Three months ago, those words would have been victory. Now they sound like shackles.
“To that end,” my father says, “I have made arrangements to ensure the lessons of these months are not forgotten.”
He doesn’t look away.
“We are liquidating the Volgograd facility tonight. Cleaning up the last loose ends—now that the correction has held.”
The glass in my hand does not tremble. My expression does not change.
But the wordVolgogradhits like a bullet. The concrete room. The man inside it waiting for a rescue I promised.
Liquidating.
“A wise decision,” Viktor says quickly.
“Indeed.” My father’s eyes are still on me. “I trust you agree, Ivan.”
I meet his gaze. I let him see exactly what he expects to see: the cold heir.
“Of course, Father.”
The faintest curve touches his mouth.
He is pleased. He believes he has won.
Under the table, my hand finds my phone.
I type three letters without looking.
NOW.
The lights flicker once.
A small stumble in the electricity. The lieutenants glance up. My father’s smile fades.
Then the service doors crash open.
Lev’s Mechanics come in fast and clean. Black tactical gear. Faces covered. Weapons raised low.
Estate security does not appear. The guards on this wing were rotated recently—my recommendation. The remaining teams are scattered across the city, responding to emergencies that do not exist.
Viktor reaches for his sidearm.
A Mechanic is there before his hand clears his jacket, rifle barrel pressed to his temple.
“I would not,” the Mechanic says.
Viktor freezes. His eyes flick to my father.
My father does not move. He stands at the head of the table, glass still in hand.
His eyes find mine.
I rise.
The room has gone silent.
I walk around the table slowly. My footsteps echo on hardwood.
