The shop smells of grease, metal shavings, and cold cigarette smoke trapped in the drywall.
An old radio crackles with Russian folk music from a speaker that should have died years ago. Tools hang on pegboards in obsessive military order—wrenches sized and spaced, screwdrivers lined up like soldiers. Not pretty, but efficient. The kind of efficiency I respect, even when it's dressed in rust.
Lev leads us past a half-dismantled engine block into a back office that looks like paperwork has waged a war and lost. Invoices, work orders, receipts, and handwritten notes are spiked onto metal spindles. It's either a legitimate business or a convincing imitation of one.
He sits behind a metal desk marred by cigarette burns, while Ivan takes a seat in the visitor's chair without prompting.
I remain standing.
My leg protests immediately, a sharp, tearing sensation in the stitched muscle, but I refuse to let my guard down in an unfamiliar room. Training is not something you switch off just because you're tired.
Lev pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, taps one out, and lights it with a Zippo. He peers between us through the smoke.
"So," he says, "the Little Prince comes to old Lev. Did your father finally push you too far?"
"My uncle," Ivan replies flatly. "Boris is trying to kill me. He nearly succeeded."
A hardness settles on Lev's face; the amusement fades.
"Boris," he says, as if the name leaves a bitter taste. "He always had worms in his soul. Even thirty years ago, when we were young and foolish together. I warned your grandfather to take him out before he became a problem. Dmitri was too soft on his own blood."
"You knew my grandfather?" I ask.
Lev snorts, smoke escaping from his nose. "Knew him? I worked for him. I bled alongside him. I watched him build what your father pretends he inherited clean." His eyes narrow at Ivan. "You resemble him more than Sergei ever did. Dmitri Baranov would have liked that."
Ivan remains largely unresponsive, but I detect a flicker behind his eyes—perhaps a memory, a burden unrelated to our current conflict.
"I need resources," Ivan states, cutting through the nostalgia. "Cash. Clean phones. A vehicle that can't be traced back to the estate. Weapons, if you have them."
Lev leans back in his chair, which groans under his weight, and spreads his hands. "And what do you offer in return? Sentiment doesn't pay bills, Little Prince. And waging war with Boris isn't cheap."
Ivan reaches under his sleeve and unfastens a watch.
It's not the Patek he used to wear daily; this one is different—a Breguet. Platinum. The kind of "backup" asset that's worth more than this entire building.
He places it on the desk, the metal clinking against the scarred surface.
Lev picks it up, turning it in his fingers as if assessing more than just its gears and gold.
"Your father gave you this," Lev states, not quite a question.
"Yes."
"For your twenty-fifth." Lev's gaze lingers on the watch longer than necessary. "Are you certain?"
"The man who gave me that would trade me to Boris if it meant keeping the organization stable," Ivan replies, devoid of bitterness, just cold fact. "I don't need it. I need a car."
Lev sets the watch down delicately, as if placing a fragile memory. He slides it into a drawer and locks it.
Then he turns his attention to me.
"Who is this one?" he asks Ivan, gesturing at me with a nod. "Not Bratva. I would recognize the face."
"Maksim Orlov," Ivan says. "My bodyguard."
Lev makes a sound like a grinder stripping a gear. "Bodyguard. I've seen bodyguards. They stand like furniture, checking the door and looking tough." He jabs a thick finger at me. "This one, though, stands as if he's calculating how many people he can kill in this room before the door opens."
His gaze sharpens. "Kennel?"
