"Free." Ivan cuts me off, gaze steady. "I owe you. A debt from years ago. You pulled me out of that warehouse fire. Saved my skin. This squares it."
I remember it well—flames licking the walls, Petrov's trap closing. Ivan pinned under debris, helpless, in agony. I could've left him, but debts like that pay dividends.
"Fair enough,” I say. “Thank you."
We shake again, hands clasping tight. "Whoever's behind this," I say, voice low and cold. "It’s no mercy. Them, their associates, anyone tied to the plot. Burn it all."
Ivan's lips twitch in what might be a smile. "Understood. I'll be in touch."
With that, he melts back into the night, gone like smoke. I close the door, lock it, and cover it again.
The walk back feels longer, thoughts churning. Ivan's reliable… debts make men honest. But trust? Still thin. If he's wrong or compromised... it’s my neck on the line.
Back at the house, Alexander meets me in the foyer. "All quiet. Boy asleep."
"Good. Head back to the perimeter. I'll take watch here."
Alexander nods, heads out.
I pour a whisky, settle in the study.
The fire's embers glow. Eddie is upstairs, safe—for now.
But the net tightens. Traitors close in. Decisions loom…
I finish the whisky in one slow swallow, the burn steadying the restless edge that’s been riding me since the meeting with Ivan. I trust Ivan. We have the kind of history that so few people have.
But still...
These are strange times. Worrying times. Even those I hold close to me are now potential traitors. This is just the life of a Pakhan…
The glass clinks softly as I set it on the desk. The fire has burned down to glowing coals, casting long shadows across the study walls. The house is quiet—too quiet, the kind of silence that amplifies every small sound. Alexander’s out on perimeter, and the night feels thick, watchful.
Breath.
Slow your heartbeat.
Turn your emotions to stone.
I exhale and stand, stretching the stiffness from my shoulders, and head upstairs. The steps creak under my weight, familiar and worn. At the top landing I pause, glancing toward Eddie’s door. No light under it.Good. He should be sleeping by now, exhausted from the day.
But as I take a step toward my own room, a sound stops me.
Soft. Barely there.
A light moan.
I freeze, head tilted, listening. It comes again—small, distressed, caught somewhere between sleep and fear.
My pulse kicks up a notch.
A nightmare? Or just restless dreams? Either way, it’s not the peaceful breathing I expected.
I think of Tommy.
The memories rise inside me… nights when he’d wake gasping, tears already on his cheeks before his eyes even opened. I’d pull him against me, arms locked tight, whispering in Russian until the shaking stopped. He’d bury his face in my chest, fingers clutching my shirt like I was the only solid thing in the world. Holding him then felt like purpose—like the only thing that mattered in a life full of blood and betrayal.
Eddie’s moan drifts out again, quieter this time, but sharper. A whimper.
