Chapter 17 Eddie
Eddie
“Wakey wakey!” Robbie says, his voice distant but close at the same time. “Time to rise sleepy head!”
I open my eyes. Sunlight filters through the thin curtains of Robbie's small living area, pulling me from a deep, dreamless sleep.
I stretch, feeling the throw blanket slide against my skin, and for a moment, everything feels normal—safe, even.
“W-w-w-what time is it?” I ask, the whole weight of the situation suddenly crashing down on me. “And where’s Da… I mean, Viktor?”
I roll over, spotting a note on the light stand.
Folded white paper, my name scrawled in bold, precise handwriting. Viktor's…
My Darling Little One,
Gone to handle business. Back later, hopefully lunch time. You must go with Robbie to the cafe. But do not leave the premises until you hear from me. Alexander will be there, keeping watch. Be good or you know what happens…
Yours, D.
I read it twice, fingers tracing the letters. Be good. It sends a small shiver through me—part warning, part warmth. He's trusting me, sort of.
But Alexander watching? That's less reassuring.
Still, the cafe means coffee, cakes, a chance to breathe city air without running for my life. Or it does in theory. And I don’t quite know why Viktor is suddenly so keen for me to be out and about. Still, what choice do I have but to trust his judgement. We’ve come this far, after all.
Robbie playfully jabs me, already dressed in his cafe apron over jeans, hair tied back. "Sleep okay?"
"Yeah," I say, sitting up. "Viktor left a note. Says I can come to the cafe with you. Well, actually, he says I have to. He is kinda bossy."
His eyes light up. "Awesome! I'll make you the best morning coffee ever… extra foam on the hot chocolate, cinnamon sprinkle, the works. Deal?"
I smile, the offer chasing away some of the fog. "Deal."
We get ready quickly—me in yesterday's clothes, freshened up with Robbie's deodorant and a quick face wash. Goldie goes in my backpack, along with my sketchpad and pencils.
The walk to the cafe is short, just a few blocks through familiar streets bustling with morning commuters and dog walkers. The air smells of fresh bagels from the corner stand and it’s so nice to be out and about like this again.
But it's weird being back—everything the same, but me so changed.
Robbie chats about work drama… a new barista who burns every espresso, a supplier who went bust, all the usual things, but I half-listen, scanning for anything off.
No one follows us.
No suspicious stares.
Alexander must be nearby, but I don't spot him yet. Which, I suppose, is a good thing.
The cafe is cozy as ever… mismatched chairs, local art on the walls, including one of my small sketches from last year, the hiss of the espresso machine welcoming us like an old friend.
Robbie dashes behind the counter and ties his apron fully. The other baristas are working their butts off and high-five Robbie as he moves into his position like he’s never been away.
"Grab your table," he says. "Coffee-choc coming up."
I choose my usual spot by the window—good light for sketching, view of the street for people-watching. Or maybe paranoia-watching on a morning like this. Either way, it’s my seat and I’m not giving it up for anyone no matter what’s going on in my life.
Robbie brings the hot chocolate with a dash of coffee minutes later, steaming latte with a heart in the foam, dusted cinnamon. "Best ever, as promised."
"You're a lifesaver," I say as I sip the drink and it’s perfect, creamy, with that warm spice kick rounding it off to a tee.
Robbie winks and heads back to the counter as a wave of customers enter, each one ready to have their thirst and caffeine craving met.
I pull out my sketchpad, flipping to a blank page. The darker, edgier ideas from the retreat bubble up immediately… those twisted, sexy forms inspired by shadows and secrets, figures caught in tension, edges sharp like Viktor's world.
I start with loose lines… a silhouette emerging from darkness, strong but fractured, light cracking through like hope or danger.
As the images form in my mind, guns hidden in embraces, cities crumbling under passionate grips, I feel heat build inside me and my special place tingles with arousal.
The passion from yesterday morning flashes back—Viktor's body, the clay under my hands mirroring his strength.
My pencil pauses, cheeks warming as I allow myself a moment to compose myself. These might just be the sketches that will inform my sculptures, but they are powerful images all the same.
That's when Alexander walks past.
He's in civilian clothes—jeans, hoodie, baseball cap—but his build and watchful eyes give him away as far as I’m concerned. But maybe that’s because I’ve had a taste of this life now. Perhaps before meeting Viktor I wouldn’t have had a clue.
Alexander nods subtly at me, takes a seat two tables over, ordering a black coffee from Robbie. Our eyes meet briefly. I blush harder, hoping he doesn't notice. He probably does.
Great.
There’s nothing like getting turned on by art while your bodyguard watches.
Anyhoo…
I dive back into sketching, forcing focus. The ideas flow. Gun barrels twisting into lovers' arms, shadows with teeth, paddles and pegs causing mayhem on bottoms and nipples. It's thrilling, this new direction.
Then, suddenly, a shadow falls over my table.
But it’s Not Alexander.
I look up and momentarily freeze.
Milo.
He's standing there in his usual hipster chic… skinny jeans, blazer, glasses perched on his nose. He’s smiling like nothing's wrong.
"Eddie! You're alive. Thank God."
I glance quickly at Alexander—a subtle gesture, a small widen of my eyes. He stays seated, but his posture shifts: alert, ready.
Milo doesn't notice, pulling out the chair opposite me without asking.
"Where have you been?” he asks, curious but not overly suspicious. “The gallery's a mess. Police tape, questions. All the usual. But I’ll have it back up and running ASAP. Seriously though, where were you?”
"Staying with a relative out of town," I say, keeping my voice steady. "Needed to lay low after... everything."
He nods, leaning in. "Smart. The show's wrecked of course, but we can rebuild. You make new work, I'll get it back up. Your stuff's gold, Eddie. I mean that."
I force a smile, but my mind races. There’s an opportunity here. I can help Viktor.
"Speaking of the gallery,” I say, keeping it casual. “Are you still selling the building? You know, that guy who came in on the day of the shooting…"
Milo's expression flickers… a hint of surprise? Caution? Something else?
"No, actually. The offer fell through. Buyer backed out after the shooting.
But..." He leans closer, voice dropping.
"A new buyer is on the horizon. Bigger fish.
Better money. And it could mean expansion for me.
This buyer is a bit more civilized than the thug who you saw. Urgh. What an asshole he was."
"Who?" I ask, casual as I can.
He waves it off. "Details later. Just know, we're good."
I nod, not pushing. "Great to see you, Milo, but I need to get back to work." I gesture at my sketchpad.
Milo stands, placing a hand on my wrist. It feels sleazy, lingering too long, squeezing my flesh ever so slightly.
"You got it, babe,” Milo says. “Call me when you're ready to sculpt. I’ll have a space arranged for you. We can do the math on costs later."
He leaves, the door tinkling behind him.
I exhale, shaky.
Alexander meets my eyes—questioning. I shake my head slightly… this is a matter for later. I can't wait to see Viktor, reveal what I've learned.
Lunch can't come soon enough.
I’m on my third coffee-choc and before I know it, a couple of hours later the bell above the café door chimes. I look up from my sketchpad just in time to see Viktor step inside, accompanied by an associate who I can only assume is Ivan.
The contrast between them is immediate: Viktor in his dark coat, broad shoulders filling the doorway, face set in that calm, unreadable mask he wears when he’s working.
Ivan is behind him, leaner, sharper, eyes already scanning every corner of the room like he’s memorizing exits and potential threats.
But as much as there is a contrast, I can tell that they are both very much from the same world.
Alexander is already here of course, still sitting at his table near the window with a black coffee he’s barely touched. He nods once to Viktor, a small gesture that carries weight.
Viktor’s gaze finds me instantly. Something in his expression softens, just for a second, before the hardness returns.
He crosses the café in long strides, Ivan a silent shadow at his side.
Robbie is behind the counter wiping down the espresso machine and he glances up, sees the two men, and his hand stills for a beat before he resumes cleaning.
“Back room,” Viktor says quietly, voice pitched for my ears alone. “Now.”
I close my sketchpad, slide it into my bag, and stand. Alexander is already moving, casual but deliberate, following us toward the narrow hallway behind the counter.
Robbie meets my eyes as we pass. He gives a small nod—go—and tells his fellow baristas he’ll be back shortly before falling in behind us.
The back room is cramped and cluttered: stacked boxes of coffee beans and syrups, a tiny table with three mismatched chairs, a single bulb overhead. It smells faintly of roasted beans and cleaning spray. Quite the combo.
Alexander closes the door behind us and leans against it, arms folded.
No one sits at first.
Viktor looks at me. “Alexander messaged. Your unexpected guest. What happened?”
I take a breath, steadying myself. “Milo came in. Sat down like nothing was wrong. Asked where I’d been. I told him I’d been with a relative out of town. He bought it. Well, I think he did. Anyway, he said the show could be rebuilt once I make new work.”
Ivan leans against a stack of boxes, arms crossed, listening. He nods at me, and then at Robbie. There’s a cold, calculating edge to him. I can tell that he’s here for serious business.
“Then I asked about the building,” I continue. “Whether he was still selling. He said no, the original offer fell through after the shooting. But there’s a new buyer on the horizon. A better offer, a better buyer… no offence. Don’t shoot the messenger.”
Viktor and Ivan exchange a glance—quick, knowing. They already suspected Milo. I can see it in the way Viktor’s jaw tightens, the way Ivan’s eyes narrow just a fraction.
“Good,” Viktor says. “That tracks. Ivan?”
“Tracks all the way to the bank,” Ivan agrees.
I swallow. “He put his hand on my wrist when he left. Like… I don’t know. Like… he expected something. It was gross.”
Viktor’s expression darkens, but he keeps his voice even. “I want to get him one-on-one again. Soon. Corner him. Get answers.”
“I’ll arrange it,” I say before I can second-guess myself.
Viktor’s head snaps toward me. “No.”
“Viktor—”
“You’re not bait,” Viktor says. “Not again.”
“I’m not asking permission,” I say, surprising myself with how steady my voice sounds.
“I’m telling you I’ll do it. He trusts me.
He thinks I’m still the grateful little artist he discovered.
If I message him, say I want to talk about new work, about the show, he’ll meet me at the gallery. Alone. You can be there. Waiting.”
Viktor’s eyes search mine.
I see the war inside him—protection versus necessity. He doesn’t want me anywhere near Milo. But he also knows I’m right.
Robbie steps forward from the doorway. “I’ll go with him.”
Everyone turns. He lifts his chin, defiant. “Eddie’s not going alone. I’ll be there. Backup. Distraction. Whatever you need.”
“Let them help,” Ivan says. “We need every edge we can get.”
Viktor studies Robbie for a long moment. Then he looks back at me. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure,” I say. My heart is hammering, but it’s not just fear. There’s something else… excitement, maybe even pride.
I’ve spent so long running from danger, hiding behind my art. Now I’m stepping into it. Willingly.
Maybe this is a whole other side to me that’s been waiting to unlock.
Viktor exhales through his nose. “Fine. But you follow every instruction. No heroics. You see anything off, you leave. Immediately.”
I nod. Robbie nods too.
Viktor pulls out his phone. “Message him. Gallery. Late afternoon tomorrow. Say you’ve got ideas for new work, want to walk the space, talk logistics. Whatever the hell you arty types talk about. Say this is a new number or something.”
I take the phone, fingers trembling only slightly as I type:
Eddie: Hey Milo, great seeing you earlier. New number. Been thinking about new pieces too… darker stuff. Can we meet at the gallery tomorrow afternoon? Walk the space, talk about rebuilding the show? Around 4? xo
Silence settles over the room. Alexander shifts his weight. Ivan watches me like he’s reassessing something.
Robbie breaks it first. “You’re braver than you look, Eddie.”
I manage a shaky smile. “I’m terrified.”
“Good,” Viktor says quietly. “Means you’re paying attention. Use that fear. It’s only adrenalin you haven’t got under control yet.”
He steps closer, cups my face with both hands. “You do exactly what I say tomorrow. No deviations. Understand?”
“Yes, Daddy,” I whisper, the word slipping out soft and natural.
His thumbs brush my cheeks. “Good boy.”
Robbie clears his throat. “Okay, lovebirds. I’ve got a shift to finish.”
Robbie heads back to the front. Alexander follows after a nod to Viktor. Ivan lingers a moment longer, then slips out too.
Viktor and I are alone in the cramped back room.
He pulls me against him, arms wrapping around my waist. “You scared? You didn’t have to do this. You need to know that.”
“I’m petrified,” I admit into his chest. “But I kind of like it.”
“Hmmm. You’ll be fine. But this isn’t a game,” Viktor warns, his voice low, steady. “I’ll be there. Every step.”
I tilt my head up. “Promise?”
“Swear it.”
I smile, grab my bag, and head back to my table by the window. The café is busier now, but I tune it out.
My sketchpad opens. My pencil moves.
The figures in my mind are sharper now.
But so is the threat in real life too…