I slip through, with Maksim half a step behind me, and we find ourselves in Boris's third distribution hub in as many nights.
It's a utilitarian space—concrete walls that feel cold even in the building's heat. Industrial shelving is organized with a logic that seems neat until you notice the empty gaps where products used to be. A desk displays monitors showing black-and-white camera feeds, accompanied by a whiteboard listing delivery times in block letters. In the corner sits a safe that might contain cash, products, or the one thing Boris values more than both—records.
I move toward the safe while Maksim positions himself at the door, angled to monitor both the corridor and the reflections in the black monitor screens. His posture is so controlled it appears still, but I can sense the way he tracks—micro-shifts, breath patterns, and a readiness to move without wasted motion.
Four years of watching my back.
The difference now is that I feel it.
I'm aware of him like I'm aware of my own pulse, or a knife I've held too long. His presence is no longer background noise; it has become integral to my calculations.
The safe combination matches the keypad override.
Not because Boris is smart, but because he consistently relies on the careless habits of men who believe they are untouchable. Thefirst warehouse proved this. The second established it as a rule. He reuses what he thinks no one is supposed to know.
The dial turns. The tumblers click into place with a satisfying weight. The bolt releases.
The door swings open, revealing banded stacks of cash and a laptop perched on top, as if the machine itself could never betray him.
I take both.
"Sixty," Maksim says.
His voice is calm, professional—the voice of a weapon executing its function.
But when I glance at him, I catch a fleeting hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth, the kind that appears only when the risk is real and the choreography is on point.
He is enjoying this.
So am I.
The sensation is unsettling in its purity—a clean satisfaction that has nothing to do with power, inheritance, or my father's approval. It is the satisfaction of movement, of action, of reclaiming something with my own hands.
We exit through the service corridor, down two flights of concrete stairs that echo with our boots. We pass through the fire door into an alley slick with old oil and trash water. The Civic awaits, engine running—a precaution learned after the second hit, when a slow ignition nearly cost us a clean escape.
Maksim slides into the driver's seat while I take the passenger side, cash and laptop tucked under my arm. The car movesbefore my door seals, smoothly accelerating into late-night traffic that remains unaware it is sharing lanes with ghosts.
No tails. No sirens. Just the ordinary pulse of the city—headlights, wet pavement, the low rumble of trucks hauling shipments we are not tracking tonight.
Another clean extraction.
I lean back and let the rush begin to fade.
Three days ago, I was still an heir who could pretend to live above the work—shielded by layers of men, glass, and protocol. Now I find myself breaking into warehouses and gradually bleeding my uncle dry with a man I was never supposed to touch or need.
The strange part isn't the violence.
The strange part is the clarity.
The old life—boardrooms, polished wood, measured smiles—feels like a costume worn by someone else. I know I can still play that role, but I don't miss the distance it demanded, the way it required me to be untouched, untouchable.
Maksim drives as if he's reading a map only he can see, adjusting routes unexpectedly, cutting down side streets and desolate industrial stretches to avoid the predictable. The wound in his thigh has healed enough for him to move, but I can still see the careful way he favors it when he works the pedals—subtle shifts to keep pressure off the stitch line.
He hides pain as a reflex.
I have learned to see it anyway.
We arrive at the motel on the outskirts—a place with faded numbers on the doors and a clerk who accepts cash without bothering to memorize faces. This is the fourth location in three days. Never the same bed twice.
