Chapter Seventeen
Aleksei
I know where to find him.
The Capitol Lounge in Silver Heights. Not the most obvious choice for a confrontation, but perfect for my purposes. Exclusive. Controlled. And according to Sofia’s bitter ramblings during our engagement, her father’s Friday night ritual.
Today is Friday. I’ll never have a better opportunity.
I study my reflection in the bathroom mirror, applying the final touches to my disguise.
The beard sticks perfectly to my jawline, dark and full enough to change the shape of my face without looking theatrical.
Tinted glasses obscure my eyes. A custom-tailored suit— different from my usual style— completes the transformation.
Not unrecognizable, but enough to buy crucial seconds if needed.
This isn’t an assassination. Just a warning. A conversation with consequences.
Sasha waits by the car, expression neutral as I approach. He opens the door without comment, though his eyes linger on my disguise.
“The Capitol Lounge,” I tell him, sliding into the backseat. “Wait outside. If I’m not back in thirty minutes, come in after me.”
“Sure, boss.” He nods, starting the engine. “Weapons check?”
I pat my jacket. “Just the Glock and the PSM. This isn’t a war.”
Not yet, anyway.
The drive through Los Angeles takes us from downtown to the hills, where mansions hide behind gates and privacy hedges. Silver Heights sits at the summit— a neighborhood where wealth whispers rather than shouts, where power moves quietly through handshakes in private clubs.
The Capitol Lounge occupies a colonial-style building set back from the road, its exterior understated aside from a small brass plaque beside the door. No signs. No advertisements. Those who belong know where to find it.
Sasha pulls to the curb half a block away. “Thirty minutes,” he confirms.
I nod, stepping out into the cool evening air. The neighborhood hums with quiet money—the soft purr of luxury engines, the clinking of ice in crystal glasses from hidden patios. A place where men like Sergei Novikov feel safe.
A mistake I intend to correct.
The doorman recognizes neither my face nor my name, but the black card I present speaks a language he understands. He steps aside with a deferential nod, gesturing toward the interior.
I enter the sanctum of America’s elite.
Dark wood paneling. Leather upholstery in deep burgundy. Crystal decanters catching light from discreet fixtures. The scent of aged whiskey and Cuban cigars hangs in the air— both technically illegal, both readily available to those who matter.
My first stop is the men’s room. I need to understand the terrain.
The bathroom matches the lounge’s opulence— marble countertops, individual hand towels, attendant conspicuously absent. Perfect for my purposes, except for one detail: a small security camera mounted in the corner, its red light blinking steadily.
I retreat to a secluded alcove and dial Vasya.
“I’m in position,” I tell him when he answers. “I need you to prepare for a power cut in Silver Heights when I signal. Specifically, The Capitol Lounge.”
“Wait,” Vasya’s voice crackles through the connection. “Their system is isolated from the main grid. I can’t override it remotely without access.”
“How long?”
“Fuck knows. An hour to hack it, maybe more.”
I suppress a curse. “What the fuck am I supposed to do in this fucking costume for an hour?”
“I don’t fucking know, brat .” His keyboard clicks rapidly in the background. “Get inside. Get a drink. Flirt with a waitress.”
“Just hurry.” I end the call, irritation simmering beneath my skin as I shoot a text to Sasha.
Change of plans.
Give me an hour.
An hour is a long time to maintain a disguise in hostile territory. Especially for a man my size.
I move into the main lounge, scanning the room methodically. Twenty-three patrons. Four staff. Two exits. One target.
Sergei Novikov occupies a corner booth, looking every inch the Russian oligarch. A woman half his age sits beside him, her hand resting possessively on his arm. Young, blonde, expensive— the type of woman men like Novikov collect to prove they still can.
I catalog the threats surrounding him. Two men at the bar, positioned for optimal sightlines. Another at a nearby table, shoulders too broad for his tailored suit. Bodyguards posing as patrons. Amateur work, but effective enough.
I select a table with a clear view of Novikov’s booth while keeping my back to the wall. A waiter approaches immediately.
“Just water,” I tell him. “And perhaps the charcuterie board. Served slowly.”
He nods, disappearing silently. I settle in for the wait, keeping my posture relaxed despite the tension coiling inside me.
Novikov laughs at something his companion says, his hand sliding up her thigh in a practiced gesture. The same hand that signed contracts with my former clients. The same hand that shook James Whitmore’s after stealing my Pentagon deal.
Pizda.
I’d like to take that hand off at the wrist.
I force my attention elsewhere, cataloging the room’s occupants. A senator with a woman not his wife. A tech billionaire drinking alone. Two studio executives arguing quietly over financing.
Powerful men creating the illusion of privacy in a place designed to be seen.
My thoughts drift to Stella, to her face before I left. The confusion in her eyes. The questions I couldn’t answer.
“I have to handle something. I’ll be back soon.”
A lie by omission. She deserved better, but the truth is something she doesn’t need to know. Better she think me cold than know I’m hunting.
The waiter returns with water and a carefully arranged board of meats and cheeses I have no intention of eating. I thank him with a nod, forcing my mind back to the present. To the mission.
Stella is a distraction I can’t afford right now.
Fifty minutes crawl by. I watch Novikov order another drink, whisper something in his companion’s ear that makes her giggle. His bodyguards maintain their positions, occasionally scanning the room with cool indifference.
I call Vasya again.
“Almost done,” he says before I can speak. “Give me fifteen more minutes.”
“Fifteen,” I repeat. “No longer.”
The connection ends. I check my watch, counting down the seconds. Fourteen minutes and thirty seconds. Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight.
The longest fifteen minutes of my life.
Novikov drains his glass. His companion excuses herself, heading toward the ladies’ room. One bodyguard shifts position slightly, maintaining visual contact with his principal.
Thirteen minutes. Twelve.
I sip water, keeping my movements unhurried. The beard itches against my skin. The glasses press uncomfortably against my nose. Small discomforts, easily ignored.
Ten minutes. Nine.
Novikov checks his phone, frowning at whatever he sees. He types a response, movements sharp with annoyance. Business, perhaps. Or another woman demanding his attention.
Or maybe stealing another one of my contracts, the cunt.
Seven minutes. Six.
His companion returns, sliding into the booth gracefully. She says something that makes him laugh, his irritation forgotten. His hand returns to her thigh, possessive.
Four minutes. Three.
I signal the waiter for the check, preparing my exit. Timing is everything now. If Novikov doesn’t move soon, I’ll need to create a reason for him to visit the restroom.
Two minutes. One.
Novikov stands abruptly, murmuring something to his companion. He moves toward the back of the lounge, toward the restrooms. Alone.
Fucking perfect.
I wait until he disappears from view, then send a text to Vasya: Now .
Thirty seconds later, I follow Novikov’s path to the men’s room. I hear the sink running as I push the door open. He stands at the counter, washing his hands, his back to me.
I count silently.
Three.
Two.
One.
The lights cut out. Darkness swallows the room.
“ Chert voz’mi ,” Novikov curses.
I move before his eyes can adjust to the darkness, crossing the distance between us in two strides. My hand finds his throat, pushing him against the wall with enough force to startle but not injure.
His eyes bulge as recognition dawns. “Tarasov,” he chokes out.
“You fucking thief,” I keep my voice low, controlled. “Did you think I wouldn’t figure it out?”
He struggles against my grip, face flushing. “ Poshel na khuy, ” he spits. “What the fuck did you expect after you walked out on my daughter at your wedding?”
“And what the fuck did you expect for stealing my business?” I push harder against his throat, punctuating my words.
Fear flickers across his face, quickly masked by defiance. “What… do you want?” he forces out, the question strained through my grip on his throat.
“Cancel the contracts with Whitmore.”
“Fuck you!” he snaps, spittle misting my face. I twist my grasp, knuckles pressing into his carotid artery. His eyes start to roll back before I ease up a little.
“I can do this all day,” I growl.
“Alright, alright,” he wheezes, hands raised in surrender. “Just let me go and let’s talk, okay?”
I release him, stepping back just enough to maintain control of the situation. A mistake.
His fear vanishes, replaced by something worse— confidence. He moves with surprising speed for a man his age, one hand reaching inside his jacket. Metal glints in the dim emergency lighting as he pulls a gun, pressing it against my ribs.
“Not so tough now, are you?” he hisses, forcing me back against the wall. His breath reeks of expensive whiskey and cheap triumph. “You think I came unprepared? You think I haven’t been waiting for you to make your move?”
I keep my expression neutral, calculating angles, distances, risks. The gun presses harder into my side.
“I know about your freak son, Tarasov.” His voice drops lower, vicious with satisfaction. “And if you don’t want me to air your dirty laundry, you’ll leave me alone and let me continue my business.”
Something breaks inside me. Not control— something deeper.
The world narrows to a single point: his knowing smile. His knowledge of Bobik. The threat hanging between us.
I move without conscious thought, years of training taking over. My hand knocks the gun sideways before his finger can squeeze the trigger, the weapon clattering across the floor. But it comes at a price.
Novikov may be aging, but he fights with the desperate strength of a cornered animal. His fist connects with my jaw, splitting my lip. I taste copper, feel the adhesive of my fake beard loosening.
We grapple in the near-darkness, crashing against stalls, sinks, walls. His knee drives into my stomach. My elbow connects with his temple. Neither of us willing to yield.
“I’ll destroy him, you hear me?” Novikov pants, blood streaming from his nose. “I’ll tell everyone about your crippled boy. How the great Aleksei Tarasov hides his fucked-up kid—”
“ Ty umresh’ pervym ,” I snarl. I grab him by the lapels and slam him backward. His head connects with the porcelain sink with a sickening crack and he falls to the ground.
His body goes instantly limp.
He slides to the floor, eyes open but seeing nothing, a dark pool spreading beneath his silver hair.
Silence fills the bathroom, broken only by my ragged breathing.
Blyad.
This wasn’t the plan. It was to give him a scare.
I kneel beside him, checking for a pulse I already know isn’t there. His skin cools beneath my fingers, life draining away with his blood.
The emergency lights flicker, then stabilize. The main power will return soon. I have minutes, perhaps seconds, before someone investigates.
Trakhni menya!
I stand, mind racing through scenarios, consequences, solutions. Novikov’s death will trigger a war between our organizations, regardless of how it happened. But an assassination carries different implications than an accident.
Decision made, I move quickly.
First, the gun— I wipe it clean and place it back in his jacket, careful not to disturb the position of his body.
Next, the scene— I adjust the angle of his fall to make it appear as if he slipped on the wet floor.
Finally, the evidence— I remove my fake beard, glasses, and bloody jacket, stuffing them into the trash beneath several paper towels.
The bathroom window is narrow but serviceable. I force it open, wincing at the scrape of metal on metal, and pull myself through the opening. The alley beyond is empty, shadowed by the building’s bulk.
I drop to the ground, straightening my shirt and retrieving the backup jacket I’d stashed in my messenger bag. The transformation from disguised assailant to respectable businessman takes less than thirty seconds.
My phone vibrates. Sasha.
“It’s done,” I tell him before he can speak. “But there’s been a complication.”
“What kind of complication?” His voice sharpens.
“He’s dead.”
A pause. “Fuck, Aleksei. That wasn’t the plan.”
“He knew about Bobik.”
Another pause, longer this time. “How?”
“I don’t know. But I intend to find out.”
I end the call, already moving toward the street where the car waits. My mind catalogs the immediate threats: security cameras outside the lounge, potential witnesses, the investigation that will follow.
All manageable problems.
The larger issue— how Novikov knew about my son— remains. Someone close to me has betrayed my trust. Someone with access to my most closely guarded secret.
The list of possibilities is short and deeply troubling.
I reach the car, sliding into the backseat. Sasha meets my eyes in the rearview mirror, noting my split lip, my missing disguise, the tension in my shoulders.
“Drive,” I tell him. “We’re leaving.”
He pulls away from the curb without question, merging smoothly into traffic. Only when we’re several blocks away does he speak.
“Should I be concerned about pursuit?”
“Not immediately.” I wipe a smear of blood from my chin. “It will appear to be an accident. For now.”
Sasha nods, accepting my assessment without further questions. His loyalty is one of the few certainties in my life.
As we drive through the darkening city, my thoughts return to Bobik. To his vulnerability. To the fact that someone— perhaps someone I trust— has placed him in danger. And to Stella, waiting for me at Blackwood Manor.
I didn’t come to The Capitol Lounge intending to kill Sergei Novikov. But intentions mean nothing in the face of results.
He threatened my son. Now he’s dead.
And anyone else who makes the same mistake will meet the same fate.