"You gave my son his life." Victor Volkov spoke those six words with a voice that sounded like grinding tectonic plates—deep, gravelly, and entirely devoid of warmth, yet heavy with an undeniable weight.

"What is it, Dmitri?" Victor asked, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper as I allowed Michael to drag me into the massive, restaurant-grade kitchen.

"It's the Bratva council in Moscow," Dmitri reported, his tone laced with anxiety. "And Nikolai. He knows Michael was missing last night. He knows someone held the boy for hours before you retrieved him."

Victor’s eyes narrowed into slits. Nikolai Volkov was Victor’s estranged uncle—a ruthless, old-school mob boss who believed Victor had grown "soft" by trying to legitimize the family's assets in America. Nikolai had been scheming for months to take over the Chicago syndicate, and Michael had been the bargaining chip he needed.

"Nikolai thinks the diner owner was part of the plot," Dmitri continued. "He believes Leo Vance intentionally harbored Michael to set an ambush, or that Vance is working for the Italians."

"Vance is an innocent," Victor snapped, his hand gripping the marble banister so tightly his knuckles turned white. "He knows nothing of our world."

"It doesn't matter what he knows, Boss," Dmitri warned. "Nikolai has already dispatched Sergei and his hit squad to Chicago. They aren't coming to talk. They are going to erase everyone involved in last night's incident to clean up the 'dishonor.' That includes the diner. That includes Leo Vance."

Inside the kitchen, I was busy demonstrating to the mansion's high-strung French chef how to properly grease a cast-iron skillet for buttermilk pancakes. Michael was sitting on a high stool, swinging his legs happily, laughing as I flipped a pancake high into the air.

Through the double glass doors of the kitchen, I caught Victor’s reflection in the stainless-steel refrigerator. He was looking at us, his face tortured by a dark dilemma.

I handed Michael a fresh pancake dripping with maple syrup, dusted my hands, and walked out into the dining hall to face Victor.

"Something's wrong," I stated plainly. "And it has to do with me, doesn't it?"

Victor looked at me, surprised by my directness. He motioned for Dmitri to step back. "Leo. I thought by protecting you from local scum like Marcus, I was keeping you safe. Instead, by bringing my world to your doorstep, I have drawn the attention of much worse men."

"Who?"

"My uncle. Nikolai," Victor said, his voice cold. "He is a man who sees cruelty as a virtue. He believes you harbored my son as part of a trap. He has sent men to eliminate you and burn your diner to the ground."

My heart did a violent flip in my chest. I thought about my father’s diner. I thought about Dave. I thought about my quiet, peaceful life that was now collapsing into an abyss of mafia politics.

"Why don't you just tell him the truth?" I asked, my voice rising slightly. "Tell him I’m just a guy who cooks eggs!"

"Nikolai does not care about the truth, Leo," Victor said gravely. "He only cares about power. But hear me now: I gave you my word. No harm will come to you."

"So what do I do?" I demanded, panic finally creeping into my voice. "Do I run? Sell the diner and leave Chicago?"

"No," Victor said, stepping closer, placing a heavy, reassuring hand on my shoulder. "If you run, they will hunt you. You stay. You let me handle Nikolai. But for the next few days, you cannot stay at your apartment. You and your cook will stay under my protection."