13
IVAN
4 a.m. The hour when the city finally quiets, when even Chicago takes a breath.
She sleeps beside me, one hand resting on my chest. Completely unguarded in a way that makes my chest tighten.
The first woman in my bed since before my parents died.
The thought comes unbidden, unwelcome. I try to force it away, but it settles anyway, digging in its hooks. Three years since the car bomb. Three years since I watched them load what was left of my father into a body bag while my mother's remains were still being scraped off the pavement.
The bomb was intended for me. My car. My route. They took it that morning because theirs was in the shop. A simple twist of fate killed them and left me alive to inherit an empire I wasn't ready for.
No wonder Dmitri's growing bold. No wonder the other families question my leadership. Here I am, thirty-eight years old, kidnapping innocent waitresses, spitting on marriage traditions, and breaking every rule my father spent his life upholding.
Is this what falling looks like?
I study her face in the dim light filtering through the windows. Peaceful. Beautiful. Unaware of the chaos she's caused by existing.
The game continues, I tell myself. This is still control. Still strategy. Still me deciding what happens next.
But the lie tastes weird.
A sound tugs at my attention. Subtle. Off.
Pyotr should be at his post by the elevator, but the penthouse feels different. Empty in a way it shouldn't be.
My hand finds the Glock under the pillow. Muscle memory. Survival instinct honed by years of sleeping with one eye open.
Lila doesn't wake as I slide out of bed. She curls into the warm space I've left, sighing softly.
I pull on my pants and move.
The penthouse at night is all shadows and city light. I know every corner, every blind spot. Move through it as silently as smoke, gun raised, safety off.
Movement stirs by the kitchen.
Footsteps.
Someone’s near the fridge.
I round the corner, gun aimed at center mass, finger on the trigger.
“Freeze! Hands up!”
Pyotr stills, a bag of Doritos in one massive hand, orange dust on his fingers.
“Fuck!” I lower the gun and switch to Russian. “Almost shot you.”
"Sorry, Boss." His apology seems genuine, though he still grips the chips like stolen treasure. "These Doritos, they call to me. Very loud. Could not ignore."
"You left your post for Doritos?"
"Cool Ranch. Very good flavor."
I want to be angry. Fuck, I should be angry. But the absurdityof almost killing my best soldier over a snack makes the rage fizzle.
"We're at war," I say, holstering the gun. "Can't be too careful."
