Chapter 2
570 Words
Ivan POV
My day starts before the city wakes.
It always has.
I don’t need an alarm. Habit pulls me from sleep the same way instinct pulls a gun from a holster—quiet, automatic, precise. I dress in the dark, movements efficient, thoughts already several steps ahead.
Check perimeter.
Review reports.
Count men.
Count threats.
Alexander’s name runs through everything I do, even when he’s not physically present. That’s how loyalty works when it’s forged in blood and time—not spoken, just lived.
The mansion is still when I step outside, Moscow wrapped in early morning gray. I take the first coffee standing, watching the guards rotate, listening to the rhythm of a place that hasn’t burned yet.
It won’t today.
I climb into the car, nodding once to the driver.
“Warehouse meeting moved up,” he says. “Six.”
“Good,” I reply. “Less time for surprises.”
He glances at me in the mirror. “You ever sleep?”
I don’t answer.
The warehouse smells like oil and cold metal. The kind of place where men pretend they’re fearless until someone tests it. We don’t waste time with pleasantries.
They want territory.
Alexander doesn’t give territory.
Negotiations go nowhere. Voices rise. Someone reaches.
That’s when the first shot is fired.
Not by me.
I move anyway.
Fire roars through the space—gunshots, shouts, chaos. I put myself between Alexander and everything else without thinking. Bullets tear into crates. Glass shatters. A man goes down screaming.
I don’t feel the burn in my side until it’s over.
“Enough,” Alexander’s voice cuts through the smoke.
Silence falls like a command.
I check him first. No blood. Good.
Only then do I look down.
Red spreads across my shirt.
Alexander’s jaw tightens. “You’re hit.”
“Minor,” I say. It’s not a lie. Not entirely.
We leave fast. No ambulances. No witnesses.
Back at the mansion, the family doctor is already waiting, irritation etched into his face.
“You’re getting sloppy,” he mutters as he cuts the fabric away.
“Still alive,” I reply.
“That’s not the standard,” he snaps. “Sit.”
I do.
As he works, I stare at the wall, letting the pain register without giving it permission to slow me down. Pain is information. Nothing more.
Alexander watches silently from the corner.
“You didn’t need to step in front of him,” he says finally.
“Yes,” I answer. “I did.”
He doesn’t argue. He never does. We both know the truth.
When the doctor finishes, he shakes his head. “I need help. My hands aren’t what they used to be.”
“Get it,” Alexander says.
I don’t think much of it.
People come and go.
Doctors, soldiers, allies—they’re all temporary.
Loyalty is the only constant.
As I leave the room, my phone buzzes.
A message from Alexander.
A friend of Angelica’s is coming to Moscow. Medical student. She’ll be assisting the doctor.
I pause briefly.
Angelica’s friend.
From Greece.
From a rival family, if the rumors are right.
I pocket the phone without response and head back to work.
People’s names don’t matter until they do.
And right now, my only priority is this:
Staying cold.
Staying distant.
Staying fearless.
Because fear is a luxury.
And I don’t have time for luxuries.
- Writer
