There are proper, dignified ways for old kings to go out on their shields. But this isn’t one of them. And it makes me hate Mikhail even more, knowing that this is the last thing his son will remember of him.
Viktor stands calm in the doorway, Glock steady but lowered, voice carrying over the sudden quiet like he’s negotiating a business deal instead of a hostage crisis.
“It’sover, Mikhail,” he says. “You’ve got no more men. No more cards to play. Let the boy go. I give you my word, no one touches him. Not today. Not tomorrow. He’s not the target anymore. You are.”
Mikhail laughs. It’s short, jagged, almost gurgle.
“You think I believe you?” Mikhail snarls. “You think I trust the Downtown Devil’s word? You think I won’t take the boy with me? I am Mikhail Galkin. The family begins and ends withme.”
Viktor doesn’t flinch.
“I don’t want to hurt your son,” Viktor says. “Never did. He was leverage. That’s all. I wasn’t kidding. You surrender to your fate now and I swear on my life he walks out of here unharmed. You have my word.”
Mikhail’s arm tightens around Landon’s throat. He gasps, small and sharp. His finger twitches on the trigger.
I feel it more than see it—the subtle tightening of muscle, the fractional shift of weight. He’s not listening to Viktor. He’s not calculating escape routes. He’s done. And in his mind, if he’s going down, he’s taking my darling boy with him.
My pulse slows. The world narrows to a tunnel: Mikhail’s finger on the trigger, Landon’s eyes on mine, the steady rise and fall of his chest against his arm.
I breathe in.
Hold.
Exhale half.
Andfire.
The suppressed .45 bucks once in my hand. A single round—clean, center-mass through the forehead. Mikhail’s head snaps back. His arm goes slack. The pistol clatters to the floor. Galkin crumples like a cut puppet, dragging Landon down with him for half a second before he wrenches free.
Landon stumbles forward—two steps, three—then launches himself at me.
His arms wrap around my neck so hard I stagger. I drop the pistol, catch him around the waist, lift him off the ground. He buries his face in my throat and sobs once—raw, broken—before his knees give out completely once more. I lower us both to the floor, cradling the boy against my chest while his body shakes.
Viktor watches us for a long beat.
Then he holsters his weapon.
“Take him,” Viktor says. “Get him out of here. Cops will be here any minute. I placed a delay with a contact downtown, but he won’t be able to hold off much longer. This place is burned.”
I don’t question it.
I don’t thank Viktor either, not yet.
I simply lift Landon into my arms—bridal style, his head tucked under my chin—and carry him past the bodies, past the splintered door, past the stunned Volkov crew still holding position in the hallway.
No one stops me.
Outside, the air hits like a slap—cold, clean, smelling faintly of rain accompanied by the sound of distant sirens. Viktor’s SUV is still idling at the curb. The driver opens the rear door without a word. I slide Landon inside, climb in after him, and pull the door shut.
“Drive,” I tell the man behind the wheel. “Fast.”
The driver doesn’t argue.
We peel away from the curb. Sirens swell in the distance—multiple units, closing fast. The city lights streak past the tinted windows in red and blue smears.
Landon is shaking in my lap, face pressed to my chest, breathing in shallow, uneven hitches. I stroke his hair, murmur against his temple…“You’re safe, baby, Daddy’s got you, it’s over”until the shaking begins to ease.
He lifts his head eventually. Eyes red-rimmed, cheeks wet.
