Chapter 26: The Warning Shot

Leo Vance

A few days later, the Integration Phase was technically over, but my new reality was just beginning. I was back in the city, working on the blueprints for the 'Sculpture' installation at the gallery. I was functional, compliant, and deeply, terribly owned. The constant, suffocating feeling of their presence had settled into my daily life.

Today, Ivan was my sentinel. He wasn't in the gallery, but across the street in a black sedan with tinted windows. I knew he was there because he texted me every fifteen minutes with simple, non-negotiable updates: 3:15 PM: Your heart rate is elevated. Reduce social interaction. 3:30 PM: Maintain focus on the geometric stability of the plan. Avoid distractions.

I was alone in the quiet main office, spread out with blueprints, trying to lose myself in the geometry that now dictated my art. The door opened, and Liam, a young, charming curator from a downtown gallery, poked his head in. Liam had always been flirtatious, but usually harmlessly so.

"Leo, man, the rumors are true—you've got Volkov money now! That's incredible," Liam said, walking over to the table. He was genuinely excited, but his eyes held that familiar, slightly predatory artistic ambition.

"It's purely strategic capital," I said, reciting the Volkov-approved phrase automatically. "They’re helping us restructure and stabilize the operating model."

"Sure, sure. Stabilize," Liam winked, leaning against the table, too close. "Look, forget finance for a second. You need a break. I’m hosting a low-key opening tonight—no suits, no investors, just real art. You should come. Get out of this death trap you’ve turned the place into."

He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "I know you’re with the old man’s sons now, but come on, they're terrifying. Come have a drink with someone who doesn’t talk about ‘structural integrity.’" He smiled, making the intention crystal clear. "I’d really like to get to know the real Leo Vance again."

My mind was a lightning flash of pure panic. No. No. No. I cannot allow this. Dmitri will kill him. Ivan will destroy my mother's life.

I instinctively pulled back, my body language screaming rejection. "Liam, I can't. I'm genuinely buried in work. The schedule is tight, and I can't risk a distraction."

"Oh, come on, you're not going to let a couple of stiff brothers dictate your entire social life, are you?" Liam pressed, misinterpreting my fear for shyness. He reached out and lightly touched my arm, his fingers lingering just above my elbow. "Just one drink. I'll even pretend I don't know who your new patrons are."

My body froze. The small, accidental contact felt like a siren wailing in the quiet room. My mind was screaming a silent warning at Ivan, who was across the street, watching. I didn't invite this. I rejected him. Don't hurt him.

"Liam, seriously, no," I repeated, pulling my arm away, my voice harsh with urgency. "I am not available. Professionally or socially. You need to leave."

Liam looked genuinely taken aback by my venom. "Wow. Okay, got it. Sorry, Leo. Didn’t mean to upset you. You really have changed." He backed away slowly, looking confused and slightly hurt, and then left the office.

I stood there, hyperventilating, staring at the closed door. I immediately pulled out my phone and typed a single, frantic message to Ivan: Rejection confirmed. He touched my arm, I withdrew instantly. Stand down.

The response was immediate, chillingly calm: Observation noted. The breach of the perimeter is unacceptable. Maintaining compliance requires eliminating unauthorized variables, Leo. This is a necessary measure to secure the structure.

A wave of nausea hit me. I knew exactly what that meant. I wanted to call Ivan, to beg him to leave Liam alone, but I knew the futility of it. My frantic efforts to protect the gallery had made me complicit in a terrifying, unseen machine of destruction.

Two hours later, Ivan walked into the office. He was dressed impeccably, calm, and utterly lethal. Dmitri was clearly out of town, leaving Ivan to handle the "structural clean-up."

"Liam Murray," Ivan stated, without preamble, leaning against the doorframe. "Mid-level curator. Good network, mediocre taste. Unacceptable ambition."

I looked at him, my eyes wide with silent fear. "You can't. He's a good guy. He was just being friendly."

"Friendly is irrelevant," Ivan countered, walking over to my desk and picking up a pencil. He began tracing the clean, straight lines of my Sculpture blueprint. "He presented a threat to the integrity of the asset. He attempted to leverage past familiarity to disrupt your current focus. That is a threat to the Volkov investment."

"What did you do?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

Ivan looked up, his expression entirely devoid of emotion, yet carrying the heavy weight of his command. "Nothing illegal, Leo. Nothing violent. Just structural realism. His gallery—The Collective—was relying on a major endowment from the Westmont Group. We just bought the Westmont Group an hour ago."

My mind was reeling, trying to process the casual ruthlessness. "You bought their entire company just to cut his funding?"

"No," Ivan clarified patiently. "We bought the company because it was undervalued and inefficient. The endowment was a small, high-risk asset within that structure. As the new owners, we simply decided to reallocate that capital elsewhere. It's a standard business decision. Liam's gallery loses 80% of its operating budget overnight."

"You ruined him," I whispered, appalled. "You destroyed his career, his dream, for touching my arm and asking me out for a drink."

"We issued a Warning Shot," Ivan corrected, setting the pencil down precisely on the line of the blueprint. "The cost of attempting to distract you is now universally known within your small community. This protects you, Leo. Every other 'flirty colleague' will now realize the price of defiance is professional obliteration. You will be left alone to focus on your art, secured by the terrifying clarity of our influence."

He walked toward me, and I couldn't move. The fear and the sick sense of perverse protection were battling inside me. I was appalled by the brutality, but relieved that I would never again have to navigate that kind of social complexity.

Ivan placed both hands on my shoulders, his grip firm. "This is what our protection looks like, Leo. It is absolute. It is ruthless. And it is the only thing that guarantees the security of your future. We do the dirty, quiet work so you can create beautiful things."

"I hate this," I confessed, the words tasting like metal and defeat. "I hate that I need your protection, and I hate what you did to Liam."

"We know," Ivan murmured, pulling me gently against his chest, holding me close. The embrace felt like the crushing grip of the golden cage. "But tomorrow, you will wake up in a financially secure world, working on a masterpiece. Liam will wake up facing ruin. You will choose your reality, Leo. Over and over again. And every time you choose us, the price of the choice becomes easier to bear."

He held me until I stopped shaking, his touch both a comfort and a terrifying reminder of the absolute authority he wielded over every aspect of my existence, and the collateral dam

age that came with my security.