"He's got a son," Viktor continues. "Artyom, goes by Landon Lane to fly under the radar. Smart boy, law school, Ivy League, the works. Mikhail's grooming him to take over the business.But the so-called legit side of things. He’s smart as hell, but he’s Mikhail’s weak spot too."
Ah. There it is.
"Kidnap him,” I say, my voice cold, my mind seeing the play. “Hold him for ransom."
"Exactly." Viktor's eyes gleam. "We'll use him as a test. See how far Mikhail's willing to push his plot. If he backs down, caves to our demands… territory concessions, maybe a cut of his operations, we let the boy go. If not... well, that's why I need someone I trust. Someone precise. Someone who will do what needs to be done."
I see where this is headed, and it doesn't surprise me.
"You want me to handle the grab,” I say. “Take him to a safehouse."
"A penthouse on the east side," Viktor confirms. "It’s never been used before. Totally secret. Top floor, secure as a vault. Hold him there under your control until I say otherwise. No harm unless necessary. But make sure he knows who's in charge."
I nod, already mapping it out in my head. "Consider it done."
The meeting wraps quickly after that. Viktor slides me a burner phone with the details: his routine, address, photos.
We shake hands, and I head out into the pre-dawn chill, the security guys trailing Viktor to his armored SUV.
The job is straightforward, but something nags at me.
Kidnapping is not my usual gig. Far from it. I’m more of a one-shot and done kind of man. Hits are clean. This could get messy. Personal.
But orders are orders.
And in this life, you follow them or end up in the sewer with your own knife in your back.
Landon Lane is coming with me. That’s all there is to it. And whatever Viktor wants at the end of it all, well I’ll deliver that too.
No matter what.
The abduction went to plan. A single clean hit, enough to knock him out. I had to be careful not to overdo it, but I think I struck the right balance between force and care.
Whatever.
The boy is alive and he’s with me just as I planned.
The car's interior is dim, the city lights streaking past like comet tails through the tinted windows. Landon slumps against me in the backseat, his body limp from the calculated blow I delivered to the base of his skull. He’s drifting in and out, mumbling incoherently, his head lolling onto my shoulder.
I hold the boy close, one arm wrapped around his waist to keep him steady as the driver navigates the empty streets. It's practical—I don't want him flopping around if he comes to—but there's something else there too.
He’s warm, soft in a way that contrasts the hard edges of my world.
His hair smells like vanilla and something zesty,innocent.
I glance down at his face: high cheekbones, full lips parted slightly in his haze.
Damn, he’scute. Not what I expected from Galkin's son. He’s way more like a college kid than a mafia prince. Which, I suppose, is precisely what he is. According to his details he’s in his early twenties and has a background in sports too. Always good to know ahead of time. The last thing I need is to realize I’m dealing with an athlete when he’s attempting to sprint away from me during an escape attempt. Not that I’m planning on letting it get that far.
No. The boy will learn very quickly that he needs to respect and observe my rules.
He stirs, his eyelids fluttering. "Wh... who..."
"Shh," I murmur, my voice low, almost soothing despite myself. "Don't fight it. Just rest."
He doesn't respond, slipping back under.
Good.
