Strong arms catch me under the ribs, hauling me upright before gravity can finish the job. My backpack slides off one shoulder and thumps to the ground. I try to twist, to see, but my head feels like it’s full of wet cotton.
Everything is slow. Too slow.
“W-w-w-wh…” I splutter, unable to speak, my mind clouded.
The arms are thick, corded. The chest behind me is solid, unyielding. Expensive wool blend against my cheek—a suit jacket, definitely. Tailored. Not street clothes. Not a random mugger.
That detail lodges somewhere in the animal part of my brain.
My mouth opens to shout—something,anything—but only a soft groan comes out. My tongue feels thick. Adrenaline is there, buzzing under my skin, but it can’t quite connect to my muscles. I feel like my body is a puppet with half the strings cut.
Then I’m lifted. Not gently, but not roughly either. It’s efficient. Like someone who’s carried dead weight before and knowsexactly how to balance it. My legs dangle uselessly for a second before I’m folded into what feels like the backseat of a car.
Leather. Smells new. Or recently cleaned.
I do everything I can to try and force myself to speak, to try and reason with whoever is doing this. I know I need to fight.
My head lolls against the seat. I force my eyes open, blinking hard against the blur. Streetlight flashes through tinted windows, too dark to make out the driver. The man who grabbed me slides in beside me, pulling the door shut with a solid, expensivethunk.
The engine growls to life.
Low, throaty. Not a cheap sedan. Something withpower.
I try to sit up straighter. My hand fumbles toward my pocket—phone, pepper spray, anything—but my fingers are clumsy, disobedient.
The man beside me doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. His presence fills the space like smoke.
I manage one word though...
“Who…?”
No answer.
The car pulls away from the curb, smooth and silent. No squealing tires. No drama. Just forward momentum.
My head drops back against the seat. The edges of my vision darken again. I fight it—clench my jaw, dig my nails into my palms—but the darkness is stronger.
A last coherent thought enters my head before everything fades:
This isn’t a mugging.
This is personal.
This is… Galkin business…
Chapter 4
Ivan
The diner is the kind of place that's open 24/7 for insomniacs, truckers, and men like me who don't keep regular hours.
It's just before dawn.
I’ve got a feeling this meeting is going to be interesting. The nighttime ones always are. I’ve been in the game long enough to know when Viktor is about to make a move, and now feels like that kind of time.
Viktor is already there when I arrive, sitting in a corner booth with his back to the wall—old habits die hard. Two of his security guys occupy the booth behind him, nursing mugs of something black and steaming, their eyes scanning the room without ever landing on anything for too long.
They’re two of Viktor’s trusted lieutenants, men who would lay their lives on the line for him without giving it a second thought. He’s a man who demands that kind of loyalty without asking for it. Hell, I’m no fool. The security men would spray me with bullets without asking why as long as the order came from Viktor.
