We approach. Maksim takes point, shielding me with his body. When we get close enough, he halts.
I peer over his shoulder.
It's Grigori
Volkov—my logistics coordinator, the man the feds allegedly picked up an hour ago.
He isn't in federal custody.
His throat is slashed from ear to ear, the blood dark and tacky against the concrete. He has been placed carefully—arms at his sides, eyes open, staring up at the gray sky.
Pinned to his chest is a piece of paper.
Maksim reaches down, checking for wires—traps—before pulling the note free. He hands it to me without looking, his eyes still scanning the rooftops.
I unfold it.
Cheap printer paper with typed text.
THE FATHER PROTECTS THE SON. BUT WHO PROTECTS THE FATHER?
I read it twice.
Maksim watches me, his gaze a physical presence. He awaits my order, waiting for me to interpret the violence.
This isn't the work of the Italians; they would have shot up the convoy, dealing in chaos.
This is theater—a message meant to be read, not merely felt.
Someone is threatening my father—someone who knew I would take this route if pressed, someone aware that Volkov was the leak.
My mind shifts to the only person with the reach, access, and ambition to stage this.
Boris.
I fold the note and slip it into my pocket.
"We're going to be late," I say.
Maksim nods, asking no questions about the note or the body. He turns, weapon still raised, and escorts me back to the car.
He doesn't glance back at the dead man; he keeps moving, keeps functioning.
That's why I chose him.
We get back in the car, and the engine rumbles to life.
"Estate," I say.
Maksim's hand rests on his thigh, just inches from his gun. I watch his fingers—steady and lethal.
As the city blurs past outside, I focus on my thoughts.
My father is waiting.
My uncle is waiting.
And I need to find a traitor before dinner.
