the kind of darkness that presses against the windows like an uninvited guest. I watch it from the study, whisky in hand, the amber liquid catching the low lamp light.
Eddie has been quiet since dinner—picking at his food, eyes distant, that spark from the art room dimmed. He’s nervous about tomorrow, I can sense it. The city looms in his mind like a threat, full of shadows and memories of gunfire and bloodshed.
I don't blame him.
It's a risk, heading back in… but necessary.
The whispers Ivan mentioned are turning into shouts. I need to stomp them out before they become a roar. And not only that, I need to strike fear into my rivals’ hearts like never before.
But tonight?
Tonight, my boy needs something else. Something to ease the fear, to pull him into that safe space where worries fade. A perfectly Little evening should do it.
I finish the whisky, set the glass down, and head upstairs to change.
Pajamas—simple gray cotton, comfortable.
In the drawer, I find the romper I had delivered earlier today, wrapped in discreet packaging.
Pale pink, soft fleece with a hood and footies, sized just for Eddie.
Specially ordered, because if I'm doing this, I'm doing it right.
I carry it down to the living room where Eddie is curled on the couch, Goldie in his lap, staring blankly at the TV screen. Some animated show plays, bright colors flashing, but his eyes are unfocused. He looks up when I enter, a small smile trying to form but not quite making it.
"Time for bed soon," I say, sitting beside him. "But first, change into this."
I hand him the romper. His eyes widen, fingers tracing the soft fabric. "For me?"
"Yes,” I laugh. “I mean, I really don’t think it’s Alexander’s color."
Eddie laughs and takes it to the bathroom, returns minutes later—transformed.
The romper fits like it was made for him, hugging his peachy ass but loose enough for comfort, the hood flopped back, feet snug in the built-in socks.
He looks adorable, vulnerable, every bit the Little I suspected he was.
Goldie gets tucked under his arm as he climbs back onto the couch, nestling against me without hesitation.
I wrap an arm around him, pulling him close. "Milkies?"
He nods, cheeks pink. I prepared it earlier—heated just right, in a bottle with a soft pink teat.
He takes it tentatively at first, then settles in, sucking gently as the TV flickers with a gentle cartoon about friendly animals.
Goldie sits between us, his mane brushing my leg.
Eddie floats away visibly—eyes glazing, body relaxing fully against mine, drifting into Little Space.
The bottle empties slowly, his tummy filling with the warm comfort, sighs escaping between sips.
“Daddy, Daddy,” he gurgles, hiccupping and then sipping some more.
He’s adorable like this. Pure, unburdened, trusting. It stirs that Daddy part of me wide awake, the one that's been dormant too long. I stroke his hair, watching his eyelids droop, the bottle slipping from his lax fingers. I catch it, set it aside.
As Eddie drifts off to sleep in my arms, his breathing even and deep, a weight settles in my chest—not fear, but memory.
Tommy.
I say a silent prayer for him, the words forming in my mind like they have a hundred times before.
Forgive me for moving on.
For feeling this again.
For wanting it.
Tommy deserved better than the end he got, and I've carried that guilt like a chain. But here, with Eddie's warmth against me, the chain feels lighter. Not gone, but bearable at least.
He murmurs something in his sleep, nuzzling closer.
I stand carefully, lifting him into my arms—light as a feather, trusting even in dreams. I carry him upstairs to the guest bed, tuck him under the covers with Goldie beside him.
He stirs faintly, but I sing softly—the same old Russian lullaby, my voice low and rumbling.
"Bayu-bayushki-bayu..." The melody wraps around him, ensuring he stays asleep, peaceful.
Once the darling Little is settled, I walk over to the bedroom window and stare out into the blackness. The woods are invisible now, swallowed by night, but I know they're there—hiding threats, secrets.
Tomorrow is going to be dangerous.
Heading into the city, exposing us both.
But it has to be done. I've already waited too long, let the whispers grow into doubts. It's time to put myself back in the firing line—no matter what the cost. The family depends on it. And now, so does he.
I close the curtains, leave the room quietly so I can make some late night calls and prepare the most trusted of my men for my return.
Tomorrow waits.
But for the first time in years, so does hope.
I feel the cool morning breeze around me as I glance at my phone, my finger hovering over send…
Viktor: It begins.
I know that Ivan has been waiting for my word. And there it is, short and to the point. There is no turning back now. Not now, and not ever. I’m in this all the way.
The morning air is crisp, just how I like it. I stand on the gravel drive outside the house, coat collar turned up against the chill, watching the last of the mist burn off the lake.
Alexander has already left in the black SUV—my request. Should anyone be tailing us somehow, or watching the property, the SUV heading south will draw eyes in the wrong direction.
A simple diversion, but effective.
Eddie stands beside me, bundled in one of my old jackets over his jeans and sweater, Goldie tucked inside his backpack. He’s quiet, eyes fixed on the empty road where Alexander disappeared.
I glance at him. “We’re not taking the Volvo.”
He looks up, surprised. “Why not?”
I nod toward the garage. “Too expected. We’ll take the sports car instead. No one in the city knows I have it. It’s fast, sleek, could help us out of a tight spot should it come to that. And the fact no one knows it’s mine, means another layer of misdirection if needed.”
He nods slowly, but I can see the question in his eyes before he asks it…
“Are you sure everything will work out okay?”
I step closer, cupping his face in both hands. His skin is cold from the morning air, cheeks flushed pink. “I would never promise that, malysh. Not in this life. But I swear to you, on everything I am, I will die protecting you before I let any harm come to my darling boy.”
Eddie’s eyes shimmer. He rises on his toes, and I meet him halfway. The kiss is slow, deep, full of everything we haven’t said yet. His fingers curl into my coat lapels; mine slide into his hair. When we break apart, his breath is shaky, but his gaze is steadier.
“Come on,” I murmur. “Let’s go.”
The garage door hums open.
Inside sits the car—a low-slung, matte-black Porsche 911 Turbo S. Not the screaming red or yellow most men would choose; this one is understated, almost stealthy. I open the passenger door for him. He slides in, backpack at his feet, then looks up at me with a small, nervous smile.
I settle behind the wheel, the engine waking with a low, predatory growl.
The gates slide open. We pull out onto the private road, the house shrinking in the rearview mirror.
For the first few miles we’re silent, the only sound the tires on asphalt and the soft rush of air through the vents.
Eddie watches the trees blur past, fingers twisting in his lap.
An hour in, the road widens into a two-lane highway flanked by diners and gas stations. I spot a roadside place—classic, neon sign flickering Open 24 Hours, gravel lot half-full of pickups and a couple of semis. Perfect for a late breakfast and a quick check that we’re still clean.
I pull in, park near the back. “Hungry?”
He nods. “Starving.”
Inside, the diner smells of coffee, bacon, and syrup. We slide into a booth by the window. I order black coffee. Eddie goes all in: pancakes drowning in syrup, a side of apple pie, and a large OJ.
I watch him pour half the syrup bottle over the stack, grinning despite myself. “How are you so small?”
He cuts into the pancakes, fork dripping. “I burn a lot of calories with my artwork. Kneading clay, hauling bags, standing for hours. It’s basically cardio. SO I need to eat a lot. It’s either that or I feel weak and grouchy!”
I laugh—quiet, but real. “Fair enough. A grouchy boy is never good!”
He eats with focus, the way he sculpts—total absorption. But halfway through the pie, his fork slows. He stares at the plate, then out the window at the passing traffic.
I know that look. The quiet before the storm of worry.
I reach across the table, cover his hand with mine. “Once this is over,” I say, voice low, “I’ll get you the best studio in the city. Top floor, north light, whatever you need. You’ll be free to make the art that will make your reputation. No more hiding. No more running.”
His eyes meet mine, shimmering. “You mean that?”
“I do.”
He turns his hand over, laces his fingers through mine. We sit like that for a long minute—hands clasped across the table, the diner noise fading around us. His thumb strokes the back of my hand, small circles. It’s simple, but it anchors something inside me.
Eddie finishes the pie, sips the last of his OJ. I pay at the counter—cash, no card trail—then we step back into the crisp air. The Porsche waits like a patient predator, a Great White ready to strike.
I open his door. Eddie slides in, backpack at his feet once more. Before I close it, he catches my sleeve. “Thank you. For today. For… everything.”
I lean down, kiss his forehead. “We’re not done yet.”
The engine roars to life again. We pull back onto the highway, the city drawing closer with every mile. The final part of the journey. Back into the danger zone.
I glance at Eddie, his profile soft in the morning light, his hand resting on Goldie’s mane in his lap.
He’s scared.
For the first time in many years, so am I.
But we’re in this together now.
And I meant every word.
The studio. The freedom. The promise.
I’ll burn the city down before I let anyone take that from him.