The truth is that I’m terrified I won’t come out of this alive.
But for the first time since I ran from the B&B, I don’t feel completely alone.
And right now, that’s just about enough.
Todd stands beside me while the ATM machine hums and counts out crisp twenties—five hundred dollars in total, the daily maximum on his card without triggering a fraud alert.
He insisted on coming inside with me even though I told him it wasn’t necessary. When the cash spits into my hand I fold it carefully, tuck it into the inner pocket of my hoodie, and zip the pocket shut. My backpack feels heavier now, not from weight but from possibility.
Todd watches me with worried eyes.
“That’s all I can get today without questions,” he says. “I’ll pull more tomorrow if you need it. Just… text me. Or call. Or show up again.Anything.”
I nod. My throat is tight.
Todd steps forward and pulls me into a fierce hug. I hug him back just as hard, breathing in the familiar scent of his coconut shampoo and the faint vanilla of his lip balm. For a second I let myself pretend this is normal—just two best friends saying goodbye after a quick coffee run.
“Be careful,” Todd whispers against my hair. “Promise me.”
I pull back just enough to look Todd in the eye.
“I can only promise to do what I need to do,” I say quietly. “That’s the best I’ve got right now.”
I watch as Todd’s mouth trembles, but he holds it together and nods. He knows me well enough not to argue when I’m in thiskind of mood. And I know him well enough to know that he’s good on his promises too.
We embrace one more time—longer this time,tighter—then I step away.
“I love you,” Todd says.
“I love you too,” I answer, steeling myself.
I turn and walk out of the vestibule without looking back. If I look back I might not leave.
The city swallows me again—noise, movement, the press of bodies on the sidewalk. I keep my hood up, my pace steady but not panicked.
I head east toward the old neighborhood, the one my father’s people still treat as their unofficial territory. The diner is there, barely lit but unmistakable. It’s been a front for decades: good coffee, better privacy, and a back booth that’s always reserved.
I push through the glass door.
The bell jingles.
Heads turn—some out of habit, some out of recognition. Conversations stutter and then resume in lower tones.
I spot him immediately: Sergei, one of my father’s oldest soldiers. Mid-fifties, salt-and-pepper hair, scarred knuckles, the same leather jacket he’s worn since I was in high school. He’s sitting at the counter with a cup of black coffee and a half-eaten slice of cherry pie. When he sees me his fork freezes halfway to his mouth.
Shock flickers across his face—raw, unguarded—before he schools it into something closer to his usual stoic mask.
“Artyom,” he says quietly, using my real name the way only the old guard still do. “You’re supposed to be. I thought you were.Fuck. You’re here and that’s what counts.”
“You thought I was dead?” I finish for him. My voice is steady. “Yeah. I heard. But I’m a Galkin. I’m a lot tougher than people might think.”
He sets the fork down. Looks around once—quick, professional—then stands.
“What are you doing here?”
“I want to see my father,” I say. “Right now. And I want you to take me to him.”
Sergei studies me for a long moment. I can see him weighing the risks, the orders, the blood ties. Finally he nods once.
