Chapter 14
Yarik
M y phone has been buzzing since six in the morning. Leonid’s name flashes across the screen for the third time in an hour, followed immediately by a text from Katya asking about the contract signing. I ignore both and continue getting dressed.
The engagement feels like a noose tightening around my neck.
Every day I don’t sign that contract, the Nikitins grow more suspicious and more demanding.
Every day I do nothing, I’m one step closer to a war I don’t want to fight but might have to anyway to ensure my freedom and a chance at being happy.
It feels selfish in a way to contemplate such things, but I’m tired of living the life of the pakhan , denied happiness or love because of obligations.
I pull on my jacket and check my reflection in the mirror. Dark circles under my eyes reveal the sleepless nights, the constant planning, and the burden of decisions I keep postponing. The man staring back at me looks tired. Hunted.
My phone buzzes again. This time it’s a text from Katya: Father expects the contract signed today. No more delays.
I delete the message without responding.
At the office, I review overnight reports while waiting for Sarah to arrive.
The security audit Valentin ordered has uncovered three more dormant accounts with suspicious activity.
Someone has been systematically probing our defenses for months and maybe longer.
The pattern is too sophisticated to be random and too precise to be anything other than a coordinated attack.
The Nikitins are testing us. I’m sure of it now. I still don’t have concrete proof it’s them, but I care less and less. I’m ready to follow my instincts.
Sarah knocks and enters, looking composed despite the exhaustion I see in her face.
She’s wearing a loose cardigan over a simple blouse, with her hair pulled back in a way that emphasizes the delicate line of her neck.
Her face looks puffy, and I worry she’s coming down with something, or maybe she has allergies.
For a moment, I forget about contracts and threats to focus only on her.
“Good morning.” She sets a folder on my desk. “The greenhouse inventory is complete. I’ve contacted the suppliers about the missing fertilizer shipment.”
“Thank you.” I stand, moving around the desk. “I need you to come with me today. There’s a warehouse inspection that requires documentation.”
She hesitates. “I can prepare the paperwork here?—”
“I need you there. In person.”
Something passes between us, a recognition of what I’m really asking. She nods slowly. “Of course.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re in the armored SUV heading toward the warehouse district.
Luco offered to drive, but I want this time alone with Sarah.
The silence between us feels different today and perhaps a little less strained.
Maybe it’s the exhaustion, or maybe we’re both tired of pretending this connection doesn’t exist.
“I still haven’t signed the contract,” I say, breaking the quiet.
She looks at me, surprise flickering across her face. “The engagement contract?”
“Merger contract is what it really is, and all business, but it includes provisions that don’t sit well with me.” I merge into traffic, keeping my voice neutral. “Katya’s family has been working against my business interests. I’m starting to think the entire alliance is a set-up.”
“What kind of set-up?”
I glance at her, pondering how much to reveal. She doesn’t know the full extent of what I do, but she’s not na?ve. She’s seen enough to understand my business operates in gray areas, and danger is always close. “The kind where I sign papers that give them control if something happens to me.”
“And you think something will happen by design?”
“Exactly. I think they’re planning to make something happen.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “What will you do?”
“I don’t know yet.” The admission feels strange. I’ve built my life on certainty and always having a plan. With Sarah, I’m revealing doubts I’d never voice to anyone else. “What about you?” I ask. “What did you imagine for yourself before everything fell apart?”
She turns to look out the window, her reflection ghostlike in the glass. “I wanted to be a botanist and got a certificate in landscaping. I intended to go back for the actual degree, but...”
“Why didn’t you?”
She exhales deeply. “Life got complicated.” Her voice carries heaviness that makes me want to pull over and demand she tell me everything. “My ex made it impossible to finish my degree. I had to disappear and start over somewhere new.”
“You could still go back to school.”
“Maybe.” She doesn’t sound convinced as she looks at me. “What about you? What did you want before you inherited your legacy?”
The question catches me by surprise. No one has ever asked me that. “I wanted to be an architect. My mother used to take me to construction sites when I was young, showing me how buildings grew from nothing. I thought about designing houses that felt like homes.”
She repeats my words back to me. “You still could.”
I shake my head. “I’ve never had the luxury of dreaming about anything beyond survival.” The words are honest and raw. For a moment, the car feels like a confessional, where we can admit things we’d never say anywhere else.
“Maybe that could change,” she says quietly.
I want to believe her. For a brief, dangerous moment, I let myself imagine a life where I don’t check for threats before leaving the house, where I can build something instead of constantly defending what I’ve already built.
A life with her.
The warehouse appears ahead, breaking the spell.
I park in the underground garage, the familiar concrete walls and flickering fluorescent lights bringing me back to reality.
The air smells like motor oil and damp concrete, tinged with a faint metallic scent.
This is my world. This is what I am. “Stay close to me,” I tell Sarah as we get out of the car.
She nods and looks around the garage with new awareness. The shadows seem deeper here, and the silence more ominous. Maybe it’s the conversation we just had, or maybe she’s finally understanding the true nature of my business.
The pick-up should be routine. It’s just medical supplies from a contact in Montreal and nothing that would draw attention from customs or competitors. I’ve done this run dozens of times without incident.
That should have been my first warning.
We’re halfway across the garage when they step out of the shadows. There are two men, armed, and moving with the fluid precision of professionals. I recognize the look immediately. They aren’t desperate criminals or opportunistic thieves. These are soldiers.
The first man is tall and lean, wearing a dark jacket that doesn’t quite conceal the shoulder holster underneath.
The second is broader and older, with scarred hands that grip his weapon like he’s used it many times before.
Both move with military training, spacing themselves to create crossfire angles.
I push Sarah behind the nearest concrete pillar and draw my weapon in the same motion. “Stay down.”
The first shot echoes through the garage like thunder as concrete chips explode where my head was a second before.
I return fire, using the cars for cover as I advance.
The men separate, trying to flank me, but they’re working the wrong angles.
This is my territory. I know every shadow, every line of sight, and every ricochet pattern off these walls.
The first man goes down with a bullet to the chest, his weapon clattering across the concrete as he falls. The second gets close enough that I can see the Nikitin family tattoo on his wrist—a double-headed eagle with crossed swords—before I put two rounds center mass.
Pain flares across my ribs as his knife finds flesh in his final moments. Not deep, but deep enough that blood immediately soaks through my shirt, feeling warm and sticky against my skin.
Silence settles over the garage, broken only by the sound of my breathing and the distant hum of traffic above. I check both bodies to make sure they’re dead, noting the quality of their weapons, the tactical gear, and the way they moved. Definitely professional killers, not street thugs.
Someone paid good money to have me eliminated.
If it was Katya or Leonid as I suspected, maybe this is why they’ve been so eager for me to sign the contract.
Maybe they set up the hit anonymously and couldn’t contact the pros in time to reschedule.
There are a few possibilities, but they all seem to lead back to the Nikitins’ machinations.
“Yarik?” Sarah’s voice is small and frightened.
“It’s over.” I holster my weapon and turn to find her pressed against the pillar, face pale but eyes alert. There’s no screaming or hysteria. She’s handling this better than most men would. “Are you hurt?”
She shakes her head, then notices the blood on my shirt. Her face goes even paler. “Oh God, you’re bleeding.”
“It’s not serious.” I start toward the car, but she catches my arm.
“Let me look at it.”
“Sarah—”
“Please.”
Something in her eyes stops my protest. It’s not just concern but something deeper. Need, maybe. The need to do something, to help, to matter in a moment when everything has gone to hell.
I nod and let her guide me to the passenger seat. She opens the glove compartment and finds the first-aid kit I keep there, her movements efficient despite the tremor in her hands.
“Lift your shirt.”
I comply, watching her face as she examines the wound. It’s a clean cut, shallow but long, running along my lower ribs. The skin is already swelling around the edges, and blood continues to seep steadily from the gash.
She cleans it with antiseptic from the kit, her touch gentle but thorough. Each dab of the cloth makes me hiss through my teeth, but I stay still, transfixed by the concentration on her face.
“This needs stitches,” she says, examining the depth.