The less he sees, the better.
The driver—a trusted Volkov foot soldier named Pavel—pulls up to the nondescript high-rise on the east side. It's one of our safehouses, disguised as luxury condos, with reinforced doors and surveillance that rivals the Pentagon. Pavel kills the engine, nods to me in the rearview.
"All clear, Ivan," Pavel says. “Pakhan has arranged for basic supplies there. More can be ordered by request. Got it?”
I simply nod.
I slip a black blindfold from my pocket—silk, because why add insult if not necessary—and tie it gently over his eyes. He’s out cold now, his breathing even. I scoop him up easily, the boy’s slight frame no burden for my build.
Pavel stays with the car as I carry him through the private entrance, up the service elevator to the top floor. No sooner than we’re through the door, I know the SUV will be growling off into the night.
It’s just me and the boy now.
The penthouse’s main door clicks open with my keycard, and I step inside, kicking it shut behind me. I engage the triple bolts—steel-reinforced, impossible to breach without heavy artillery—then lay him down on the large leather couch in the living room.
Landon sighs softly, curling into himself instinctively.
I step back, taking in the space. The penthouse is spectacular: floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering skyline, polished marble floors, a state-of-the-art kitchen with granite counters and appliances that could feed an army.
The living area alone is bigger than my own apartment, furnished with sleek modern pieces—plush rugs, abstract art on the walls, a massive flat-screen.
There's a fully stocked bar, a gym room, multiple bedrooms with ensuites. Security cams in every corner, feeding to a control room only Viktor and I have access to.
It's a gilded cage, designed for holding high-value assets without them feeling too imprisoned. At least, not at first.
I watch the boy for a moment, his chest rising and falling.
He’s twenty-three, according to the file—young, ambitious, oblivious to the full extent of his father's shadows.
Or maybe not so oblivious. Who the hell knows.
Galkin blood runs thick.
Still, staring at him like this, vulnerable and peaceful, I can't help but wonder: Will I have to kill him?
There's no guarantee Mikhail will break. He's a tough old bastard, forged in the same fires as Viktor. If he calls our bluff, pushes back... well, examples require follow-through. The thought sits heavy in my gut. I've ended plenty of lives—scumbags, rivals, threats—but a boy like this? It'd be a waste. A damn shame.
I shake it off.
No point borrowing trouble.
The job's the job. A kill is a kill.
I cross to the bar, pour myself a generous vodka—top-shelf, chilled—from the crystal decanter. The burn down my throat is familiar, grounding. I take a seat in the armchair opposite the couch, legs stretched out, glass in hand. The city's lights twinkle below, indifferent to the drama unfolding up here.
Landon stirs again, a soft moan escaping his lips.
The blindfold's still in place, his hands twitching like he’s trying to reach for it in his dreams.
I sip my drink, watching.
This could be a long night.
Hell, a long few days. Or weeks, even, depending on how the negotiations play out.
Part of me—the professional part—catalogs the details: secure the perimeter, check the cams, prep for when he wakes.
But another part, the one Viktor keeps poking at, sees the softness of his stomach, the way his hair rests on the cushion. Cute doesn't begin to cover it. He’s got fire, too—I saw it in the way he walked those last blocks, sensing me but not panicking.
