A shaped charge rips the hinges apart. The steel-plated oak buckles inward, showering the room with splinters and smoke.Sergei and Yuri open fire instantly. Volkov men pour through the breach—black-clad, armored, weapons blazing.
Gunfire fills the room—deafening, chaotic. Yuri takes a round to the chest and drops without a sound. Sergei manages to drop one attacker before another burst catches him in the throat. He collapses, gurgling.
Mikhail moves faster than I expect. My father grabs me by the hair, yanks me in front of him, and jams the muzzle of his pistol against my temple.
“Back off!” Mikhail roars.
The Volkov men freeze in the doorway.
Viktor steps through the smoke, coat billowing, Glock steady in his hand. Behind him—heart-stoppingly familiar—comes Ivan.
Our eyes meet across the room.
For one heartbeat everything stops.
Then Viktor raises his free hand.
“Easy,” Viktor calls. “Let’s not make this messier than it needs to be.”
Mikhail’s grip tightens in my hair. The barrel digs into my temple.
“Your move asshole,” Mikhail snarls. “You want this boy’s death on your conscience? Or maybe I kill him myself? Or… perhaps you let us both leave.”
Viktor tilts his head, considering.
Ivan takes one step forward.
“Don’t,” Viktor says, his voice low, urgent, aimed at Mikhail. “Don’t do this.”
“You think you can talk me down, Volkov dog?” Mikhail laughs, his voice bitter. “After everything?”
Ivan’s eyes never leave mine.
Viktor glances at Ivan—sharp, assessing—then back at Mikhail.
“Last chance,” Viktor says. “Drop the gun. Or we finish this the hard way. You know it’s over Mikhail. But your son doesn’t need to die.”
Mikhail’s breathing is ragged against my ear.
I close my eyes.
And pray.
Because this is it.
This is where it ends.
One way or another.
Chapter 20
Ivan
The muzzle flashes have died away, leaving only the ringing in my ears and the slow drip of something wet hitting the hardwood floor. Mikhail has Landon pinned against his chest, one arm now off his hair and clamped around his throat, the other pressing the muzzle of his pistol to his temple.
Th boy’s eyes are wide open, locked on mine—fear, yes, but also something fiercer. Trust. Or maybe just the last shred of hope he has left.
Mikhail is moving—small, erratic steps from side to side, dragging him with him like a shield. Every time I try to line up a clean shot he shifts again, keeping his head in the way. The old tyrant is breathing hard, sweat shining on his forehead, eyes darting between Viktor and me. The man who once ruled half the city with an iron hand is unraveling in front of us.
