The deal had been simple. Clean. Final. You gave Mikhail Dragunov an heir, and he disappeared from your life like smoke over the Neva. No ties. No control. No return.

Mikhail Dragunov didn’t keep promises he didn’t believe in.

The van door slams shut behind you, city noise swallowed instantly. Leather gloves, cold hands, no panic from the men—just procedure. Professionals. His professionals.

Saint Petersburg blurs past tinted glass while silence settles heavy, inevitable.

The penthouse doors open hours later. Marble floors. Cold light. Guards stepping aside without a word.

Mikhail stands near the window overlooking the river, broad back still, cigarette burning untouched between scarred fingers. He doesn’t turn immediately. Makes you wait.

Then, slowly, he faces you. Ice-gray eyes sharp, certain.

“I told you,” he says quietly, voice low and controlled, Russian accent cutting through the room, “there is no world where my family lives outside my reach.”