4
MAKSIM
The Estate revealsitself long before the gate comes into view.
First, the road transforms. The harsh edges of the city soften, giving way to lush greenery that costs millions to maintain. Industrial blocks recede, and the streets widen. Oaks line the drive, meticulously spaced, their branches creating a canopy that obscures the sky. Houses retreat behind hedges so perfectly trimmed they appear artificial.
Then, the hedges
give way to walls—stone that transitions to reinforced concrete, thick enough to withstand a truck. The private road leading in feels unlike any public street. It curves sharply, designed to obscure sight lines and compel vehicles to slow down. It vanishes from GPS maps. The compound nestles deep within the woods, a fortress disguised as a manor.
Visibility stretches far here.
That's intentional.
The convoy slows as the main gate comes into view. Guards emerge from the fortified booth, weapons held at the ready. Estate security. The Baranov crest is stitched onto their shoulders, but their allegiance lies not with the heir in the vehicle behind me, but with Sergei Baranov.
If Sergei ordered them to put a bullet in Ivan's head, they wouldn't hesitate.
Such is the nature of this ground. The city belongs to Ivan. The Estate belongs to the Pakhan.
The guards recognize our convoy and wave us through. I observe them in the side mirror as we pass—tracking their positions, noting who moves first and who stays back to cover potential blind spots. One guard speaks into a shoulder mic, his gaze fixed on our lead vehicle.
He's announcing our arrival.
"Maksim." Ivan's voice sounds from the back seat—quiet and controlled.
I keep my focus forward. "Guards at the gate. More in the booth. Radios active."
"They knew we were coming."
"They knew before we turned onto the access road," I reply. "Long before anyone here would've needed to check the cameras."
"My father keeps his house informed."
"Your father isn't the one I'm concerned about."
The words escape before I can rein them in.
That's a breach of protocol. I don't provide tactical assessments of the family unless asked. I don't engage in the politics of Baranov blood. I watch. I protect. I wait.
But the Estate affects me. My skin tightens the moment we cross the perimeter. It stirs old instincts within me, the kind I honed in Volgograd. This is a place where rules aren't merely discussed—they are enforced.
Ivan remains silent. His quietness doesn't invite a response; it closes off the space.
The car continues moving until the main house fills the windshield.
The building is a massive gray stone structure in a neo-classical style, maintained with funds unaffected by market fluctuations. Ivy climbs the west wall in decorative patterns that also provide excellent footholds for climbing. The windows are made of bullet-resistant glass, though you need to know what to look for to recognize their thickness. The entrance is framed by columns wide enough to conceal a man.
I know this because I memorized the blueprints.
While Ivan slept last night, I familiarized myself with the Estate until it became etched in my mind. I noted the camera blind spots, ventilation shafts, and the tunnel system connecting the main house to the garage. I even memorized the wine cellar door, which is actually a reinforced exit.
All of this matters.
Yet none of it will help if the order comes from inside the dining room.
The driver stops at the portico. I exit first, scanning the courtyard as I move around the vehicle to open Ivan's door.
