Chapter 24
Viktor
“Do it,” I growl, even hinting at a smile in the corner of my mouth. “Your hand will break before my spirit does.”
The next punch lands square on my jaw, snapping my head to the side with a crack that echoes through the whitewashed room. Blood fills my mouth again… warm, metallic, mixing with the sweat dripping from my brow. I spit it out, a red glob hitting the tile floor with a wet splat.
The thug in front of me—big, bald, tattoos snaking up his neck like out of control vines—grins, shaking out his fist. His knuckles are split, but he doesn't care.
The only problem?
Neither do I.
I remain stoic, eyes locked on his, giving him nothing. No grunt. No flinch. No sign that the pain is anything more than an annoyance.
They've been at this for hours—fists to the face, boots to the ribs, the occasional knee to the gut. The techno music pounds on, a relentless hammer to match their blows, designed to break the spirit as much as the body.
But I won't break.
Not for these low-rent mercenaries.
And especially not for Caulfield.
It would be easy to give in. Sign the papers he's dangling, hand over the properties, the empire I've built brick by bloody brick. Accept the "deal" and get a quick bullet to the head.
End the pain. Free myself of the struggle.
Fuck no.
Easy isn't in my blood. The family's business is at stake. Generations of Volkovs have fought for what we have—territory, respect, power. If I fold now, it crumbles. Rivals swarm like wolves. The name Volkov becomes a joke whispered in back rooms.
No.
A pakhan fights until the end and never, ever backs down.
I am the Devil of Downtown. I don't yield.
The thug winds up for another—stomach this time. His partner, leaner with a scar across his cheek, watches from the corner, arms crossed, waiting his turn. They've got rhythm, these two: punch, pause, taunt, repeat. Trying to wear me down for when Caulfield returns with his bullshit offer again.
The blow lands low, just under the ribs.
Air whooshes out of me, but I clench my core, absorb it. I use the momentum to test the ropes again, making subtle twist of my wrists behind the chair. They've loosened a fraction over the hours, fibers fraying from my constant, hidden work.
I’m not free yet, but close.
Close enough that hope flickers, sharp as a blade.
Scarface checks his watch. "I'm stepping out. Two minutes. Don't kill him yet."
Baldy snorts. "Wouldn't dream of it. Boss wants him talking."
Scarface leaves, door clicking shut. The music throbs on—synth screams over bass that vibrates the chair bolts.
Baldy circles me, cracking his knuckles. "You know, Russian, you could make this easy. Sign the papers. Get it over with."
I don't answer. Just stare.
He laughs. "Tough guy. Fine."
He steps in for the gut again. I brace—then use the impact. As my body jerks forward from the punch, I yank hard with my arms, hiding the motion in the flinch. The ropes give—a snap of fiber, not full, but weaker. Much weaker. Blood slicks my wrists now, lubricant from the chafing.
One more good pull might do it…
“Come on,” I provoke. “Is that your max? Pffft. Caulfield really went for the budget option with you…”
But rather than lose his cool, Baldy steps back, wiping sweat from his brow. His eyes narrow. He’s suspicious. Did he feel something? Hear it over the music? Or does this neanderthal actually have a gut instinct that something is up?
I can’t risk it.
It’s now or never.
I tense, ready to rip free. The chair might break, but surprise is on my side. One thug. Neck snap or choke. Then the door.
But just as I coil to act, the side door way on the other end of the room swings open with a bang. Two figures burst in, wild-eyed, dancing, waving their arms and kicking their legs like they’re at a rave.
What the hell?
It’s Eddie and Robbie.
Baldy whirls, perplexed. "Who the fu—"
The split second is all I need. I yank—ropes tear free.
The chair cracks as I lunge. Baldy turns back too late.
My fist connects with his solar plexus—hard, driving up under the ribs.
Air explodes from him. He doubles over. I grab his head, twist…
sharp, final. The piece of shit’s neck breaks clean and he crumples like a dropped puppet.
Eddie stares, eyes wide. "Viktor!"
I cross to him in two strides, pull him into my arms. He’s really here… warm, trembling, his heart hammering against my chest. "What are you doing here? How?"
Robbie has moved back to the door, peeking out. "We came to save you. Alexander helped. But hurry. We won’t have long."
I kiss Eddie's forehead and he attempts to speak.
"No time, boy,” I say. “Ivan?"
"Not seen him,” Robbie says, urgency in his voice.
“Daddy, I love you!” Eddie says, unable to resist.
But before I can reply, the main door opens. The second thug returns, coffee in hand. A quick glance and he sees me, the boys, and the body. "What—"
I move, grab his arm, twist the coffee away, scalding liquid splashing his face. He howls. I drive an elbow into his throat, crush the windpipe. He gurgles, drops. I finish with a knee to the temple. Unconscious. Then hands on his head—snap. Done.
Silence, except for the techno still pounding.
Eddie clings to me. "Oh God."
Robbie pales but stays steady. "We have to go."
Eddie pulls back. "I know where Caulfield is. Upstairs. Living room."
I nod. "Show me."
We exit through the side door and hit the narrow service hall, pipes and wiring exposed and a far cry from the polished wealth of the house.
The boys move quick, quiet.
I follow, every step agony—ribs grinding, vision spotting from the head blows—but adrenaline surges. I’m free. But I know that this is far from over.
Eddie glances back. "Are you okay, Daddy?"
"Alive." I manage a grim smile. "Thanks to you and Robbie."
He blushes, but his eyes shine. "We couldn't wait."
The hall ends at stairs. Up we go… slow, listening for footsteps. At the top, a door to the main house.
Robbie peeks. "Clear."
We slip into a grand foyer… marble, chandeliers. Voices from the living room ahead. Caulfield's laugh, oily and confident, is accompanied by the sound of giggling boys. He’s preoccupied, and certainly won’t be expecting to see me. The time to strike is now.
I glance back at the basement door, the bodies below. Those men got lucky—a quick death. Clean. Merciful, even.
Caulfield won't be so lucky.
"Stay here," I whisper to the boys. "Call Alexander. Tell him we're out, and that we’ll need backup to handle Caulfield’s men."
Eddie nods, phone out. Robbie guards the door and fist bumps me as I prepare to face down Caulfield for one final time…
I stalk into the living area like a storm breaking open. The room is vast—high ceilings, white marble floors reflecting the low chandelier light, modern furniture arranged around a massive sectional where Caulfield lounges, surrounded by party boys in glittering dresses.
Laughter dies the moment I step through the archway.
Glasses freeze mid-sip.
Eyes widen.
Caulfield is in the center, legs crossed, drink in hand, mid-sentence. He sees me and the color drains from his face. The gun on the table beside him is suddenly the most important thing in the room.
A security thug lunges from the side. “Stop!”
I don’t. I sweep his leg in one fluid motion, boot hooking behind his ankle. He topples, arms windmilling. Before he hits the ground I stomp down hard on his throat—cartilage crunches and his windpipe collapses. He gurgles once, then goes still.
Caulfield scrambles up, snatching the gun. His hand shakes, just like the amateur gangster he is. He fires—wild, panicked. The shot goes wide, punching a hole in the drywall behind me. Plaster dust drifts down like snow.
“Fucker!” Caulfield cries, a manic edge to him that I haven’t witnessed before. He’s rattled. But that might just make him dangerous.
He bolts—toward the spiral staircase at the far end of the room. Boys scream, scattering. I chase, my boots pounding marble, blood still slick on my knuckles from the basement. Caulfield is fast when he’s scared—up the curving stairs, two at a time, glancing back with terror in his eyes.
I hit the stairs hard, taking them in leaps. He reaches the top, disappears down a hallway. I follow, lungs burning, ribs grinding with every breath.
The hallway is long—doors on both sides, modern art, recessed lighting. Caulfield’s footsteps echo ahead. This might be his house, but he won’t lose me. No chance.
Caulfield bursts into what must be his bedroom and I follow behind. It’s a massive space, king bed, glass wall overlooking the estate grounds. Moonlight pours in, silver and cold. He spins, gun up. Fires again. The shot shatters a vase on a side table behind me—glass explodes, shards raining down.
I duck behind a tall armoire, my heart slamming. He’s cornered. Balcony doors behind him—open to the night.
There’s only one way out.
But time isn’t on my side. Caulfield’s men will swarm soon—alarms must be screaming somewhere. I need to end this now.
I say a quick prayer—silent, wordless.
Then I charge.
Out from cover, I run straight at him. He fires—misses again, the bullet punching into the wall. I close the distance in three strides, grab his wrist, twist hard. Bone cracks. The gun clatters to the floor.
We scuffle. It’s close, brutal. If I wasn’t inured it would be easier, but with my aching joints Caulfield manages to put up a fight.
This ain’t over.
He claws at my face, I drive a knee into his gut. He doubles over, gasping. I grip his neck—one hand around his throat, the other fisting his shirt. We stumble backward toward the balcony railing.
Caulfield’s strong—perhaps a panic-fueled strength—but I’m stronger.
I lift, then shove. His back hits the railing. The low balcony wall behind us—stars and darkness beyond.
“Viktor… wait—” His voice is choked, pleading.
I tighten my grip. “You tried to kill me. You tried to take everything.”
His eyes bulge. “I can pay—”
“No.”
I lift him off his feet, tilt him backwards, then let go.
Caulfield topples backward over the wall—arms windmilling, his screams cut short as he falls.
The drop is long. Concrete below. I hear a thudding crunch when he lands.
I lean over the edge and look down. Caulfield lies broken, blood pooling under his head like spilled ink.
But I have no time to contemplate my victory. Bullets rip through the air—automatic fire from below and above. Caulfield’s men are going out in ablaze of glory and I need to make sure that I’m not one of their victims.
I jump sideways onto the thick drainpipe running down the side of the house. It groans under my weight but holds. I slide, boots scraping metal, sparks flying. Bullets ping off the pipe, off the wall. I drop the last ten feet, roll on the grass, come up running.
Gunfire erupts behind me, then ahead.
My men.
The generals and soldiers arrive—Alexander at the lead, rifle barking. Ivan flanks him, pistol steady.
Caulfield’s men fall… quick, precise shots. No mercy.
I reach the driveway, chest heaving. Alexander spots me, lowers his weapon. “Boss.”
I nod. “Caulfield’s gone. You’ll find his body splattered on the ground.”
Alexander smiles and nods.
Ivan joins us, blood on his sleeve but moving fine. “Clean sweep.”
We walk over to Caulfield’s body. I kick it once—hard. “You got lucky,” I mutter. “Fell to your death. Too quick a death for a sonofabitch like you.”
“What matters is we won,” Ivan says.
“We?” I ask. “We definitely need to talk about my offer.”
“Soon,” Ivan smiles. “I’ve got some injuries I need to heal from first.”
Before we can talk any further, Eddie and Robbie run over—Eddie’s face pale, eyes wide. He throws himself into my arms. I hold him tight, breathing him in.
Robbie stands back, arms crossed, smiling faintly.
I look at him over Eddie’s head. “Thank you. For being such a good friend to my baby boy.”
Robbie shrugs. “He’s family, it’s what we do, right?”
I turn to Eddie, cup his face.
“I love you,” I say. “I want to be your Forever Daddy. But only if you’re sure that’s what you want. I can’t promise this is the last time you’ll have to see violence.”
Tears spill down his cheeks. “I want nothing more,” Eddie says. “Not the violence of course. But I’ll live with it if it means I get to be with you Forever, Daddy.”
I kiss him, my perfect boy.
My men gather around. One steps forward—Grisha’s son, broad like his father. “The family stands with you, Pakhan. Now and forever.”
Others nod. Then before I realize it, cheers of agreement ring out.
I look for Ivan. He’s already walking away—toward the woods, coat flapping, disappearing into shadow.
Typical Ivan. He’ll show up again when he’s ready. I’ll find out what happened to him then, and see whether he’s ready to join my family.
For now though, I have everything a man could need.
I hold Eddie close.
As a Pakhan, the city is mine.
But as a Daddy, the whole world is.