No fuss, just the soft metallic clicks of magazines being checked and safeties flicked off. Viktor sits beside me, coat open, the butt of his custom Glock visible against the black wool.
The plan is simple, brutal, and final: go in hard through the front, overwhelm the security detail, push to the second floor rear private dining room where Mikhail always retreats when trouble comes knocking, and end it.
I stare through the tinted windshield at the darkened façade of the restaurant. Windows blacked out. No movement visible from the street. But I know better. Mikhail never leaves himself completely exposed. There will be men inside—loyal ones, armed ones, ready ones.
Viktor finally breaks the silence.
“Front door,” he says. “No subtlety. We want them shocked. We want them running. And when we reach Mikhail, I want him looking into your eyes when you pull the trigger.”
I nod once. My mouth is dry.
The driver cuts the engine. Doors open in near-perfect sync. Eight of us spill out—black leather, black gloves, suppressedweapons already low but ready. I lead. Viktor is close. The rest fan out, three covering the alley on the left, three moving to flank the rear service entrance.
We cross the street fast, boots quiet on asphalt. I raise a gloved hand. Hold it. Then look to Viktor.
“Go!” Viktor barks, his eyes aflame with controlled fury.
We move.
The front door is unlocked—arrogant, or bait. Viktor steps ahead and kicks it wide. The bell jangles once, absurdly cheerful.
Gunfire erupts instantly.
Muzzle flashes light the interior like strobe lights. Glass shatters. Terrified screams cut through the noise—waitstaff, a hostess, a couple of kitchen porters who must have been finishing cleanup. They bolt for the exits, hands up, aprons still tied. We let them pass. No point wasting rounds on civilians. That’s not how we move.
Volkov men pour inside, weapons up.
I follow Viktor through the main dining room—tables overturned, chairs skittering across the floor as bullets punch through wood and upholstery. Return fire comes from the back hallway—sharp, disciplined bursts. Mikhail’s people are dug in, they might have been caught by surprise but they’re not going to fold easily.
A Volkov soldier drops beside me, chest blooming red.
Another takes his place without hesitation.
We push forward.
Viktor is relentless—cool, precise, putting rounds exactly where they need to go. A Galkin man appears in the doorway to the kitchen and Viktor shoots him through the throat before he can raise his weapon. Blood sprays across the stainless-steel pass.
We reach the rear corridor.
More gunfire—automatic now, sustained. Bullets chew the drywall, ricochet off metal shelves. One of our men grunts and falls. I drop to a knee, return fire, see a shadow jerk and collapse behind an overturned prep table.
Then I seehim.
Just a glimpse—dark hair, his face pale and terrified—darting behind a doorway at the end of the hall.
Landon.
My darling boy.
My heart slams into my ribs so hard I almost lose my breath.
He’s here.
He’s fuckinghere, in the heart of the action.
Viktor’s hand clamps onto my shoulder, hard enough to bruise.
“He’s in there,” Viktor says, voice flat. “With him.”
