Chapter 16
Viktor
With Eddie and Robbie back at the apartment, their bare bottoms freshly disciplined and their promises to obey ringing in my ears, I lock the door behind me and step into the evening chill.
The city hums around Robbie's building—distant sirens, laughter from a nearby bar as its door swings open, the low thrum of traffic a constant.
I scan the street out of habit: parked cars, a couple walking arm in arm, nothing out of place. But I know better than to relax. The boys are safe for now—Robbie's place is low-key, no ties to me.
So far, so good.
Well, almost.
Disobedience like that park stunt can't happen again. I made my point with the wooden spoon, their joint yelps and red cheeks were proof enough. Eddie took it like a champ, his eyes meeting mine after with that mix of remorse, trust, and maybe something deeper too. Robbie was more defiant, but he submitted quick—safeword given, ass warmed, lesson learned.
No harm, just correction.
Those Littles will stay put now, I’m sure of it.
I hail a cab, give the driver an address a few blocks from the bar. No direct trails, that’s always the way. As the city lights streak past, my mind shifts to Ivan. Reliable, deadly, and one of the few men on earth I could trust no matter what. Famous last words? Hell, there’s always that sliver of doubt.
Tonight's meet is crucial. We need to make some progress, and fast. The whispers on the street are getting louder. I can feel the pressure building like a storm front. Act fast, or lose everything. That’s the life of a Pakhan.
The cab drops me in a crowded district. Neon signs buzzing, pedestrians thick. I weave through, doubling back once to check for followers.
Clean.
I’m a nobody.
Not an eye on me.
The bar is a dive called Ziggy’s, tucked in an alley off the main drag. Dim lights, scarred wooden tables, the kind of place where deals happen in whispers and no one asks names.
I push through the door, the smell of stale beer hitting me like an old friend. The rear booth—near the exit, as always. Ivan's already there, nursing a glass of something dark, his back to the wall, eyes on the room.
I slide in opposite him. "Whisky. Neat."
The bartender brings it quick, no chit-chat.
I sip, the burn grounding me. "What do you have?"
Ivan leans forward, his voice low. "The hit at the gallery… assassin was freelance. Pro, but not one of ours. And not elite either. So this was someone who probably doesn’t know the business as well as us. That’s a good sign. But still, a hired gun, did clean work on your man. That’s not nothing. The thugs who piled in after? Gang-affiliated, low-level crew from the docks. Loose cannons. Paid muscle, not loyalists."
I swirl the whisky, processing. "Internal?"
He shakes his head. "As far as I can tell, no. No chatter in the family or associates, even the less trustworthy among them. No unusual moves from Radek or the others. If there's a traitor, they're deep cover. But this smells external. Someone pulling strings from outside."
Good news, relatively.
No rot in my own house—at least not that Ivan's uncovered.
But I won't rule it out entirely.
Paranoia keeps pakhans alive.
"Motives?" I ask, sipping my drink and watching as a drunk couple argue at the bar.
"Still digging. But word's spreading you're vulnerable. Hiding out? Makes you look weak."
