Page 114 of Sexting the Pakhan

Stepan glances toward the kindergarten windows. “That could take a while.”

“I can see that.”

He doesn’t answer. Wise man.

My mood has been bad since the moment I found out where the bastard had stashed the goods. It has worsened with every minute spent watching that painted fence glow under decorative lanterns while two thieves sit in a white van and wait to dig stolen cases out of a children’s garden.

I dislike many things. Careless men. Cheap lies. People who steal from me and then insult me by doing it so carelessly.

I hate men who use children as cover.

Pavel listens again, then turns slightly. “Andrei says it’s some kind of welcome program. Families, teachers, performances. He saw kids with paper leaves on their heads.”

Stepan looks at me. “Kindergarten event?”

“Does it really matter what’s going on inside?” Pavel says.

I keep my eyes on the gate.

Inside the compound, the program continues. The back of the building is quieter than the front, but I can still see movement through the classroom windows. Adults standing. Phones raised. Children gathered near a wall covered in colored paper.

A family evening. Of course.

Lenkov chose the one night when the building would not be empty.

Maybe he knew. Maybe he didn’t. Either way, the result is the same: six stolen cases sitting behind a playhouse while half of Marrowick claps for children learning to stand in rows.

Malik’s voice comes through Pavel’s earpiece, low enough that I catch only fragments.

Pavel says, “Malik says the man by the van is smoking again. No weapon visible.”

I ask, “Lenkov?”

Pavel listens. “Still inside the back gate. Malik saw him near the garden five minutes ago, then he moved behind the shed.”

“He’s checking whether he can dig.”

“Looks like it.”

“Tell Malik he doesn’t approach.”

Pavel repeats the order.

Stepan shifts beside me. “If Lenkov starts moving the cases while the program is still going?”

“We wait until he brings them outside the gate.”

“And if he takes them into the van?”

“Then we take the van after it leaves this street.”

Stepan nods once. He knows the rule. No shooting here. No loud takedown at the gate. No frightened parent grabbing a child and running because one of my men decided his impatience mattered more than a five-year-old’s safety.

I learned that rule before I inherited anything.

My father had many principles. Most were convenient, flexible, or useful only when someone was watching. Mine are fewer and harder. Children do not get pulled into business. Schools, hospitals, playgrounds, daycares—those places stay outside unless there is no other choice, and even then, the cost of stepping in must be heavier than the cost of waiting.

Tonight, waiting costs me patience.