1
IVAN
The reflectionin the mahogany table betrays him.
I see the glint of steel before Viktor Sorokin realizes what he's revealing, before the other men in the room even register that a knife has been introduced into a conversation about territory. Viktor believes the table hides his hands. He thinks my attention is fixed on the contracts spread between us, on the maps of the South Side his crew has been bleeding into like an infection.
Viktor has always stared hard at the world while missing the bigger picture.
"The terms are fair." My uncle Boris stands near the window, the Chicago skyline backlit against him, turning his silhouette into a cutout. He wears the role of a reasonable mediator as comfortably as his bespoke suit. "Viktor brings distribution networks. We provide protection. Everyone profits."
I ignore Boris. My eyes track the tendon shifting in Viktor's wrist, the tightening of his fingers around a concealed handle. A folding knife. Fast. Deniable. The desperate tool of a man seeking an exit strategy.
Behind me, the air doesn't stir, but I know Maksim is there. Near the door. Close enough to intervene, distant enough to witness. I don't check. Checking implies doubt, and Maksim is a fixed point in a chaotic universe.
"The terms," I say, keeping my voice low, "are what I decide they are."
Viktor's jaw tightens. Forty-five, built like a dock loader, a man who has spent a lifetime winning arguments with shoulder checks. He mistakes patience for weakness. He looks at a man who doesn't shout and assumes there is no bite behind the bark.
"Your father and I had an understanding," Viktor grates out. "Before."
"My father isn't here."
"No." Viktor's gaze flicks to Boris, then snaps back to me. "He isn't."
The implication lands heavy on the polished wood. The Pakhan has been a ghost for weeks. Illness, the rumors say. Distance, if you know the man. Viktor thinks I am an unattended heir, exposed. He doesn't know I've been watching him meet with the Italians. He doesn't know the Rosetti family has been whispering in his ear, promising him scraps if the Baranovs fall.
"You're expanding into territory that isn't yours," I say. "Moving product through unapproved channels. Meeting with men whose names should make your blood run cold."
Under the table, Viktor's hand freezes.
There it is. The dissection. The moment he realizes this wasn't a negotiation, but an autopsy. He walked in here a dead man; he just hasn't stopped breathing yet.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he lies.
"The Rosetti family. Halsted. Cermak. You were careful with the locations, Viktor. But you got lazy with the cars."
The color drains from his face, receding like a tide leaving debris on the shore.
Behind me, the pressure in the room shifts. Maksim senses the change in pheromones, in the spike of adrenaline radiating from Viktor.
"Ivan." Boris steps forward, radiating practiced warmth, trying to cool a room I am intentionally setting on fire. "Perhaps we should discuss this privately before making accusations that could damage a?—"
"The relationship ended when Viktor started shopping for a new master."
I hold Viktor's gaze. Panic tries to hide behind pride, but the cracks are showing. He knows the knife won't save him. He knows he walked into a trap.
This is the precipice. This is where fear makes men stupid.
Viktor's shoulder drops.
I don't flinch.
Maksim is a blur of kinetic energy, cutting through the space between the door and the chair. He doesn't run; he arrives. His hand clamps over Viktor's wrist before the blade can clear the mahogany edge.
There is a wetcrunch.
Viktor makes a sound—half-gasp, half-shriek—as Maksim drives his thumb into the nerve cluster. The fingers splay. The knife clatters onto the hardwood. Cheap tactical folder. Black handle. Gas station courage.
