Chapter 18 – Timofey
“Where are you?” Mike asks the moment I pick up the call.
I lean back in my chair, dragging a hand down my face. My eyes ache from staring at screens for too long, but stopping isn’t really an option right now.
“Home,” I say.
There’s a pause. Then—
“Come over. We need to talk about Anton.”
My jaw tightens slightly. “Now?”
“Now.”
I exhale slowly, already knowing I don’t have the luxury of refusing.
“Give me thirty minutes,” I mutter.
“Make it twenty.”
The line goes dead.
I lower the phone and sit there for a moment longer, still. Thinking. Calculating. Reorganizing everything I already know in my head.
Anton doesn’t move without intention. And Mike doesn’t call like this unless something has shifted.
I push myself up from the chair.
“On my way,” I say quietly.
Several days have passed since the ambush on our way back from the beach house. Things are quiet—but I know better than to trust silence. Anton isn’t quiet. He’s calculating. Waiting.
My arm heals quickly, thanks to proper treatment, though I still keep the bandage on out of habit. A reminder more than a necessity now. The pain is gone, but the message it left behind isn’t.
Despite everything, I don’t slow down. There’s too much moving beneath the surface. Too many pieces I still need to lock in place before Anton makes his next move.
I step out of my office, shoving my hands into my jacket, when I nearly collide with Elena.
She steps back quickly.
“Sir,” she greets.
“Has Valeria had lunch?” I ask immediately.
She straightens. “Yes, sir.”
Good.
Elena has been consistent ever since the poisoning incident at the gala. Careful. Precise. Too aware of what it means if she isn’t. She’s in charge of all of Valeria’s meals now—breakfast, lunch, dinner—nothing goes unmonitored. No mistakes allowed.
“Good,” I say.
I look at her more directly now.
“Make sure she’s eating properly,” I add. “And no unnecessary stress.”
Elena nods once. “Yes, sir.”
I don’t linger.
I continue down the hallway.
Misha is already downstairs.
“Get the car,” I tell him. “We’re heading to Mike’s.”
He doesn’t ask questions. Just moves.
In under an hour, we’re at Mike’s office. The place feels colder than usual. Or maybe it’s just me noticing it differently. The air carries a strange tension—like something has already gone wrong, and I’m just late to the conversation.
Mike doesn’t waste time. The moment I walk in, he’s already watching me. No greeting. No small talk. He pours whiskey into a glass and pushes it toward me.
I take it and down it in one go. The burn barely registers.
“Talk,” I say, setting the glass down. “What’s the issue?”
Mike exhales slowly. Then he slides a folder across the table.
“This isn’t slowing down,” he says.
I open it.
Reports. Surveillance. Movement logs. Territory shifts.
Anton.
I read through it quickly, my jaw tightening the further I go.
Mike continues, his voice steady but heavy. “He’s expanding inside the city faster than we anticipated. Not just movement—structure. He’s building something here.”
I don’t look up.
“He’s not testing boundaries anymore,” Mike adds. “He’s establishing them.”
That makes me pause.
Slowly, I close the folder.
“So the war’s moving closer,” I say quietly.
Mike nods once.
“Closer than you think.”
I study him for a moment.
Mike doesn’t exaggerate. If anything, he underplays things until they’re already halfway out of control. So if he’s saying this now, it means we’re already past the warning stage.
“How close?” I ask.
He leans back in his chair, exhaling through his nose.
“Close enough that he’s stopped operating like an outsider,” he says. “He’s inside the system now.”
“Explain.”
Mike slides another sheet across the table. “Shell companies. Front logistics. Two shipping routes that didn’t exist a month ago now moving through local ports under different names.”
I glance down, scanning quickly.
“And?” I prompt.
“And he’s not doing it alone,” Mike adds. “He’s recruiting locally. Not foot soldiers. Operators.”
That gets my attention.
I look up. “Inside our city?”
Mike holds my gaze. “Yes.”
A slow silence settles. I’m already shifting into strategy in my head.
I’m about to speak when the door swings open.
Misha.
He steps in too fast, phone still pressed to his ear. His expression is wrong immediately. Tight. Alert. Controlled panic barely held in place.
I’m on my feet before he even speaks.
“What?” I snap.
Misha lowers the phone slightly, eyes locking onto mine. “Sir….”
That tone alone tells me everything before the words come.
“A guard just called from the estate,” he says. “Valeria has been poisoned.”
The room goes silent instantly. Like someone cut the air out.
My body moves before thought catches up.
“What do you mean, poisoned?” I demand sharply.
“A doctor’s already been called,” Misha continues, “but her condition—”
I don’t hear the rest.
Something in my chest snaps clean through.
I’m already moving.
“Car,” I bark.
Mike says something behind me—my name, maybe—but I don’t stop. I don’t even slow down.
Misha is already ahead of me, opening the door.
We’re out of the building in seconds.
The cold air hits, but I barely feel it.
Everything narrows into one thought. One image. One name.
Valeria.
In the car, I don’t sit. I don’t relax back. I lean forward, elbows on my knees, fists clenched. My mind is no longer negotiating or calculating. It’s burning through possibilities at a speed that feels violent.
“Drive faster,” I say flatly.
Misha doesn’t respond. He just does it.
The city blurs past the window.
But all I see is red.
Someone got through. Again.
Inside my house.
Inside her space.
My jaw tightens hard enough to ache.
If something happens to her—
I cut the thought off immediately.
No.
Not an option.
Not allowed.
I exhale slowly through my nose, forcing control back into my hands, my breathing, my mind.
But the truth doesn’t change.
Someone reached Valeria.
And when I find out who, there won’t be anything left of them to explain it.