Ivan's expression is unchanging. "I know."
"Good," Lev replies. "Then you understand that you cannot confront him directly. A knife cannot overpower a hammer. You need to be clever."
Ivan's gaze sharpens. "I don't plan to fight him head-on."
Lev raises his eyebrows. "Explain."
"I plan to starve him," Ivan states.
Lev becomes still, then nods slowly as the idea takes shape in his mind.
"Supply," Lev murmurs. "Distribution."
"Three points," Ivan continues. "I know where he moves his product and the warehouses he keeps off the books—the ones he uses to fund his side deals. We hit them quickly and make it appear like rival action. He'll divert men to protect his inventory instead of hunting shadows."
"His people will grow anxious," Lev says, a grin spreading across his face. "Hungry men don't hold loyalty tightly."
"And my father values stability above all else," Ivan adds. "Instability will force his hand. If Boris seems unable to maintain his territory, Sergei will cut him loose."
"Exactly."
Lev studies Ivan for a long moment before clapping him on the shoulder.
"Dmitri's blood," he says, his voice rough. "Go."
He looks at me again, his eyes narrowing.
"And you," he says. "Keep him alive. Princes are easy to kill."
I don't respond verbally.
Instead, I nod to indicate:I know.
We leave.
The sun has broken through the clouds while we were inside, illuminating the lot in a harsh, revealing light. Ivan carries the bag as if it weighs nothing. I follow, my leg throbbing with each step, the stitched muscle pulling as if it wants to tear open.
The Civic is parked in the garage next door—dull paint, a dent in the rear bumper, utterly unremarkable.
Ivan tosses the duffel into the back seat and slides behind the wheel.
I ease into the passenger seat, adjusting my leg carefully and gritting my teeth against the sharp pain.
"The watch," I say once we're moving. "You gave up something valuable."
"I gave up something noisy," Ivan replies. "Value isn't the same thing."
He drives with both hands on the wheel, his eyes scanning the mirrors and taking turns as if he's already plotting attack routes in his mind.
"The plan," I say. "You've already chosen the targets."
"Three distribution points," he confirms. "South Side warehouse. The transit hub on the West. And his private holding facility near the docks. We'll hit them in sequence, burn the product, and scatter the personnel."
"And what if your father still refuses to act?" I ask.
Ivan's jaw tightens. "Then we make it impossible for him to refuse."
I lean back and watch the city pass by.
