“Good.”
Once the door clicks shut behind the realtor, the apartment falls into a heavy silence broken only by the distant murmur of traffic far below. I loosen my tie slightly and move deeper into the space, my steps deliberate.
This will serve well as a secondary residence—somewhere away from the main family compound where eyes are always watching, including my own men. A place to breathe. To plan.
I push open the double doors to the grand master bedroom.
It is even more impressive than the listing photos suggested. A massive four-poster bed dominates the center, dark wood frame carved with subtle details, dressed in crisp white linens that contrast sharply with the deep mahogany tones of the room.
Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a sweeping view of the city skyline. Directly opposite stands an ornate Gothic building, its spires and arched windows reminiscent of old European cathedrals dropped into the modern metropolis.
At night, it will be spectacular: floodlit stone glowing against the dark, perhaps with fog rolling in to soften the edges. I canimagine standing here with a glass of vodka, watching the lights flicker while the city sleeps uneasily under my family’s influence.
I cross to the window, placing one hand on the cool glass. The view is commanding.Strategic. From here, one can see approaches from multiple directions.
My mind, however, betrays me.
Instead of focusing on sightlines or escape routes, it drifts back to the gym. To the petite personal trainer in the lemon-yellow top.Teddy. The way his cheeks flush when I speak to him. The slight stumble in his words. The spark of defiance mixed with something softer when I tell him he will train Bobby. He wants to argue—I can see it in his eyes—but he doesn’t. Notyet.
I shake my head sharply, pushing the image away like an unwelcome intruder.
No.
He will train my nephew. Bobby needs structure after the chaos of the last year—my father’s death has unsettled everyone, including the younger generation. A disciplined trainer like Teddy can provide that without asking questions. Payment will be generous. Contact beyond that will be nonexistent.
I have no room in my life for distractions, especially not one as soft and bright as him. Guys like Teddy belong in a different world—full of early mornings, protein shakes, and optimistic dreams. My world is bullets, blood debts, and the constant shadow of the grave that claimed my father. Bringing someone like him close will only paint a target on his back.
Or worse, make me weak.
I turn away from the window, the fantasy of night views dissolving. The apartment will do. I will have my people sweep it for listening devices later today, install additional measures, and make the arrangements. For now, it feels right. Solid, private, old-world strength wrapped in modern convenience.
I leave the bedroom, take one final pass through the living room—mentally noting where a desk could go for late-night work—and exit the apartment. The realtor waits downstairs exactly as promised, respectful and efficient. Papers will be signed by evening. Another piece of the board secured.
It is time to move…
* * *
Downtown, the café is quiet mid-morning, the kind of place that caters to professionals who prefer privacy over Instagram aesthetics. Dark wood booths, low lighting even during the day, and an espresso machine that hisses with precision.
I arrive first, choosing a corner table with my back to the wall.
My security team waits outside in the SUV—close enough to intervene, far enough not to crowd the conversation.
Ivan arrives ten minutes later, sliding into the seat opposite me with the fluid grace of a man who makes his living ending lives quietly. He is tall, leaner than me, with sharp features and eyes that miss nothing. Closely tied to Viktor’s organization but still operating as a freelance contractor when it suits him. A useful bridge between families, especially now.
“Espresso,” I tell the waiter before Ivan can speak. He nods and orders the same.
Ivan leans back, a faint smile touching his lips. “Good to see you, Kirill. The pact with Viktor… I’m glad it’s done. Makes my position less awkward. Being friends with both sides used to require careful footwork. Maybe it still does. But this is something to work with.”
I nod once. “The city needs stability. Endless blood feuds benefit no one except the Italians and the cartels waiting to pick over the remains.”
The espressos arrive—small, dark, and bitter in the most perfect way. I take a sip, letting the caffeine cut through the morning.
Ivan studies me over the rim of his cup. “How is the transition treating you? Pakhan is a heavy crown.”
“It is what it is,” I reply evenly. “My father’s shoes were large. I intend to fill them and then some.”
Ivan chuckles softly. “Spoken like a true Antonov. Speaking of… how is your boy? The one you mentioned last time we spoke.”
