Chapter 2 - The Beast of 4B
The door swung wider, revealing the silhouette of a mountain. He was half-draped in shadow, leaning heavily against the inside doorframe. Even in the gloom, Gemma could see that the fine charcoal wool of his designer shirt was torn, soaked through with dark, sticky wetness that dripped from his left shoulder down his forearm. In his right hand, angled casually toward the hardwood floorboards, was a matte-black firearm equipped with a heavy suppressor.
""Move,"" he commanded, his voice rumbling like distant thunder. ""Now.""
Survival instinct screamed at her to turn and run down the fire escape, but the sheer gravity of his presence pulled her forward. The moment she stepped over the threshold into apartment 4B, he grabbed her forearm—his grip surprisingly gentle despite the lethal tension in his posture—and pulled her inside. The heavy door shut with a muffled, airtight click. He engaged four heavy-duty deadbolts, sliding metal bars into reinforced steel plates that clearly hadn't come standard with the lease.
The apartment was pitch black, illuminated only by the faint silver moonlight filtering through the heavy blinds. There was almost no furniture—only a sleek, leather sofa, a bank of high-end monitors glowing silently on a desk, and a medical tackle box sitting open on the kitchen island. The air smelled intoxicatingly of cedar, metallic copper, and raw adrenaline.
""They watched the flower shop,"" Gemma whispered, her back pressed hard against the solid wood of the door. ""A man came. He asked for the blonde girl who works with flowers and leaves umbrellas. Tatiana told me to run.""
The man stared down at her. In the dim silver light, she could finally see the hard, aristocratic lines of his jaw, the faint scar cutting through his left eyebrow, and the pitch-black eyes that seemed to absorb every scrap of light. He looked exhausted, yet every muscle in his towering frame remained coiled like a strike-ready predator.
""His name is Lev,"" the man replied calmly, tossing the suppressed weapon onto the granite island with a soft clatter. ""A cleaner for the Volkov faction. He’s already dead in the alley two blocks south. But he wasn't alone. They know this location is burned.""
""Who are you?"" Gemma asked, her voice trembling as she watched him stumble slightly, bracing his hand against the island. ""What is all this?""
""My name is Nikolai Rostov,"" he said, turning to look at her. ""And until twenty minutes ago, I was the head of the Northern Syndicate. My uncle staged a coup this morning. He wants my seat, my territory, and every asset tied to my bloodline. You, little neighbor, accidentally placed yourself in the blast radius the moment you decided to leave sweet notes and umbrellas on my doorstep.""
Gemma's eyes widened. ""I... I just wanted to be a good neighbor. You looked so tired.""
A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched the corner of his lips, vanishing as quickly as it came as he hissed in pain, grabbing his left shoulder. ""Your notes were the only clean things in this filthy city, Gemma. But good deeds don't go unpunished here. I have a bullet lodged behind my left clavicle. If I don't get it out and stop the internal bleeding within twenty minutes, I will go into hypovolemic shock. And when the extraction team arrives, they won't find a boss. They'll find a corpse—and you will be executed as a loose end.""
He slumped heavily onto a wooden stool, kicking the open medical kit toward her feet. Inside lay surgical scalpels, sterile gauze, surgical clamps, and antiseptic bottles.
""I have no medical training,"" Gemma panicked, stepping back. ""I trim stems! I arrange roses! I can't operate on a human being!""
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Nikolai reached out, his warm, calloused fingers wrapping around her cold, trembling wrist. He pulled her closer until she was standing between his knees, her eyes locked with his relentless, dark gaze.
""You have the steadiest hands I’ve ever seen through a fourth-floor window,"" Nikolai said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur that vibrated straight through her core. ""You handle delicate things without crushing them. Cut the slug out, Gemma. Save my life, and I swear on my mother’s soul, no one in this city will ever touch a hair on your head again.""
