I was young. Kasper was forty-nine and already looked like he’d lived three lifetimes. We were in a condemned warehouse on the edge of the docks, waiting for a shipment that never showed. The supplier had flipped. Kasper knew it before I did. He didn’t panic. He just sat on a crate, lit a cigarette, and started talking.
“You ever wonder why some men make it and some don’t?” Kasper asked, exhaling smoke that curled toward the rusted rafters.
I shrugged. I was still young enough to think I already knew the answer.
“Conviction,” he said. “You can be smart. You can be fast. You can be strong. But if you don’t have conviction behind what you do… if you’re just following orders because they’re orders, you’ll hesitate at the wrong moment. And hesitation kills.”
He took another drag.
“I’ve killed men I liked,” Kasper continued. “I’ve killed men I respected. I’ve killed men who begged. Never once did I hesitate. Because I believed every single time that what I was doing was necessary. That’s the difference between surviving and becoming a ghost.”
I didn’t speak. I just listened.
He flicked ash onto the concrete floor.
“When the time comes… and it always comes… you’ll have to decide what you believe in. Not what the pakhan believes. Not what the family believes. Whatyoubelieve. Because once you make that choice, there’s no going back.”
I open my eyes.
The city noise presses against the windows once more.
I know what I believe.
I believe Landon deserves to live.
I believe I would never forgive myself if I abandoned my boy now.
I believe that whatever comes after—Viktor’s wrath, Mikhail’s revenge, the full weight of two families hunting me—I will face it.
But I have to find him first.
I reach for the ignition.
Before my fingers touch the key, two black SUVs slide into the street—one blocking the front, one the rear. Doors open in unison. Four men step out. I recognize them instantly: Viktor’s personal crew. No attempt at subtlety. No need for it. They run these streets and act like it too.
The passenger door of the lead SUV opens.
Viktor steps out.
He’s wearing a dark overcoat, collar turned up against the wind. His face is calm, almost bored. But his eyes are locked on me through the windshield.
He raises a hand—two fingers, casual—and beckons.
I exhale slowly.
No choice.
I kill the engine, step out, and lock the car behind me. The crew closes in, flanking me without touching. Viktor waits until I’m standing directly in front of him.
“Get in,” Viktor says.
I walk to the open rear door of his SUV and slide inside. The leather is cold. Viktor climbs in beside me. The door closes with a soft, expensive thud.
Before I can comprehend or try to game out what’s happening, the convoy moves out—smooth, coordinated, on the surface as calm as daybreak.
Viktor doesn’t look at me right away. Instead, he stares out the tinted window as the city rolls past.
“We’re hitting Mikhail,” Viktor says finally. “Right now. His restaurant. Full crew inside. We go in hard, fast, bloody. No survivors. No witnesses. When the smoke clears, the Galkin name dies with him. And the city understands who’s in charge.”
