Chapter 16 Viktor
Viktor
With Eddie and Robbie back at the apartment, their bare bottoms freshly disciplined and their promises to obey ringing in my ears, I lock the door behind me and step into the evening chill.
The city hums around Robbie's building—distant sirens, laughter from a nearby bar as its door swings open, the low thrum of traffic a constant.
I scan the street out of habit: parked cars, a couple walking arm in arm, nothing out of place. But I know better than to relax. The boys are safe for now—Robbie's place is low-key, no ties to me.
So far, so good.
Well, almost.
Disobedience like that park stunt can't happen again.
I made my point with the wooden spoon, their joint yelps and red cheeks were proof enough.
Eddie took it like a champ, his eyes meeting mine after with that mix of remorse, trust, and maybe something deeper too.
Robbie was more defiant, but he submitted quick—safeword given, ass warmed, lesson learned.
No harm, just correction.
Those Littles will stay put now, I’m sure of it.
I hail a cab, give the driver an address a few blocks from the bar.
No direct trails, that’s always the way.
As the city lights streak past, my mind shifts to Ivan.
Reliable, deadly, and one of the few men on earth I could trust no matter what.
Famous last words? Hell, there’s always that sliver of doubt.
Tonight's meet is crucial. We need to make some progress, and fast. The whispers on the street are getting louder. I can feel the pressure building like a storm front. Act fast, or lose everything. That’s the life of a Pakhan.
The cab drops me in a crowded district. Neon signs buzzing, pedestrians thick. I weave through, doubling back once to check for followers.
Clean.
I’m a nobody.
Not an eye on me.
The bar is a dive called Ziggy’s, tucked in an alley off the main drag. Dim lights, scarred wooden tables, the kind of place where deals happen in whispers and no one asks names.
I push through the door, the smell of stale beer hitting me like an old friend. The rear booth—near the exit, as always. Ivan's already there, nursing a glass of something dark, his back to the wall, eyes on the room.
I slide in opposite him. "Whisky. Neat."
The bartender brings it quick, no chit-chat.
I sip, the burn grounding me. "What do you have?"
Ivan leans forward, his voice low. "The hit at the gallery… assassin was freelance. Pro, but not one of ours. And not elite either. So this was someone who probably doesn’t know the business as well as us.
That’s a good sign. But still, a hired gun, did clean work on your man.
That’s not nothing. The thugs who piled in after?
Gang-affiliated, low-level crew from the docks.
Loose cannons. Paid muscle, not loyalists. "
I swirl the whisky, processing. "Internal?"
He shakes his head. "As far as I can tell, no. No chatter in the family or associates, even the less trustworthy among them. No unusual moves from Radek or the others. If there's a traitor, they're deep cover. But this smells external. Someone pulling strings from outside."
Good news, relatively.
No rot in my own house—at least not that Ivan's uncovered.
But I won't rule it out entirely.
Paranoia keeps pakhans alive.
"Motives?" I ask, sipping my drink and watching as a drunk couple argue at the bar.
"Still digging. But word's spreading you're vulnerable. Hiding out? Makes you look weak."
I nod, sipping again. The burn sharpens my thoughts.
"Give me your thoughts,” I say. “Two months back, state politician.
Harry Caulfield, you heard of him? He tried leaning on me.
Wanted in on a deal, some backroom favor.
I rebuffed him. Hard. He's ambitious, eyes on governor.
And get this… he's been sniffing around property downtown.
Same area as those galleries I was buying. "
Ivan's eyes narrow.
"Caulfield? The party boy? Yeah, I know of him. He's got fingers in a lot of pies. Dirty ones. If he's expanding his portfolio, and you blocked him..."
"Possible." I set the glass down. "Very possible. Hitting me disrupts the buy, clears the board for him. And, fuck, it could be he’s working with a family who didn’t’ tell him to take a running jump."
Ivan drains his drink.
"We track him tonight,” Ivan says. “See what shakes loose. If he's the source..."
I meet his gaze. "Pull the trigger if needed. No loose ends. If in doubt, take him out."
We finish our whiskies in silence, the bar's murmur a backdrop to the plan forming. Caulfield's known for his nightlife—clubs, boys, excess. Easy to find a party-loving fool like him on a Friday. We'll shadow, corner him quiet. Interrogate. End it if he talks… or maybe if he doesn't.
I pay the tab, and we slip out the back exit into the alley.
Night's fully fallen now, city alive with lights and shadows. Ivan vanishes into the crowd one way, I go the other. We'll link up later, tails clean.
The walk clears my head. Eddie's face flashes in my mind, how he was nervous but trusting this morning. He and Robbie better be behaving. Tomorrow, if this pans out, I can start unraveling the mess. And once this is over, I can protect him properly, give the boy everything he’s ever dared to desire. I can find that studio I promised him.
But first, hunt.
Caulfield's last party might be tonight.
I hail another cab, give an address near his usual haunts.
The city pulses around me, oblivious… but not for long.
A few hours pass in the city’s restless underbelly—bars, back alleys, quick exchanges with contacts who owe me favors or fear me more than the devil himself.
Ivan and I move like shadows, piecing together fragments until the trail points to one place…Zane’s House, a trendy private club across town, velvet ropes and VIP booths, the kind of spot where politicians, criminals, and influencers pretend the lines between their worlds don’t blur.
Harry Caulfield is there tonight. Confirmed sighting.
Word is he’s holding court, surrounded by boys, hangers-on, and his closest allies—some in suits, some with concealed carry permits and felony records.
Ivan and I approach from the service side. The kitchen entrance is tucked in a narrow alley, delivery vans parked crooked, dumpsters reeking of old grease and spilled wine. Ivan knocks twice—short, sharp. A dishwasher opens the door, sees our faces, and steps aside without a word.
Money or fear… either works. But both guarantees you the best silence.
We slip through the bustling kitchen—steam rising from pots, knives flashing, orders shouted over sizzling grills—and emerge into the club proper.
Zane’s House is alive. Bass thumps through the floor, colored lights sweep across bodies on the dance floor below.
Upstairs balconies overlook the chaos, roped-off VIP sections glowing with bottle service and laughter.
The air smells of expensive cologne, spilled champagne, and anticipation of indulgence.
We move like we belong—Ivan in a dark suit jacket, me in black coat and gloves.
No one stops us. We’re ghosts in the crowd. Dashing and deadly in one lethal package.
“Upstairs,” I mutter, nodding toward the balcony. “Roped area. Caulfield’s there.”
Ivan scans the crowd, eyes cold and methodical. “Bodyguards. Two at the stairs, two more on the landing. Caulfield’s in the corner. Three boys, one man with a phone. Look at him, swaying from side to side. He’s drunk, high, or both.”
Good. Drunk men make mistakes.
We climb the spiral staircase, casual, like we’re heading to our own table. The first bodyguard—a thick-necked guy in a cheap suit—steps forward, hand raised. “Private area, sir—”
Ivan moves first. A sharp jab to the throat, precise, silent. The man gags, hands flying to his neck. I follow with a heavy elbow to the temple. He drops like a sack of bricks.
The second guard turns too late—Ivan’s fist cracks across his jaw, my knee drives into his stomach. Both down, dragged behind a decorative planter.
No alarms. No screams. Clean.
We step onto the balcony. Caulfield is still there—corner booth, laughing too loud, arm around a blonde in a matching silver t-shirt and shorts. Two more boys, a man in a tailored suit texting furiously. Caulfield’s face is flushed, eyes glassy. He spots us before we’re halfway across the floor.
Recognition hits. Fear follows. Total panic ensues.
Caulfield bolts.
“Fuck,” I growl.
Caulfield shoves past his entourage, knocking over a bottle of Cristal. The crash draws eyes. He sprints toward the far exit—a service stairwell. Ivan and I give chase, shoving through the crowd. A woman screams as I shoulder past, someone yells security. Too late.
We hit the stairwell seconds behind him. Footsteps echo below—fast, panicked. We take the steps two at a time, boots pounding metal. Caulfield’s breathing is loud, ragged. He’s fit enough to run, but not fit enough to outrun us.
Caulfield bursts through a door on the lower level—back corridors, staff only. We follow, corridor lights flickering overhead. Ivan draws a suppressed pistol, ready to pop. I keep mine holstered, waiting for the moment.
Caulfield rounds a corner. We lose him for a heartbeat—then hear voices. Low, angry. Thugs. Not Caulfield’s usual hired muscle, these are harder, meaner. Four of them, blocking the exit, armed. Caulfield must have signaled them.
They see us. Guns come up.
No time for talk.
The first shot cracks—silenced, but loud in the narrow hall.
I dive left, Ivan right. Bullets chew drywall. I roll, come up firing—two quick shots. One thug drops, clutching his shoulder. Ivan’s already moving, silent and lethal. A throat strike, a knee to the groin, a final elbow to the temple. The second thug goes down and he ain’t getting up.