I keep my face blank. “He understands the situation. I don’t anticipate any further issues. You can count on that.”
Viktor studies me for a beat too long.
Then he leans forward, voice dropping.
“Mikhail’s not budging,” Viktor says, his voice stern. “Not an inch.”
My stomach turns over. I know what this means. But I need to listen carefully to pick up every detail and nuance of what Viktor is saying. This is serious.
“He won’t give up a single block of territory,” Viktor continues. “The motherfucker won’t pay a dime in ransom. Says if we wantto play hardball, we can keep the boy. He says he’ll make more children.”
The words land like punches. I force my expression neutral though. The last thing I need is for Viktor to sense that I’m in any way personally invested in the boy.
“He’s bluffing,” I say. “It’s the obvious play. He was never going to cave right away. It’s a test.”
“Maybe.” Viktor shrugs. “Maybe not. Old bastard’s always been stubborn. But if he’s willing to let his son rot… or worse… it makes us look weak if we just hand him back with nothing to show for it.”
I swallow, compose myself, do everything I can to retain total unflappable composure despite the fact that I have a sick feeling in my stomach that is getting worse by the moment.
“So what’s the play?” I ask.
Viktor’s eyes are flat. Merciless.
“We may have to kill him,” Viktor answers, his voice low.
The room tilts.
I feel it: physical vertigo. Nausea rises sharp and hot.
I lock it down. Force air into my lungs.
“When?” I manage to say, my entire body rigid, my mind running at a million miles per hour.
“Not yet.” Viktor taps the table once. “We give him another forty-eight hours, maybe more maybe less. Let him sweat. If he still won’t bend…” He spreads his hands. “An example has to be made.”
I nod. Once. Mechanical.
Inside I’m screaming.
Viktor signals for the check and stands like it’s just another day at the office. Which, for him I suppose it is.
“Keep him breathing for now,” Viktor says. “But don’t get attached, Ivan. You know how this ends. Either way he’s out of your life, so what difference would it make?”
I nod and watch as he walks out. His men follow, and I watch the diner door slam shut. It barely raises a single look from the other patrons, but they haven’t heard what I’ve just heard. They don’t understand who was just in here and how easily he was weighing up someone’s life.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
I sit there another minute—maybe two—staring at the cracked Formica tabletop. Then I push to my feet and walk out into the gray March morning.
The weight of the world sits on my shoulders, and every step back toward the penthouse feels like walking to my own execution when in fact I’m feeling more like the executioner by the moment.
I stand on the sidewalk for a long minute, hands shoved deep in my coat pockets, Viktor’s words looping in my skull on repeat.
We may have to kill him.
