Your son is with us. Back off your plot, concede territory, or he pays the price.
The old man's probably raging, mobilizing his network.
Those cars? Scouts,maybe. Testing the waters. It’s all possible. I’ve been around for far too long to let anything slide without at least a suspicious eye.
The game is on.
Galkin vs. Volkov, round whatever.
I've been in the middle of these before—hits, negotiations, blood. But this feels different.
This one is personal.
Because of Landon.
What will the outcome be? Mikhail caves, he goes home, back to his law books and stuffie?
Or Galkin pushes, and I have to...escalate?
The thought of harming him—really harming him—sits wrong. But orders are orders. I’ll never disobey my pakhan. It’s not who I am. It’s not a question for me. I will follow my leader, always. I made a vow of loyalty, and no Galkin prince will make me go against that.
I down the rest of my coffee, eyes on the street. No more suspicious vehicles for now. But they'll come. They always do.
Back to the penthouse soon. Keep the boy safe. Keep him in line.
And maybe, just maybe, figure out if that Little spark is real.
The elevator ride back up feels longer than usual. Maybe it’s the weight of the day settling in, or maybe it’s the image burned into my head from the CCTV feed: Landon curled on the couch, hugging that little brown bear like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart.
I’ve seen hostages cling to all kinds of things—photos, rosaries, lucky charms—but the way he held it, small fingers buried in the fur, eyes half-closed… it hitdifferent.
I step into the penthouse. The triple bolts disengage with a soft click, and I lock them behind me out of habit. The place smells faintly of coffee and steam from earlier.
Quiet. Too quiet.
He’s not on the couch anymore.
I scan the room—living area clear, windows untouched, no sign of tampering. Then I hear the faint scratch of pencil on paper coming from the kitchen.
“Hello?” I call, keeping my voice even. “Landon?”
Then I see him. He’s sitting at the long table, back to me, shoulders hunched forward. His backpack is open beside his chair: notebooks and highlighters spilled out like he raided it for supplies. In front of him is a single sheet of lined legal pad paper, and he’s drawing on it with one of his black gel pens.
His stuffie sits propped against the edge of the table, watching him work like a tiny supervisor.
I move closer, footsteps deliberate so he hears me coming.
He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look up. The boy just keeps sketching.
“Interesting,” I say, casting my eyes over the drawing.
It’s a cabin. Simple lines, but confident. A peaked roof, a stone chimney, tall pines in the background, a narrow dock stretching out over what must be a lake. Sun low on the water, ripples catching light. There’s a small rowboat tied up, and two figures on the dock—tiny, stick-like, but one has long hair, the other broad shoulders.
And a child between them, holding hands.
I pull out the chair next to the young man and sit. Not too close. He tenses anyway.
“That from memory?” I ask, keeping my voice low. “Or imagination?”
