Chapter 21
IVAN
The woods smell like rot and lake water. Early winter in Illinois—cold enough to see your breath, warm enough that the ground hasn't frozen. Mud sucks at my boots with each step.
Sergei trudges along behind me, snapping branches and crunching leaves. "Why'd you need us, Boss? All three of us for some random lab geek who probably doesn't even know how to hold a gun?"
"You're too loud, idiot." Misha's critique cuts through the darkness.
"No one's around these woods, and the lab geek's survival instincts are probably too shitty to hear anything anyway."
He's not wrong about the chemist, but he's missing the bigger picture.
"The lab geek's not the threat," I say, keeping my voice low and gun ready. "Sources say he's exactly what you'd expect. The real threat is whoever might be with him."
At that, Sergei goes quiet.
We move through the trees. Dead leaves carpet the ground, wet from recent rain.
The lake is close. I can smell it: Michigan water mixed with fish and industrial runoff.
The cabin should be just ahead, tucked back from the main road.
The perfect location for a drug lab. Far enough from civilization that the smell won't attract attention.
Close enough to the city for easy distribution.
Ahead, I see them. Three cabins, not one.
Fuck.
I stop and raise my fist. Misha and Sergei flank me, weapons drawn. Three structures spread out in a rough triangle, maybe fifty yards between each.
The intel said one cabin, but intel is only as good as the source, and my source was a low-level dealer who probably can’t count past ten.
"Split up," I say. "One cabin each. Radio if you find anything. Don't engage without backup unless you have no other choice."
They nod. We've done this countless times.
Misha takes the left. Sergei goes right. I take the middle.
The structure looks legitimate from the outside. Weathered wood, small windows, a place fishermen would rent for weekend trips. A fishing pole even leans against the porch, selling the story. But there's no car. No boat. And the windows are too clean for a cabin that's supposedly abandoned.
I approach from the side, gun raised. The front door is visible from the other cabins. A bad tactical position. I circle to the rear entrance, which I find unlocked.
Who leaves their meth lab unlocked?
I ease the door open.
Inside, there’s a living room trying too hard to look normal. A kitchen with dishes in the sink. But the air smells wrong. Chemicals underneath the must. Acetone and ammonia.
The bathroom door is closed with light visible underneath.
I move toward it, gun raised.
The door opens.
Boris walks out, zipping his fly, and freezes when he sees me.
For a second, we stare at one another. His nose is still bandaged from yesterday. His right hand rests in a thick cast. He looks older. Diminished.
I raise my gun and point it at his chest.
"Ivan!" He tries and fails to look surprised. Complete bullshit. "I was just investigating—"
"Really? You like to test the bathroom of wherever you're 'investigating'?"
The pretense drops. He knows there's no talking out of this.
His left hand moves to his belt, reaching for his knife. Not his gun—the cast makes drawing impossible.
Stupid. Bringing a knife to a gunfight.
"You chose that American whore over everything," he says, hard and bitter. "Over your father's legacy. Over us. Over everything we built together. Three generations, Ivan. Three generations of Petrovs building this empire, and you're throwing it away for some whore."
"Never liked you, Boris." The words come easily. "Always talking. Always judging. Acting like you knew my father better than his own son."
"I knew him well enough to know what’s become of you would disgust him."
"My father's dead because of men like you." I step closer. "Following old rules, old ways, making enemies everywhere. He died because he couldn't adapt."
"He'd be rolling in his grave right now." Boris's voice rises. "You're destroying his empire. Your father's and grandfather's empires. DONE. All of it is finished. Because of diner pussy."
"Oh yeah? So you work for Dmitri now? That's how you help the Petrov empire and honor their memory? Fucking hypocrite."
"Dmitri's not the enemy. He was never supposed to destroy the Petrovs. His family has been keeping the peace for decades. He's just doing his job. Trying to save you from yourself before you destroy everything."
"You're too smart to believe that nonsense." I shake my head. "You're a fucking hypocrite, Boris. Preaching about honor while working for a roach."
Boris moves closer, knife raised in his right hand. Clumsy, hampered by the cast. The blade catches the light—a cheap hunting knife. "Did you completely forget honor? To fight a knife-wielding man with a gun? Your father would have given me a fair fight."
"You're a fucking rat, Boris." My finger tightens on the trigger. "Don't lecture me about honor."
The shot echoes. A single bullet enters his forehead and drops him instantly. The knife clatters on the floor. No fight. No struggle.
I stand over him for a moment, staring down at the man whom I've known my entire life.
It would've been wrong to give him a warrior's death. Traitors don't get honor.
But still, my chest twists.
Not guilt. Not regret.
Finality.
The last of my father's generation. The last man who remembered my grandfather. Gone. Shot dead by me.
I radio Misha. “Status report.”
A crackle of static. “Copy. Chemist secured. North cabin.”
I step over Boris's body. Someone else can clean this up.
Outside, night has fully fallen. Misha and Sergei have the chemist on his knees in the dirt between the cabins. He’s a young guy, maybe thirty, with crooked glasses. Thin build, soft hands. Terrified.
"What happened?" Misha asks, reading my face. "The gunshot—"
"Boris is dead."
They understand immediately. No questions. A traitor was dealt with.
"The lab geek was hiding in the basement," Sergei says, excited. "Whole fucking bunker down there. Steel door, electronic lock. But a good gun can blow away any lock if you know where to aim."
Bunker? The chemist must be important to Dmitri's business. That kind of security costs real money.
"Permission to shoot him, Boss?" Sergei's hand moves to his weapon. Eager. Too eager.
I look at the chemist. He’s crying now, snot running down his face. Pathetic. But potentially useful.
"Wait," Misha says. "We could recruit him instead. This guy's gotta be good if Dmitri's protecting him this hard. I know some connections who'd want him. The Koreans are always looking for quality chemists."
The chemist jumps on it. "Yes! Yes, I'll work for you. Whatever you need. I'm good, really good at synthesis. Clean product, high yield. Please, I have a daughter, she's only six, she lives with her mother in Evanston—"
"Shut the fuck up," Sergei snaps. "Nobody cares about your brat."
"We should care," Misha argues. "Kid makes him controllable. Gives us leverage."
"Fuck leverage. He's a loose end." Sergei spits on the ground. "How many times do we gotta learn this shit? Keep these pussies around, they flip the second they get a chance. One phone call to the cops and we're fucked."
"And waste a potential asset? You know how much the Koreans pay for good chemists? Hundred grand minimum for a referral. Maybe more if he's as good as he says."
"Hundred grand's nothing if he rats us out, dipshit."
"He won't rat if we know where his kid sleeps at night."
"Oh, so now we're babysitting some nerd and threatening six-year-olds? That's your big plan?"
"Better than your plan, which is to shoot everything that moves."
"Worked fine so far."
"Yeah? How'd that work out with the Sokolov situation? You shot first, and we lost three guys in the blowback—"
"Fuck you, that was different."
"Was it? Because it seems like your answer to everything is to put a bullet in it."
I'm already walking away, heading back to the car. Their voices fade behind me, still arguing, about to come to blows.
I need to see her.
"Boss?" Misha calls after me.
I stop and turn. They're both watching me, the chemist forgotten for the moment.
"We still need a plan to get to Dmitri," I say. "The guy might come in handy. Keep him captive. Get what you can—what he knows, where the other labs are. Then we'll decide."
They nod. Sergei looks disappointed but accepts it. Misha starts making calls.
The drive back is long. Misha is behind the wheel, giving me space.
Rural Illinois gives way to suburbs. Empty fields become housing developments. Then the cityscape. Highways and streetlights.
Boris's words echo in my head. Not because I care about what he thought, but because he was my last link to my father's empire. The old guard, the old ways, the men who built this from nothing.
That chapter feels severed now. Cut clean. No more bridge between what was and what I'm building.
The penthouse comes into view. Forty stories of glass and steel. Home. Or the closest thing I have to it.
Pyotr meets me at the elevator. "She never caused trouble, Boss. Quiet all day. Ate lunch, drew for a while, and read. Normal."
I nod and move past him to the bedroom door, heading inside.
Lila is on the bed, struggling with silk ropes. She’s attempting to recreate a pattern from her drawings. The ropes are twisted the wrong way, knotted incorrectly. She's tied one wrist to the headboard but can't reach the other side. Her hair is a mess.
She's trying to be ready for me.
She looks up and gasps. "You're early!"
"And you're waiting."
"The knots are harder than they look in the books," she says, frustrated. A strand of hair falls across her face. She tries to blow it away, but can't reach it. "I thought I had it, I was following the diagram, but then it all went wrong, and now I'm just... stuck."
I cross to the bed and sit beside her, taking in the sight—baggy shirt, nothing else, legs bare, rope marks already forming on her wrists from her failed attempts. "Stuck. That was the idea."
"Not like this. This is... messy."
"I don't know." My hand trails up her thigh, under the shirt hem. "I kind of like you messy."
Her breath hitches. "Ivan—"
"Shh." My hands find the ropes, unknotting, adjusting.
The silk is expensive—I bought it specifically for this, for her skin.
"You tried so hard to be good for me. Following orders.
Getting ready." I lean closer, lips brushing her ear.
"Did you think about me while you were doing it? About what I'd do when I got home?"
"Yes." The word is barely a whisper.
"What did you imagine?"
"I—" She swallows. "Everything."
I work the silk, muscle memory from years of practice. The pattern emerges—the exact one from her sketch. Intricate. Beautiful. Functional. Binding her properly this time, the way it should be. "You'll have to be more specific."
"Your hands. Your mouth. You being rough with me."
"Like on the table?"
Her face flushes. "Yes. Like that. And—other things."
"Other things?" I tighten the knot at her left wrist, testing the tension. Perfect.
"Maybe."
"Show me." I move to her right wrist. "Show me what you imagined."
"I can't when I'm tied up."
"That's the point." I finish the knot and check both bindings. She's secure now, arms spread and vulnerable. "You tell me. I decide if you've earned it."
"Where did you learn—" she starts, tugging experimentally at the ropes.
"You'll find out soon enough." My hand slides up her side, feeling her shiver. "But first, you're going to tell me every single thing you thought about while you were waiting for me."