I grab the coffee pot—the old, burnt coffee this time, because they won't notice the difference and don't deserve the good stuff—and plaster on my service smile. The one that says "I'm friendly but not that friendly" and "I need this job."
2
IVAN
The warehouse sits half a block down from Dave's Diner. A cancer on the waterfront.
For three months, I've watched it from the perfect vantage point—third booth from the door, back to the wall, clear view of everything that matters. The coffee's whatever, but the view is worth the price of admission.
And then there's her.
Three months of watching her work, watching her draw when she thinks no one's looking, watching her bite that bottom lip when she's concentrating.
That pink uniform should be a crime—not because it's ugly, which it is, but because of how it fits her body. The way it pulls tight across her chest when she reaches for the top shelf. How it rides up her thighs when she bends to wipe tables.
I shift in my seat, parked now in the shadows between streetlights. The warehouse is dark except for a single light on in a second-floor office. Oleg's in there.
I've tracked his movements for weeks. Tonight he's alone—no bodyguards, no backup. Dmitri's gotten comfortable, thinking his territory is secure.
He's wrong.
But my mind keeps drifting back to the diner. To Lila. The way she looked at me when I told her my name, like I'd given her a gift. The way she laughed at my stupid joke about her grocery list.
What the fuck am I doing?
She's not part of my world. She's clean. Innocent. She draws in a little sketchbook and serves coffee to scum like me.
What would my men say? Ivan Petrov, heir to an empire built on tradition, falling for a waitress. They already think I'm too reckless without my father's steady hand. It’d confirm every doubt about my leadership.
But I'm the Pakhan now. The boss. I should be able to take whomever I want.
Except it's not about taking, is it? If it were just about fucking her, I'd have done it weeks ago. Bent her over that counter and worked her out of my system.
I should stop going to the diner. Find another vantage point. Leave her in her safe little bubble…
The warehouse light goes out.
Oleg's moving.
I slip out of the car, Glock tucked against my ribs, backup piece strapped to my ankle. The cold air bites through my suit jacket. Three months of surveillance tell me that Oleg takes a piss in the alley before getting into his car. Creature of habit. Stupid.
The alley reeks of piss and rotting fish. I press myself against the brick wall, waiting. Footsteps approach—heavy, confident. Oleg rounds the corner, already unzipping.
I move fast, but he's faster than I expected. He spins at the last second. A combat knife materializes in his hand like magic.
"Ivan Petrov." He unleashes an ugly laugh. "Little prince playing king while daddy's body is still warm."
“My father's been dead two years,” I remind him. “Plenty of time to learn how to rule."
"Learn? You think watching from that coffee shop is learning? We know about your little obsession. Pretty waitress, no? Maybe after I'm done with you, I'll pay her a visit."
I see red.
We crash together like freight trains. He's got forty pounds of muscle on me and twenty years of experience from Chechnya to Chicago. But I've got rage. I've got purpose. I've got Lila’s face in my mind and his threat in my ears.
The knife slices across my ribs, hot and sharp. But it’s only a flesh wound. I grab his wrist, slam it against the brick until bones crack, and the blade clatters away. We're grappling now, his hands around my throat, mine searching for leverage.
"Your father would be ashamed," he grunts, pressing harder. "Weak son. Weak leader. At least he knew his place. Knew the rules."
