Chapter 6 Kirill #2
Anything to clear my head and push the lingering images of Teddy from my mind.
I grab my coat and slip out quietly, nodding once to the doorman who knows better than to ask questions.
The neighborhood is upper-class and hushed at this hour—tree-lined streets, elegant brownstones with wrought-iron gates, and the occasional luxury car parked under soft streetlamps.
The kind of place where old money sleeps soundly behind heavy drapes, unaware of the violence that funded their comfort.
My footsteps echo faintly on the sidewalk, the cool night air sharp against my face.
It helps, if only a little.
As I turn a corner, the glow of lights spills from a building ahead. A late-night actors studio, its sign discreet but illuminated. Laughter drifts out into the street—light, bright, unrestrained. I slow my pace, drawn by the sound despite myself.
Then I see him.
“You have to be kidding me,” I mutter to myself.
Teddy steps out with a small group of boys, all in their early twenties, still buzzing from whatever scene work or improv they have just finished. He is in the center, gesturing animatedly with both hands, his face alight with energy.
Even from across the street, I can see the flush of excitement on his cheeks, the way his eyes sparkle under the streetlights.
Teddy throws his head back and laughs at something one of the others says, the sound carrying clearly through the quiet night—genuine, infectious, full of that relentless optimism that defines him.
The boy looks… alive. Pumped. Completely in his element, far removed from the gym, the protein shakes, or the wary caution he showed me over coffee.
This is the Teddy who dreams big, who fights for every audition and every client.
The one who dared to confront a pakhan on a public sidewalk without flinching.
I hang back in the shadows of a brownstone entrance, watching.
My hand tightens on the railing.
He is beautiful like this—unguarded, joyful, his lean frame moving with expressive energy as he recounts some story, arms waving.
Part of me wants to cross the road right then.
To step into the light, say hello, see that flush appear on his cheeks again because of me this time.
I want to feel that electric spark one more time before I force myself back into the cold reality of my world.
I take a step forward, already calculating the distance.
But then my phone vibrates in my pocket.
I pause, pulling it out. The screen lights up with a message from Ivan...
IVAN: One of your men found dead downtown. Stabbed. Body dumped near the old warehouse district. Looks professional. Call me.
The words hit like ice water.
Teddy’s laughter fades into the background as reality crashes back in. One of my men. Dead. Stabbed. This is not random street violence—this is a message. Someone testing the new pakhan. Someone bold enough to strike directly at the family so soon after my father’s murder.
“Fuck,” I growl. “This will not stand.”
Business mode snaps into place instantly, cold and unforgiving. The warmth I felt watching Teddy evaporates.
No more distractions.
No more slipping.
My jaw tightens as I type a quick reply to Ivan…
KIRILL: Details. Now. Meeting at the compound in one hour. Bring what you have.
I slip the phone back into my pocket and take one last look across the street. Teddy and his friends are still chatting, one of the boys linking arms with him as they start walking down the block. He looks so small, so bright against the night. Untouched by the darkness that follows me everywhere.
Crossing the road now would be selfish.
Dangerous even.
It would pull the young man one step closer to a world that would chew him up and spit him out.
I turn away, forcing my legs to move in the opposite direction. The walk back toward the apartment makes it clear to me. Each step reinforces the decision.
It is time.
Time to call together my top soldiers and advisors. Time to truly begin my reign as head of the family. No more mourning. No more consolidation in the shadows.
The city needs to see that the Antonov family is not weakened—it is sharper, hungrier, and far more ruthless under the new pakhan.
Whoever killed my man—and whoever ordered my father’s death—will learn that lesson in blood.
By the time I reach the SUV in my apartment’s basement parking lot, my driver is ready and waiting. And my mind is already mapping out the meeting: who to bring in, what questions to ask, which streets to lock down, which rivals to pressure first.
The fantasy from earlier, the warmth of the coffee, the sight of Teddy laughing under the streetlights—all of it locked away behind iron resolve. That’s gone now, and it’s not coming back any time soon.
“Compound,” I tell the driver as I slide into the back seat. My voice is steel again. “Fast.”
The engine roars to life, carrying me away from the quiet neighborhood and back into the night where I belong.
Teddy will train Bobby.
I will help with his acting dreams as promised—nothing more.
Distance is mercy.
Because in my world, closeness only ends one way.
And I refuse to let that sweet boy become another casualty of the Antonov legacy.