Ivan’s hand is locked around my upper arm, fingers digging in just hard enough to remind me I’m not walking alone.Not free. His pace is brisk but not panicked—controlled, deliberate, the way someone moves when they know exactly how many seconds they have before the net closes.
My backpack bounces against my spine with every step. Claw is inside, pressed against my laptop. The only familiar thing left, my one crumb of comfort in this mess.
But Ivan’s grip hurts.
“Ivan,” I murmur, keeping my voice low so only he hears. “You’re bruising me. If you relax a little, I won’t run. I promise.”
He glances down at me—quick, assessing. Something flickers in his eyes. Not anger. Not the cold fury from last night. Worry, maybe. Or guilt.
Ivan loosens his fingers. Not all the way—just enough that blood flows again.
I could break free right now.
One sharp twist, a scream loud enough to turn every head on the block, a sprint into the crowd. Someone would help. Someone would call 911. I could end this in thirty seconds.
Ivan knows it too.
His voice drops, rough but steady. “You just need to trust me,” Ivan says. “Trust me long enough to get you somewhere safe. Somewhere we can talk.Reallytalk. That’s all I’m asking.”
I look up at him—jaw tight, eyes scanning rooftops, alley mouths, every reflective surface like he’s waiting for a muzzle flash.
He’s not lying.
Not about this part, at least.
Something inside me twists—anger, fear, exhaustion, and something softer I don’t want to name. I swallow.
“Okay,” I whisper. “For now.”
“Good,” Ivan says, his focus turned up all the way.
We turn left at the next corner. A small café sits wedged between a dry cleaner and a phone-repair shop. Floor-to-ceiling windows, mismatched chairs, the smell of burnt toast drifting out every time the door opens.
Ivan steers us inside. Chooses a table in the back corner—back to the wall, clear view of the entrance. Classic.
He orders black coffee for himself, chamomile tea for me without asking. I don’t argue.
When the drinks arrive he wraps both hands around his mug like he’s trying to absorb the heat.
Then he starts talking.
Quiet. Low. Only for me…
“Your location was compromised,” Ivan says. “It happens. But when it does, it’s time to move, no questions asked.”
I freeze, teacup halfway to my lips.
“Not by me,” Ivan adds quickly. “Someone in Viktor’s circle must have leaked it or talked to loosely after one too many vodkas. Word’s spreading. And it’s not just Volkov versus Galkin anymore. The other families… Armenians, Italians, the Irish crews… they’re smelling blood. Everyone’s picking sides or settling old scores. The city is about to burn.”
My stomach drops.
“And me?” I ask, my voice small.
“You’re a target.” He meets my eyes. No evasion. “Not leverage anymore. A message. If they can’t get to Mikhail directly, they’ll go through you. Kill you publicly, leave the body somewhere it’ll be found fast. Make sure everyone knows the Galkin line can be cut.”
I stare at him.
He doesn’t look away.
