The word lands heavily in my stomach.
I don't flinch; flinching betrays information.
"You know it," I say.
"I know what comes out of it," Lev replies, his eyes steady—not afraid, not impressed, just factual. "Weapons wearing human skin. No offense."
"None taken," I respond. It's not untrue.
Lev studies Ivan again, and an unspoken understanding passes between them—a silent question about loyalty and risk.
"He's not just your bodyguard," Lev states.
Ivan doesn't deny it; he remains silent.
Lev exhales slowly, smoke drifting toward the ceiling. "Wait."
He stands and disappears through a back door reinforced with three locks.
I hear heavy objects shifting—metal against metal—the sound of someone accessing a place not listed on any official inventory.
Ivan leans back in the chair, his eyes fixed on the door.
"He recognized the training," I say quietly.
"Lev recognizes everything," Ivan replies. "He's been in this world longer than my father has worn his crown."
"How do you know him?"
A pause. Ivan traces a scratch on the arm of the chair.
"He was my grandfather's driver, then his enforcer, then... his friend." Another pause. "When my grandfather died, Lev walked away from my father's version of the organization. He didn't like the corporate style; he preferred the old ways. But he checkedon me when I was young, taught me things Sergei considered beneath his notice."
"He called you Little Prince."
"He's called me that since I was eight," Ivan says, an edge of amusement creeping in. "I hated it. Now it reminds me I existed before I became... this."
Before the heir. Before the file. Before he learned to build people the way other men build empires.
Lev returns with a heavy duffel bag.
He drops it on the desk and unzips it.
Inside are stacks of cash—used bills, non-sequential—two burner phones still sealed in plastic, keys with a tag and a plate number, and beneath it all: two clean Glock 19s, spare magazines stacked beside them, and boxes of hollow-point ammunition.
Exactly what we need.
"The car is next door," Lev says, pushing the bag toward Ivan. "Old Civic. Boring. Gray. Runs well. Plates are clean enough for city work."
Ivan takes the bag and stands. "Thank you."
Lev catches his forearm before he can turn away. His grip is firm.
"Don't thank me yet," Lev warns. "You're going after Boris."
"Yes."
Lev's grip tightens. "He has men. He has loyalty bought over decades. He has the Estate security. You have a wounded dog and a reputation that just burned with your cabin."
