I pocket it again.
Sleep isn’t coming. Not for me.
I move to the study, flick on the desk lamp, pull the secure laptop from the drawer. The study might be a thickly carpeted room full of rich, polished mahogany, but tonight its comfort is of little use to me. I need to make this a war room, a place where I can focus and show the world why I’m not ready to lose my crown.
It’s time to start making lists.
Who was where tonight?
Who knew about the meet?
Who stands to gain if I’m gone?
And when I have names…
I’ll cross them off.
One bullet at a time.
Deep into the night, I pour another whisky—neat, no ice, the burn a poor substitute for the clarity I need.
The study lamp casts long shadows across the oak desk, illuminating scribbled notes on yellow legal pads: names, connections, timelines.
Niko's at the top—my brother in all but blood—but even his loyalty gnaws at me tonight. Paranoia is a pakhan's best friend some say. Well, it's kept me alive this long. But I also know from the history books that not trusting anyone is almost as deadly as trusting too many people. I need allies—but who?
I swirl the amber liquid, staring at the laptop screen.
No calls made. No texts sent.
The house is silent as a grave, the lake outside deadly still.
The Volkov family has enemies, always has—rival pakhans sniffing for weakness, feds circling like vultures—but this felt personal. It was sloppy enough to be internal, precise enough to sting. A rival working with the assistance of a corrupt cop? It’s possible.
Suddenly, I’m out of my thoughts and back in the real world.
A creak.
Faint, but unmistakable. The stairs—old wood protesting under the weight of even the slightest steps.
I set the glass down soundlessly, hand instinctively reaching for the gun tucked in the desk drawer. My pulse doesn't spike, itsteadies. Years of hits have trained me for this… listen, assess, act.
I rise, silent as smoke, and ease toward the study door. It's cracked—just enough to peer through without announcing myself. The foyer is dim, lit only by moonlight filtering through the tall windows. And there he is.
Eddie.
Pale, worried, and tiptoeing down the last few steps. Backpack slung over one shoulder, stuffie clutched in his arms like a talisman.
Shit. He’s making a move.
His hair's a mess, eyes wide and darting. He’s heading straight for the front door.
The damn boy is trying to escape.
Rage flares hot in my chest. After everything—pulling him from that gallery hell, bringing him here for safety—he thinks he can just walk out? And where? Into the night, where whoever ambushed me might be waiting?
Stupid. Reckless.Little.
This cannot be allowed.
