Chapter 4 Kirill
Kirill
The realtor fumbles slightly with the heavy brass key as we step into the foyer of the apartment.
The building is one of those old-money relics that still stands proud in the city’s historic district—pre-war construction with bones that no modern glass tower can match.
Mahogany paneling lines the walls, rich and dark, absorbing the light in a way that makes the space feel both intimate and imposing. High ceilings soar above us, adorned with intricate crown molding and subtle plasterwork that speaks of a time when craftsmanship matters more than speed.
This is a place fit for a pakhan, there’s no doubting that.
A grand fireplace dominates the living room, its marble surround veined with gray and gold.
It is functional, the realtor has assured me—gas logs now, but the original chimney still draws perfectly.
I can already picture a low fire crackling on colder nights, casting flickering shadows across the room while I conduct business or simply allow myself a rare moment of stillness.
“Rent is twenty-eight thousand per month,” the realtor says, his voice carefully modulated.
He keeps his eyes slightly lowered, shoulders straight but not challenging.
Smart man.
Word travels fast in certain circles, and even if he doesn’t know the full extent of who I am, he senses enough. Messing with Kirill Antonov is not a wise career move.
“Utilities included in the maintenance fee,” he continues. “The building has excellent security. Doorman, cameras, private elevator access for this unit.”
I walk slowly through the open-plan living and dining area, my shoes echoing softly on the polished hardwood.
The kitchen is modernized but respectful of the original architecture—black granite counters, stainless appliances that gleam under recessed lighting, yet the cabinetry retains warm walnut tones. No cheap flips here. This place has history.
“Acceptable,” I say, my voice low. Money is irrelevant. The Antonov family has more legitimate and less legitimate streams of income than most corporations.
What matters is the feel.
Defensibility.
Privacy.
It needs to be a place where I can think without the constant hum of the city pressing in too closely, yet still close enough to the financial district and our key operations.
The realtor nods quickly. “Of course, Mr. Antonov. The previous tenant was a diplomat who appreciated the discretion of the building.”
I stop near the tall windows overlooking the street. “I will take it. But I want time alone to walk through. Make sure it fits.”
The realtor doesn’t hesitate. “Absolutely. Take as long as you need. I’ll wait downstairs in the lobby. Just let the doorman know when you’re ready to leave, and I’ll handle the paperwork this afternoon.”
“Good.”
Once the door clicks shut behind the realtor, the apartment falls into a heavy silence broken only by the distant murmur of traffic far below. I loosen my tie slightly and move deeper into the space, my steps deliberate.
This will serve well as a secondary residence—somewhere away from the main family compound where eyes are always watching, including my own men. A place to breathe. To plan.
I push open the double doors to the grand master bedroom.
It is even more impressive than the listing photos suggested. A massive four-poster bed dominates the center, dark wood frame carved with subtle details, dressed in crisp white linens that contrast sharply with the deep mahogany tones of the room.
Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a sweeping view of the city skyline. Directly opposite stands an ornate Gothic building, its spires and arched windows reminiscent of old European cathedrals dropped into the modern metropolis.
At night, it will be spectacular: floodlit stone glowing against the dark, perhaps with fog rolling in to soften the edges. I can imagine standing here with a glass of vodka, watching the lights flicker while the city sleeps uneasily under my family’s influence.
I cross to the window, placing one hand on the cool glass. The view is commanding. Strategic. From here, one can see approaches from multiple directions.
My mind, however, betrays me.
Instead of focusing on sightlines or escape routes, it drifts back to the gym.
To the petite personal trainer in the lemon-yellow top.
Teddy. The way his cheeks flush when I speak to him.
The slight stumble in his words. The spark of defiance mixed with something softer when I tell him he will train Bobby.
He wants to argue—I can see it in his eyes—but he doesn’t. Not yet.
I shake my head sharply, pushing the image away like an unwelcome intruder.
No.
He will train my nephew. Bobby needs structure after the chaos of the last year—my father’s death has unsettled everyone, including the younger generation. A disciplined trainer like Teddy can provide that without asking questions. Payment will be generous. Contact beyond that will be nonexistent.
I have no room in my life for distractions, especially not one as soft and bright as him.
Guys like Teddy belong in a different world—full of early mornings, protein shakes, and optimistic dreams. My world is bullets, blood debts, and the constant shadow of the grave that claimed my father.
Bringing someone like him close will only paint a target on his back.
Or worse, make me weak.
I turn away from the window, the fantasy of night views dissolving.
The apartment will do. I will have my people sweep it for listening devices later today, install additional measures, and make the arrangements.
For now, it feels right. Solid, private, old-world strength wrapped in modern convenience.
I leave the bedroom, take one final pass through the living room—mentally noting where a desk could go for late-night work—and exit the apartment. The realtor waits downstairs exactly as promised, respectful and efficient. Papers will be signed by evening. Another piece of the board secured.
It is time to move…
* * *
Downtown, the café is quiet mid-morning, the kind of place that caters to professionals who prefer privacy over Instagram aesthetics. Dark wood booths, low lighting even during the day, and an espresso machine that hisses with precision.
I arrive first, choosing a corner table with my back to the wall.
My security team waits outside in the SUV—close enough to intervene, far enough not to crowd the conversation.
Ivan arrives ten minutes later, sliding into the seat opposite me with the fluid grace of a man who makes his living ending lives quietly.
He is tall, leaner than me, with sharp features and eyes that miss nothing.
Closely tied to Viktor’s organization but still operating as a freelance contractor when it suits him.
A useful bridge between families, especially now.
“Espresso,” I tell the waiter before Ivan can speak. He nods and orders the same.
Ivan leans back, a faint smile touching his lips. “Good to see you, Kirill. The pact with Viktor… I’m glad it’s done. Makes my position less awkward. Being friends with both sides used to require careful footwork. Maybe it still does. But this is something to work with.”
I nod once. “The city needs stability. Endless blood feuds benefit no one except the Italians and the cartels waiting to pick over the remains.”
The espressos arrive—small, dark, and bitter in the most perfect way. I take a sip, letting the caffeine cut through the morning.
Ivan studies me over the rim of his cup. “How is the transition treating you? Pakhan is a heavy crown.”
“It is what it is,” I reply evenly. “My father’s shoes were large. I intend to fill them and then some.”
Ivan chuckles softly. “Spoken like a true Antonov. Speaking of… how is your boy? The one you mentioned last time we spoke.”
I raise an eyebrow. “My boy?”
Ivan’s smile widens, teasing now. “Come on. You know what I mean. Now that you’re pakhan, the old man’s gone, the family is consolidating…
it’s time to think about settling down. A boy at your side.
Someone to warm that empty bed. Produce heirs.
Strengthen alliances. You can’t run everything alone forever. ”
“There is no boy, as you well know,” I say, my voice flat.
I set my cup down with deliberate calm. The suggestion irritates me more than it should. “I have no interest in finding ‘someone.’ My next and most important quest is to find the man—or men—who put a bullet in my father’s chest. True vengeance. Nothing else matters until that debt is paid in full.”
Ivan’s expression sobers instantly.
He respects my father deeply; everyone who has dealt with the old pakhan has.
“I want to help,” Ivan says. “Your father was a man of honor in his own way. Ruthless, yes, but he kept his word. If there’s anything I can do… information, contacts, a quiet blade… I’m in.”
I meet his gaze and give a short nod. “Thank you, Ivan. I will take you up on that. Your skills are… precise. The kind I like to work with.”
We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of the unspoken hanging between us. Vengeance is not just personal; it is necessary. The city needs to see that the new pakhan is not soft, not grieving in a way that leaves him vulnerable.
The hit on my father was bold—on our own territory, in broad daylight almost. Whoever ordered it has to be reminded, loudly and permanently, that crossing the Antonov family carries a death sentence.
I finish my espresso and signal for another. “It’s time to show the city that the new pakhan is never, ever to be crossed,” I say. “Whispers are already circulating. Some think the family is weakened. We will correct that impression.”
Ivan leans forward slightly. “Any leads yet on the shooter? Or who sent the shooter?”
“Nothing concrete. The gunman escaped too cleanly. Professional. But every professional leaves a trail if you look long enough. The coffee shop owner has been… encouraged to remember more details. My father’s surviving guard is still recovering, but when he’s able, he’ll talk.
And I have people watching the Italians, the Mexicans, even some of our own who might have grown too ambitious. ”
Ivan nods. “Smart. Start close to home, then expand. I know a few ghosts in the underworld who owe me favors. I can make enquiries.”
“Do it quietly for now,” I say. “No fireworks until we have a name. When we do… the response will be memorable.”
The conversation shifts to lighter operational matters—shared supply lines that can be optimized under the new pact, a troublesome lieutenant in one of Viktor’s crews who might need reining in.
Ivan is sharp, loyal in his own detached way. Having him as an ally eases some of the pressure that has settled on my shoulders since the funeral.
Yet even as we speak, my thoughts drift once more to the edges of control.
To the gym. To Teddy’s flushed face and the way his small, strong body moves with disciplined grace on the shoulder press machine.
The way he looks at me… not with fear exactly, but with a mix of surprise and something warmer. Forbidden.
I crush the thought immediately. Teddy is staff now. Temporary. Bobby’s trainer and nothing more. Any other ideas are a luxury I cannot afford. Distractions lead to mistakes. Mistakes lead to graves.
My father taught me that lesson well, even if he grew softer toward the end.
I pay the bill in cash—generous tip included—and stand. Ivan rises with me.
“Keep me updated,” I say. “And thank you again for the offer of help.”
“Always, pakhan.”
We shake hands firmly. Outside, the city bustles under a gray sky. My SUV waits at the curb, engine idling. As I slide into the back seat, I allow myself one final glance toward the café before the door closes.
Vengeance first.
The family’s dominance second.
Everything else—boys, softness, the tempting image of a bright-eyed trainer who smells like pre-workout and optimism—comes nowhere on the list.
Still, as the car pulls into traffic and the Gothic spires of the city rise around us, I cannot quite shake the memory of his voice stumbling over my name.
“Teddy,” I murmur under my breath, testing it.
No. Dangerous territory.
I pull out my phone and send a quick message to my assistant: Confirm the trainer’s first session with Bobby tomorrow. Ensure he understands the expectations. No deviations.
Business. Nothing more.
The car accelerates, carrying me deeper into the day’s responsibilities. Meetings with accountants to launder another shipment’s proceeds. A sit-down with a city council contact who needs reminding where his loyalties lie. And always, in the background, the quiet hunt for my father’s killer.
The new pakhan has work to do.
And the city will soon learn exactly what kind of man now holds the reins.