11. Logan

CHAPTER 11

LOGAN

Vlad’s back in town from whatever business trip he took this time, and these past few days, he's been omnipresent–a ghost in his own house, yet every inch the kingpin. I see him making holes in the carpets and tiles of his own floors inside or on the deck, seemingly a step ahead. Despite the growing heat, he’s always impeccably dressed in a suit, his hair done, his chin cleanly shaved. It’s like the man was born this way. His voice is a low hum of authority threading through phone lines, weaving plots I'm not privy to.

Days later, I can still feel the phantom grip of someone tailing Sasha and me–an icy reminder that this game has more players than I can see. The instincts that I’ve relied on all my life—even though they didn’t help me when I was booted from the force—are itching under my skin, whispering that something's amiss.

And this thing—whatever it is—has been growing bigger and bigger, just like the temperature outside has been skyrocketing. And one morning, when I arrive for work, I seize the chance as Ivan, Vlad's shadow incarnate, exits Vlad’s office.

Through the space between the door and the threshold, I catch a glimpse of the older Solovey brother at his desk.

"I need to talk to him," I tell Ivan as I approach the office.

Ivan surveys my face as if deciding whether I’m full of shit or not, but before he figures out I’m about to go on the offensive, I push the heavy door open and slip into the office.

Vlad is focused on what’s in front of him and says something in Russian.

I clear my throat. "Vlad," I start, my voice betraying none of the adrenaline coursing through me. "Do you have a minute?"

He doesn't look up, just a slight tilt of his head to acknowledge that he knows I’m here. "Where is Ivan?"

"Outside."

On that grand desk papers are spread before the man like fallen soldiers. And even now, he exudes power and control. He’s someone who moves pieces on a chessboard I can barely comprehend.

"You have two minutes, Mr. McKenna."

My boots sink into the thick carpet with each step as I near the desk, and I can’t help but wonder what it is with all the carpets, even the ones on the walls of this house. Must be the Russian thing.

"I’m listening." Vlad finally lifts his gaze. Those eyes, stormy just like Sasha's but devoid of any warmth, lock onto mine. There's nothing but the sound of my own breath, loud in the silence between me and my employer.

I square my shoulders. "We need to talk."

"About what?" He leans back, the leather chair protesting under the shift of his weight.

"About the bomb," I press on, ignoring the way my mouth feels dry, the way his stare seems to dissect my every intention.

Vlad's lack of reaction drapes over us like a thick poisonous fog, but I push through it. "Back in London," I add the words like a gambit, laying my cards on the table, waiting for his play.

His gaze doesn't waver. Those eyes of his are cold, calculating. The air between us crackles with tension. He sits there, an immovable monument of power and secrecy.

"Your concern is noted, Logan," Vlad's voice finally slices through the stillness, "but your job is to protect my brother. My affairs are not your domain."

"Look, I'm not here to step on your toes," I reply quickly. "But I've been in the trenches of organized crime, you know that. You know I was a cop. I need intel if I'm going to keep him safe."

"Your background as a cop does not grant you clearance into my operations," Vlad retorts, each syllable clipped and precise.

"Clearance?" I scoff, anger flaring. "This isn't about red tape. It's about being prepared. If something happens to Sasha because I'm in the dark..."

"Then you will have failed at the one task you were given," he interjects, his tone frosty.

"You need to give me something to work with," I insist, my resolve turning to desperation.

"I do not need to give you anything, Mr. McKenna. I hired you to make sure my little brother isn’t harmed. And you seem not to understand the job. You are not a cop anymore."

Vlad’s words hit me like a sucker punch. He’s right. I’m not a cop. I’m not getting paid to dig. I’m getting paid to babysit a moody man-child. "Correct," I choke out.

"Information is currency," Vlad counters. "What do you have to offer if I give you this information?"

"Preparation," I shoot back. "Knowledge is power, remember? And right now, I'm unarmed."

"An interesting metaphor," he muses, leaning forward and steepling his fingers. "But power is also about knowing when to reveal your hand."

"Then consider this me calling your bluff," I challenge, meeting his stare head-on, neither of us willing to look away first.

"Bold, Mr. McKenna," Vlad acknowledges with a nod. "But boldness alone does not keep you alive in this business."

"Neither does ignorance," I retort.

"Point taken." Vlad sighs, a sound like the rustling of dead leaves. "But you still have not told me how this information you so desire can help you prepare?"

Vlad rises like a shadow stretching at dusk and walks around the table. The room feels colder, heavier, even as we stand mere feet apart. He holds my gaze in a silent challenge, and I can see it—the same darkness that haunts Sasha's eyes. It’s strange that someone else has that same look. Strange to know there are two men who are so alike and yet so different. And I only like one. I do have respect for the second man, but I don’t feel what I feel when I’m around his little brother these days.

"So what exactly will you do with the knowledge I might offer?" Vlad asks, his voice low, a dangerous undercurrent beneath a calm surface.

"Every syndicate has its tells. Who are they? These people after your brother. Italians? Armenians? Thoreau loyalists? Some other gang in the city that wants you and your business out of Vegas? Not many are brazen enough to plant a bomb in public." My words are a volley, fired with precision across the no-man's-land between us.

"My brother's car," Vlad interjects.

"Okay," I concede, but only just. This is a dance, and I know when to step back.

"His best friend died," Vlad continues, and there's a crack in his armor, the briefest glimpse into the abyss below. "He may appear collected, but he is broken inside. Alexander has not lived this life. He is weak. He will not survive the game if he is dragged in."

"Sasha’s already dragged in, already a part of this," I interrupt, refusing to let him rewrite the narrative. "He's not on the sidelines anymore, if he ever was."

Vlad studies me, tilting his head with the curiosity of a predator sizing up prey—or perhaps an ally. "Do not grow too fond of your role, Mr. McKenna. Alexander's existence flutters on the whims of fate."

Hearing him emphasize Alexander instead of Sasha is like a cold finger tracing down my spine. It's a warning, a reminder of distance, of formality that should be observed. But the concern laced through Vlad's tone betrays him. He cares, more than he wants to show.

I nod, understanding the message. There's a long silence, filled with the weight of thoughts unvoiced and fears acknowledged. We're two soldiers in a trench, wondering who will break the stalemate.

Finally something in Vlad’s eyes flickers, like he’s made a decision. "The man who is after my family is called Shtyk," he admits, each word heavy with reluctant revelation. "My father's former enforcer."

The name is suspended in the air, like a ghost of violent past and violence promised. I’m trying to remember if I heard the name before, but I haven’t been on the force for five years and Russians only moved in recently. Besides, I’m not familiar with the current underworld politics much these days. Just the basics. Shtyk is a piece of the puzzle with the full picture remaining obscured.

"Your own people want your brother dead?" The question slips out before I can cage it.

"Shtyk wants to get to me," Vlad corrects. "Alexander is a collateral in Shtyk's play for power."

"Collateral," I repeat, suddenly tasting burnt rubber in my mouth. It's a cold reminder of how easily lives are tossed aside in this world.

"Exactly." Vlad's tone is flat, almost indifferent. But, again, his eyes betray a spark of something else—regret, perhaps, or anger. "Shtyk was my father's man for thirty years. Loyalty like that breeds its own army. He has a lot of support, people who do not appreciate the changes I have made."

"Changes?" I prod, because understanding the landscape means mapping out the minefields.

"Let's just say there were aspects of Yuri's business that did not align with my vision." Vlad's lips twist on the word business . "Especially the darker corners. Shtyk did not take kindly to their... eradication."

"Can we handle this Shtyk?" I ask, the protector instinct flaring within me. If there's a threat, I need to know how exactly to neutralize it so it doesn't come back.

"Handle him?" Vlad's laugh is a cold echo in the vast room, muffled by the carpets. "He is a bad man, Mr. McKenna. He has been slipping through the cracks, outside the law's grasp for decades. And he has a lot of experience doing that and avoiding the punishment for all his evil deeds. I have been trying to find him ever since Yuri's death."

"And until then? Until you find him?" I push back against the dismissal, seeking solid ground in shifting sands.

"You do what I pay you to do. Protect Alexander," Vlad commands.

"Is there anything else you can tell me?" I’m really grasping at straws now, but this urge to get to the bottom of it so no one bothers Sasha ever again is new and raw and strange. And I can’t seem to get a hold of myself. Can’t stop feeling all these feelings I can’t quite understand.

Vlad stares at me, a statue in his tailored suit, before he finally breaks the silence. "I have things to handle, Mr. McKenna. Time is not a luxury I possess." He gestures at the door. "Ivan will show you out." On cue, the door opens and Ivan appears as if he’s been eavesdropping on us all this time. His presence is a wordless order–my conversation with Vlad is over.

I don’t see the point in arguing and exit the office.

There are more questions dangling in front of me now than before this meeting. And the answers are buried deep within the heart of the Solovey empire. And I’m caught in the web, entangled in a game where the stakes are life or death, and trust is as elusive as the wisp of smoke from a snuffed-out flame.