“What motive do you have for giving him back?” I snap. I gesture sharply with my gun to the twins standing behind me. “The second you let him go, myvory v zakonehave their sights trained on you. You’re dead before you take another breath.”
For the first time since arriving, I see something ripple across Mikhail’s face. The tiniest hesitation. He knows what every man like him understands deep down, that power taken can be reclaimed at any time. Enemies can be bought, and a legacy is only as secure as the hands that hold it.
The second I drop dead, he will too.
And then what would be the point in all of this?
His smile hardens into something colder, the entertainment drained away. “That’s true. Instead of killing you, perhaps I’ll take your boy and raise him myself. Make him into something better than his traitor of a father could ever be.”
“You would raise him as your trophy,” I say slowly. “You would put your name on him.”
Mikhail shrugs. “Why not?”
Rage claws up my throat, white hot.
I imagine ripping him apart with my hands, seeing the blood pool on the floor at my feet, the chaos it wouldunleash for a split, glorious second. Everything inside me screams that single savage solution. Begs for it, even.
But logic remains colder than my fury. One wrong move, and it’s not Mikhail who bleeds, it's Leo. Everything I fought for, every careful manipulation, every lie, every bargain I’ve agreed to out of desperation collapses in an instant. The problem doesn’t change because I want it to.
It never will.
So I step back from the instinct to annihilate the man standing in front of me and breathe in, folding my rage down into something more controlled.
“Do it, Maksim,” Mikhail taunts. “Put the gun to your head. Be a noble father. End this the easy way.”
His fingers brush Leo’s hair once, a careless, possessive motion that is almost tender in its roughness, and for a second, I can see that he believes this child could be remade into his image.
Leo snaps.
It’s not much, just a desperate, furious chomp of small teeth into the meat of Mikhail’s hand, but it’s enough to make the man flinch from shock.
“Ow! You little shit!”
In the same instant, everything narrows. Time seems to pull taut like a wire. My training takes the wheel—breath, aim, decision. There is no time for hesitation. Leo does what I’m praying he will. He ducks. His small body slips free from Mikhail’s hands, collapsing down onto the floor to roll away.
I fire.
The sound is a single bullet that whistles across the space between us, finding its home dead center in Mikhail’s forehead. The crack of the shot echoes like thunder through the ruined restaurant. For a moment, Mikhail’s fury stays plastered on his face, almost comically frozen. Then his head jerks back, a red spray misting the air.
He collapses without theatrics. The motion is graceless and final.
The room goes very quiet except for the ringing in my ears and the small, whimpering sobs from Leo, who scrambles away on instinct and huddles behind me.
I drop the gun and snatch my son up, dragging him into my arms and crushing him to my chest. He is shaking, his breath coming in small, hiccupping bursts. I shelter his head against my shoulder, fingers curling around the back of his collar.
“Are you hurt?” I force the words out, a rough whisper close to his ear.
He shakes his head.
I sag in relief.
Roman steps forward, a hand hovering for a fraction of a second before resting on my shoulder. Katya moves around us to secure the room, snapping orders into her phone as she calls for backup and a cleanup crew.
I lift my son away from my chest to inspect him. There are no dramatic wounds, just a few bruises. My legs are weak as I sink to the floor, ignoring the slight stab of glass poking at me through my pants.
Leo sniffles, rubbing his eyes. “Where’s Mama?”
I brush a few pieces of his hair back from his face.