I don’t answer.
He leans closer, breath hot against my ear over the gunfire.
“You do the job, Ivan. No matter what you feel for the boy. You kill Mikhail. You kill anyone who stands in the way. Or I kill you myself—right here, right now. Your choice.”
I force my eyes away from the doorway where he disappeared.
“I’ll take Mikhail out myself,” I say. Voice steady. “But I won’t harm the boy.”
Viktor studies me for a long, dangerous second.
Then he nods—once, curt.
“Fine,” Viktor says. “But if he gets in the way, you put him down. Or if you don’t, I do. No hesitation.”
I don’t reply.
We press forward.
The room—Mikhail’s private dining space—is barricaded from the outside as two of his loyal soldiers do their best to protect their king. Heavy oak table overturned against the door. File cabinets dragged in front. Gunfire pours from the gaps. Bullets punch through the wood, splintering, whining past our heads.
Viktor signals. Two men lob flash-bangs over the barricade. Twin detonations—blinding white light, deafening cracks. Shouts from inside.
It’s deadly chaos.
We rush the door.
It’s time to end this once and for all…
Chapter 19
Landon
“Destiny,” my father roars. “Galkin blood will not be given without blood in return. Even if it means death for all.”
The heavy oak door—reinforced with steel plating and three thick bolts—still stands between us and the Volkov crew, but it won’t for long.
Every few seconds another muffled thud shakes the frame. They’re using something heavier than shoulder charges now. The walls tremble. Dust sifts from the ceiling. The two remaining Galkin men—Sergei and a younger soldier named Yuri—stand braced on either side of the door, rifles raised, faces grim.
They know what’s coming.
We all do.
I’m pressed against the far wall beside an overturned table, arms wrapped around my knees, trying to make myself small. My heart is hammering so hard I can feel it in my teeth. I look across the room at my father.
Mikhail stands in the center of the chaos like he’s carved from the same stone as the building. His suit jacket is torn at the shoulder, blood streaking one sleeve—not his. His pistol is steady in his right hand, but his eyes are wild, pupils blown wide with fury and something darker.
Desperation, maybe.
Or shame.
Who knows. Maybe he doesn’t think he’s ever done wrong?
I know different. I wait for him to look at me. To say something—anything—that will make me feel like his son again instead of a liability he’s been forced to drag along. I wait for the reassurance he used to give me when I was very small and nightmares woke me screaming…
Papa’s here. Nothing can hurt you.
But he doesn’t look at me. Instead he rounds on me suddenly, voice low and venomous…
