Chapter 18 Viktor
Viktor
The gallery is a ghost of what it was that fateful night—the police tape is gone, the bullet holes patched but not painted over, like faint scars on the walls… reminders of unfinished business.
We arrived early, slipping in through the back-alley door Ivan picked with ease. Now we wait in the shadows of the upper mezzanine, overlooking the main floor.
Alexander to my left, silent as stone, his bulk a reassuring presence.
Ivan to my right, lean and coiled, eyes on the entrance like a hawk spotting prey.
The space is dim, only emergency lights on—enough to see by, not enough to cast long shadows that give us away.
This ain’t my first rodeo.
But it might be Milo’s last…
“All good,” I say, my voice low.
“All good,” Ivan and Alexander reply in unison.
Eddie and Robbie are down below, nervously chatting near the shattered remnants of a pedestal where one of his sculptures used to stand.
Eddie paces a little, hands twisting in his sweater sleeves, while Robbie leans against a wall, trying to look casual.
They’ve got guts, and plenty of determination to go along with it. I just hope it doesn’t go wrong…
They’re bait… but protected.
It’s a risk, but one that they insisted on being part of.
Alexander’s got eyes on them. Ivan’s scanning for any surprises. I watch Eddie, his determination from yesterday still there, but edged with fear.
Be brave boy.
You’ve got this.
Ivan shifts slightly, voice low. “We killing Milo or keeping him alive?”
I keep my eyes on the door. “Alive is the plan. But we need answers. And… if he’s in deep, when this is over… we’ll quietly dispatch him. No loose ends.”
Ivan nods. “And if he admits to the plot here? Tonight?”
My jaw tightens. “Then the answer changes. Fast. No mercy. Cold and done.”
He grunts agreement. No more talk.
The men fall quiet beside me, the only sound Eddie’s soft voice echoing up—something about art supplies, keeping it light. Robbie laughs, forced but genuine enough to pass.
Good.
They’re playing their part.
The front door creaks open.
“Showtime…” Ivan whispers, his hushed tone brimming with adrenalin.
Milo enters, alone. No bodyguards, no entourage. Arrogant or stupid? Probably both. He’s in his usual getup of tailored blazer, glasses, that slick smile already in place as he spots the boys.
“Eddie! And the lovely Robbie. Right on time, my perfect sexy boys!”
Eddie straightens, forces a smile. Robbie looks like he’s ready to throw down with Milo right there on the spot.
“Hey, Milo. Thanks for meeting us like this,” Eddie says, keeping the plan on track.
Milo waves it off, stepping closer, launching into his pitch. I listen from above, every word clear in the empty space…
“Grand plans, boys,” Milo trills. “Under new ownership, this place will be transformed. High-end events, private viewings, maybe even a rooftop addition. The buyer's got vision. Way bigger than that Russian thug who tried strong-arming me before. Jeez.”
Eddie tilts his head. “New owner? Who?”
Milo chuckles evasively. “Details later. But trust me, your show's back on. Bigger budget. More exposure.”
Robbie crosses his arms. “Sounds too good. What's the catch?”
“No catch, Robbie,” Milo answers, a mild note of irritation in his voice. “Just opportunity.”
I’ve heard enough. I signal to Alexander and Ivan. We move in silence down the stairs, shadows within shadows.
I step out first, boots echoing on the concrete. “Opportunity for who, Milo?”
He spins, face draining white. “You—”
Just like that, Milo makes a break for the door. It’s all too predictable. Alexander’s already there, his massive frame blocking the exit.
Milo slams into him, rebounds, looks like he might spin away in an entirely different direction.
Alexander grabs his collar, lifts him like a ragdoll, then drives a knee into his gut. Milo folds, gasping. Alexander hauls him up, pins him against the wall with one arm across his throat.
Eddie and Robbie back away, eyes wide.
Milo chokes, grits his teeth. “You’ll never get away with this. I have connections… political, powerful. They’ll bury you. Like they should have done last time.”
Ivan laughs—cold, mirthless.
I join him, stepping closer. “Connections like… Harry Caulfield?”
Milo’s eyes flicker. Confirmation, not that I needed it.
“Tell me,” I say. “When you say like they should have done last time… am I right in thinking that means you were involved? That you were plotting with Caulfield to kill me? That you were, in fact, responsible for my comrade’s death?”
“I… I’ll pay you,” Milo says. “A million. Please. It was just business. Nothing personal. You’ve killed people, don’t go acting all high and mighty now.”
I smile. Milo’s admission is clear as the bluest sky.
My hand dips into my jacket, fingers closing on the knife handle. Cold steel. Familiar.
“Alexander,” I say. “Take the boys outside.”
Alexander releases Milo, who slumps gasping, and herds Eddie and Robbie toward the back door. Eddie looks back once—his eyes full of fear, but trust too.
The door closes behind them.
Milo scrambles up. “Wait—please!”
I close in. My knife is out in a flash. One rapid motion across the throat.
Deep.
Precise.
Blood sprays, hot and coppery. Milo gurgles, hands clutching the wound, eyes wide in shock. He collapses to his knees, then face-first into a growing pool of crimson.
Ivan nods, watching the body twitch once, still.
“Sonofabitch,” Ivan says. “Rot in hell.”
I wipe the blade on Milo’s blazer, sheath it. Kick the body once—hard, ribs crunching.
“Fucking rat,” I say, my voice cold.
The gallery feels smaller now, the air thick with death.
Ivan glances at the door. “So… the body?”
“Alexander will clean up,” I say, reaching down for Milo’s pocket and pulling out his phone. “This will come in handy.”
Ivan grunts his approval. We exit through the back, into the alley.
The Night air hits me and I take a long, deep breath. This isn’t over, but I’m a step closer. And that’s a good thing. But Caulfield will be tougher than Milo…
I motion for Alexander to head inside for clean-up duty.
The boys look okay, but only just. Eddie is pale but steady, Robbie similar, gripping his Little friend’s hand.
“Done?” Eddie asks quietly.
I nod. “Let's go.”
“Hey, there’s a first time for everything,” Ivan says, pointing me and the boys inside his apartment. “Yes, I’m a private man. But… there comes a time where even I have to open up.”
“It’s an honor,” I say, the pair of us exchanging a sly look of acknowledgement.
We’ve always been close, but this feels like a barrier coming down between us.
The elevator opens directly into Ivan’s penthouse, high above the city’s restless glow. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls frame the skyline. Lights strung like necklaces across bridges and towers.
The space is sparse, deliberate… black leather furniture, low tables of smoked glass, a single abstract painting in violent reds and blacks on the far wall.
No clutter.
No excess.
Ivan lives like a man who might need to leave in thirty seconds and never look back.
I watch as Ivan crosses to the bar cart, pours four heavy tumblers of single malt. The amber liquid catches the city light like liquid fire. He hands one to each of us without ceremony.
“To tomorrow,” Ivan says, raising his glass.
We drink.
Ivan and I laugh as the boys do their best to handle the whisky but both succumb to making scrunched up faces as the burn hits.
For us two, it’s normal. The whisky burns clean down my throat, grounding the adrenaline that’s been simmering since the gallery.
Milo’s blood is still fresh in my memory—hot, sticky, final. And Caulfield is next. The meeting with our finest soldiers and generals is set for before dawn—a neutral warehouse on the edge of the docks. No phones, no outside communication. Just faces we trust and orders that will end this.
We sit.
The boys are on the thick white rug near the windows, legs tucked under them, a scattering of coloring books, markers, and a few candies spread between them.
Robbie is giggling at something Eddie’s drawn—a cartoonish hare with exaggerated muscles and a tiny crown. Eddie laughs too, softer, but real.
The sound cuts through the room’s tension like sunlight through smoke.
“If only our life was so easy,” Ivan says.
“Hey, our life isn’t easy!” Robbie sasses, rolling his eyes and kicking his heels on the floor.
I watch them for a moment. They’ve been through a lot, it’s true. And just because it’s not them doing the plotting or killing, it doesn’t make it any easier for them. After all, they’re not from mine and Ivan’s world. Not even close.
Ivan follows my gaze. “He’s good for you,” he says quietly—a statement, not a question.
I don’t answer. I simply nod and sip my whisky.
I set my glass down. “Tomorrow… no survivors who can talk. Caulfield dies last. He watches his people fall, whoever they might be.”
The words hang. Heavy. Final.
“Indeed,” Ivan says. “You’re the Pakhan your family has been waiting for.”
“It could be your family too,” I say—an offer, nothing official, but my way of testing the water. “We’ll talk about it another time. Perhaps when this is over.”
“Perhaps,” Ivan answers.
Robbie glances over, his smile fading as he catches the tone between Ivan and me. Eddie looks up too, pencil pausing mid-stroke. He reads my face and the light in his eyes dims.
I stand, cross to him. “Come here, baby boy.”
He sets the pencil down, rises, and walks into my arms. I pull him close, his head tucking under my chin. He fits perfectly… small, warm, trembling just a little.
Robbie watches us, his expression soft but guarded.
I lower my voice so only Eddie can hear. “Tomorrow is judgement day. If anything goes wrong…”
His breath hitches. “Don’t.”
I tighten my hold. “You need to know. You mean more to me than I thought possible. More than I ever thought I could feel again.”
He pulls back just enough to look up at me. Tears shimmer in his eyes, but they don’t fall. “Don’t talk like that. You’re coming back. I know you are. I know a million-billion times you are!”
I brush a thumb across his cheek. “I intend to. But tonight… we enjoy what we have.”
And with that, I pick Eddie up and carry him to the bedroom.
Dawn will be upon us soon, it’s time to make the most of what little time we have left…