This is the Ivan the file never captured—not softer or kinder, but stripped down to a function that's not about control for its own sake. Control aimed outward now, a weapon pointed at the right enemy.
He's not building a cage. He's building a path.
"Lev noticed," I say quietly. "Us."
Ivan glances at me. "What about us?"
"The way we move," I say. "The way you didn't deny it when he asked. I'm not just your bodyguard anymore."
Silence hangs for a moment, punctuated only by the hum of tires on pavement.
Then, without looking at me, Ivan replies, "No."
It's neither romantic nor dramatic.
It's worse than that—it's the truth.
The words settle between us like an unspoken rule, one we both understand and will follow.
I shift my weight, my leg pulsing, and ask the only question that matters now.
"First target," I say. "When?"
Ivan's mouth curves—not a smile you'd show someone you wanted to trust, but a small, dangerous grin that tells me he's already embraced the violence in his mind.
"Tonight," he says. "We'll spend the day watching. Then we strike."
I close my eyes for a moment, not to sleep, but to let the anticipation seep into my bones like the pain has.
Boris wanted us dead. Instead, he received ash, smoke, and a story.
Tonight, we'll give him something different.
Something he can't bury with fire.
19
IVAN
The keypad beeps twiceas I enter the override code.
Behind me, Maksim secures the hallway. His weapon is raised, the muzzle steady, and his shoulders relaxed—an indication that he is fully engaged in the task. We've been inside the building for ninety seconds. Two men lie at the entrance—breathing but zip-tied and blindfolded, their comms crushed under Maksim's boot before they could relay any useful information.
The first hub taught us the building's patterns. The second confirmed them. This one follows the same routine: cameras loop every seven minutes, guard rounds occur every four.
Not because Boris is clever, but because he opts for the same security packages, hires the same mid-level contractors, and believes repetition is strength.
But it is predictability—a measurable weakness.
We have four minutes until someone checks on the front camera that "glitched" again.
Two minutes to retrieve what we came for.
Sixty seconds to escape before the human element of the system compensates.
The timeline is tight. It always is. That's what keeps me calm.
The door clicks open.
