Page 17 of Deadly Legacy (The House of Matvei #3)

R euben’s handshake with Mia Adebayo lingered a moment longer than strictly necessary.

“We’ll review the final terms and be in touch tomorrow.” Her dark eyes sparkled with barely contained excitement. “But between us, Matthew Capital’s proposal addresses our security concerns in ways your competition hasn’t considered.”

The weight that had settled between his shoulder blades for the past week lightened.

“Always happy to exceed expectations.” Reuben forced his face to remain professionally neutral. But his mind was already racing ahead to Nikon’s reaction when he shared this development.

As he left the conference room with a final nod to the founders, Reuben was immediately flanked by his security detail; two broad-shouldered men with identical blank expressions.

Walking toward the elevator bank, he slipped his laptop into its leather case, filing away the subtle shifts in the expressions he’d cataloged during the meeting.

“So Wallace is making his move tomorrow morning.” Reuben’s finger tapped against his thigh.

“Likely,” his security guard confirmed, eyes scanning the hallway ahead. “We intercepted a calendar invitation while you were inside.”

The Matvei family’s surveillance capabilities never ceased to impress. Nikon’s influence had transformed Matthew Capital from a money laundering front into a legitimate business with actual employees—but the shadows of their other world were never far away.

As the elevator doors closed, Reuben allowed himself a single deep breath. His security detail stood silently on either side.

“The car should be around in five minutes,” the one on his left murmured as the elevator descended toward the parking garage.

The elevator doors slid open to concrete and shadows. Something was wrong. The stillness felt manufactured, the silence too complete.

The acrid smell of exhaust permeated the garage, but none of the expected sounds of cars starting or doors closing reached his ears. His security team sensed it too, hands automatically moving beneath their jackets.

“Four o’clock,” one murmured, and Reuben’s gaze shifted right without turning his head.

A figure emerged from behind a concrete pillar, then another from between parked cars.

Two more appeared, blocking the path to their vehicle.

The security guard on his right shifted forward. “Stay behind us, Mr. Hoyt.”

Four against three.

Reuben’s pulse quickened, but his mind cleared with the familiar focus he’d developed at high-stakes poker tables.

Not great odds.

One of Dmitrii’s men stepped forward, a heavy-set figure with a close-cropped beard who seemed to radiate casual menace.

“Mr. Hoyt.” The man’s lips curved into a sneer. “Dmitrii Miroslav sends his regards. He’s been trying to reach you, but he’s disappointed you haven’t been returning his calls.”

Reuben’s security detail moved in unison, creating a barrier between him and the approaching men. The guard on his left touched his earpiece. “Backup is three minutes out.”

Three minutes. Reuben evaluated the concrete pillars, the distance to their vehicle, the positions of the men. Stepan’s voice echoed in his head from countless training sessions.

Use your environment. Assess weakness. Control distance.

“Tell Dmitrii if he wants to talk business, he should call my office like everyone else.” Reuben kept his voice casual, despite the adrenaline flooding his system.

“This isn’t that kind of invitation.” The bearded man flicked his fingers. His companions began to spread out, moving with coordinated precision.

Reuben’s security team subtly repositioned themselves, one slightly forward, the other angling to watch their backs.

“Watch your left,” the guard on Reuben’s right murmured.

Reuben nodded. Months of training with Stepan had taught him how to read these situations. The man approaching from the left was the most immediate threat, already reaching inside his jacket.

Reuben didn’t wait. He stepped forward and to the side, putting the larger security guard between himself and the two men on the right. In the same motion, he drove his elbow up into the approaching threat’s solar plexus, just as Stepan had drilled into him countless times.

The man doubled over with a pained gasp. Reuben followed with a knee to his face, feeling cartilage give way beneath the impact. Blood spattered across the concrete floor, its metallic scent sharp and immediate in the stale garage air.

Behind him, his security team engaged the others. The sound of fists connecting with flesh echoed through the garage. Reuben had no time to watch them—a second attacker was already on him, swinging a heavy fist toward his jaw.

Reuben slipped the punch, feeling the air displace near his ear. He countered with a quick jab to the throat, not enough to crush the windpipe but sufficient to send the man staggering back, choking and clutching his neck.

A flash of pride cut through the adrenaline. A little under a year ago, he would have been helpless in this situation. Now his body moved with confidence born of repetition, muscles remembering what his mind had learned through pain and persistence.

The first attacker was struggling to his feet, blood streaming from his broken nose. His eyes locked on Reuben with murderous rage.

“You’re gonna pay for that,” he spat, red-tinted saliva hitting the floor between them.

Reuben circled, maintaining space between them, his weight centered. “I’ve heard better threats at a poker table.”

Out of his peripheral vision, Reuben could see one of his security guards grappling with two attackers while the other fired a warning shot that ricocheted off a concrete pillar with a sharp crack. The sound rang out through the garage like thunder.

In that momentary distraction, the first attacker lunged forward. Reuben sidestepped, using the man’s momentum against him, driving him face-first into the side of a parked car. The impact created a hollow dent in the door.

Reuben spun to face the second attacker, who had recovered enough to pull a knife. The blade caught the fluorescent light as he slashed it through the air.

“You really want to do this?” Reuben kept his voice steady, despite his racing heart. “Dmitrii just wanted to talk, right?”

The man glared, twirling the knife with fluid expertise. “Plans change.”

He darted forward, knife aimed at Reuben’s midsection. Reuben twisted away, the blade slicing through his suit jacket but missing flesh. He grabbed the man’s extended wrist with both hands, using the leverage technique Stepan had shown him.

The knife clattered to the ground as the man’s wrist bent at an unnatural angle. His scream reverberated through the concrete structure.

A heart-beat later, a gunshot cracked through the garage. One of Reuben’s security guards stumbled back, clutching his shoulder.

“Boss! Get to cover!” the wounded guard shouted, still raising his weapon despite the blood seeping through his fingers.

Reuben backed away from his disabled opponent, scanning for the best route. His remaining functional guard was still engaged with two of Dmitrii’s men, leaving Reuben momentarily exposed.

Reuben backed up rapidly, heading toward a row of parked cars that could provide cover. His back bumped against a town car he hadn’t noticed before.

The door behind him suddenly swung open.

“Get in. Now.” The voice froze his blood in his veins.

Reuben glanced over his shoulder. His father’s face stared back at him—Wallace Hoyt. The man who had disowned him years ago.

For a moment, Reuben’s reality tilted sideways; a firefight in a parking garage, and there sat Wallace Hoyt, offering sanctuary like some twisted guardian angel.

“Are you deaf? Get in before you get shot.”

Wallace grabbed Reuben’s arm and pulled him into the car as another gunshot cracked through the air.

Reuben tumbled onto the leather seat, quickly regaining his balance. The interior of the town car smelled of expensive leather and his father’s familiar cologne; something spicy that brought unwelcome memories flooding back.

“Go,” Wallace barked at his chauffeur.

“My security team is still out there,” Reuben protested.

“They’ll be fine. Those aren’t just random muscle. They’re ex-military. Russian specialists.” Wallace loosened his tie with an unsteady hand.

The car accelerated, tires squealing against concrete as they shot toward the exit ramp. Reuben turned to look out the rear window. One of his guards was down, the other firing at the remaining attackers while using a concrete pillar for cover.

“Quite the coincidence finding you here,” Reuben said, voice sharp with suspicion. “In this exact parking garage.”

Wallace ran a hand through his silver hair. “I had a meeting with Quantize Guard before yours. Was waiting to catch you afterward about the deal.” A muscle twitched in his neck. “Didn’t expect to find my son in the middle of a shootout.”

“Did Dmitrii put you up to this?” Reuben leaned forward, shoulders drawing tight as he studied his father’s face for tells. “Did he tell you about the attack?”

“God, no.” Wallace’s hand shook as he reached for a flask in the car’s side compartment. The tremor wasn’t faked. Reuben had played enough poker to know genuine fear. “I had no idea they’d be here.”

Outside, they emerged into the stark glare of daylight. The driver took a sharp turn, tires screeching against the pavement.

“Call your people,” Wallace said, offering his phone. “I assume they’ll track the car, but better they know you’re okay.”

Reuben took the phone without comment, dialing Stepan’s direct line. The head of security answered immediately.

“It’s Reuben. I’m in a vehicle with Wallace Hoyt.” He glanced at his father. “Left the scene. Two men down, status unknown.”

“Tracking your location,” Stepan responded. “Stay on the line.”

“I need your help, Reuben.” Wallace’s fingers gripped the flask so tightly his knuckles paled.

“Since when are you on a first-name basis with Dmitrii Miroslav?” The ice in Reuben’s voice matched his rigid posture as he sat against the leather seat. “Last time we spoke, you never mentioned him once.”

Wallace stared out the window. “Things changed. Fast.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“My company was already struggling when Dmitrii approached me.” Wallace’s voice had lost its usual commanding tone. “He offered a lifeline. By the time I realized what he really wanted, it was too late.”

“And why should I care about your problems?”

Wallace’s eyes—so similar to Reuben’s own—met his directly. “Because I’m still your father.”

“You stopped being my father the day you told me no son of yours could be gay.” The old wound still felt fresh, the words bitter on his tongue.

The car swerved around a corner, throwing them against the door. Reuben gave Stepan their updated location before returning to his father.

“Dmitrii will kill me if I fail him.” Wallace’s voice cracked. “He’s already threatened your mother.”

Reuben’s breath caught. His fingers curled into his palms. Charlotte had never stood up to Wallace, had chosen him over their son when pushed to decide.

“Why would I trust you now?” Reuben asked, but his tone had softened imperceptibly.

Wallace produced a small black notebook. “Because I’ve documented every illegal transaction Dmitrii forced me into. Names, dates, account numbers. Enough to bring him down—or save myself.”

Reuben stared at the notebook, not reaching for it. The last time his father had offered him something, it had come with strings attached.

Always had.

“And you just happen to have this on you?” Reuben’s eyes narrowed. “Convenient.”

“I carry it everywhere.” Wallace’s hand trembled as he gripped the leather armrest. “It’s my insurance policy.”

Reuben studied Wallace’s face. The confident mask of the former financial titan had cracked, revealing something he’d never seen before...genuine fear.

Either his father had become a better actor in the years since they’d spoken, or Dmitrii had truly broken him.

Reuben took the notebook, weighing it in his hand along with his decision. The weight of it reinforced the gravity of their situation.

The notebook was heavier than it looked. Reuben ran his thumb along its spine, acutely aware of his father watching him handle what might be their only real leverage against Dmitrii.

“If you’re lying,” he said quietly, “it won’t be Dmitrii you need to worry about.”