Nikolai
The city doesn’t feel the same anymore.
It’s too loud. Too bright. Too unaware .
People stumble down rain-slicked sidewalks with their eyes glued to screens, their headphones in, their backs turned to danger. A woman could vanish a dozen times in a single night and the world would keep spinning like she never existed.
Except this time, it didn’t.
Because this woman matters to me.
And I’m going to burn down every alley, every bar, every fake rideshare ring until I make damn sure it never happens again.
I adjust my collar against the drizzle as I step into the back entrance of Club Verve, the last place Rachel saw her friends. The doorman knows better than to stop me. We own half this block, and the other half owes us favors.
Inside, it reeks of spilled liquor, desperation, and vanilla body spray.
I nod at the bartender. He is young, twitchy, smart enough to recognize the weight of my presence.
“Security footage,” I say. “Last night. Side entrance.”
He swallows hard and motions me toward the back.
The office is cramped, full of sticky leather chairs and outdated equipment, but the security feed is clear. I scrub through the timestamp Rachel gave me. Midnight to two a.m. Dozens of women in tiny dresses, taxis pulling in and out, couples stumbling toward alleyways.
Then—
“There,” I mutter.
A sleek black car rolls up to the curb, headlights off. A woman stumbles toward it.
Rachel.
My stomach tightens. Even on grainy footage, I can see the hesitation in her body language. The way she rubs at her arms. The pause and glance over her shoulder, looking for her friends, before she climbs inside.
The passenger window is already down, just an inch or so.
I rewind. Slow it down.
The window rolls down a little more. The man inside leans toward her, says something. His face isn’t clear, but I can see the outline of the scorpion tattoo snaking up his neck. Matches her description.
Scarface and his friend.
“I need a plate,” I say.
The bartender fumbles for a notepad. “That camera doesn’t catch the rear—”
“I’ll find it myself.”
I scrub ahead. Another angle catches the car pulling out. The back bumper flashes into frame for half a second, and I freeze it.
There.
It’s blurry, but Aleksei can sharpen it. I snap a photo of the time stamp with my phone and send it to him along with the video file with two words: “Get them.”
No response. That’s how I know he’s already moving.
I don’t stop there.
I spend the next hour moving through bars within a ten-block radius. Places low-level predators crawl through like cockroaches. Places where music drowns out screams and bouncers don’t ask questions if a woman looks drunk enough to disappear.
I flash the photo on my phone.
Anyone who hesitates gets a closer look at the handle of the gun inside my jacket.
Eventually, I find a match.
“He’s been in a few times,” the second bartender says. “Drinks whiskey, no ice. Flirts with anyone that can’t stand up straight. Calls himself Blade.” He makes a face. “Fucking tool.”
“Alone?”
“Nah. Always with some dude who talks less and stares more.”
I get another name. No surnames. Just Blade and Jesse . Fake, probably. But it’s enough.
I step out into the alley behind the club and call Roman.
“They’ve been working the circuit for most of the year,” I tell him. “At least five confirmed clubs. Same car, same routine.”
“You think they’ve grabbed before?”
“I don’t think,” I say coldly. “I know .”
Silence.
Then: “Aleksei’s tracking the plate now. Shouldn’t be long.”
“Good.” The rage that simmers under my skin almost consumes me. I know I need to work it off before I see Rachel again.
“Where are you?” Roman asks, his voice edged with something akin to concern. It irritates me.
“Red Rooms. Heading back soon.”
“You going to tell Rachel?” he asks.
I pause.
Not because I don’t want to.
Because I don’t know how.
Because part of me wants to lock her away until this is done and only show her the cleaned-up version of the truth. But that part is losing ground. She’s not a girl who needs to be sheltered.
She’s a woman who ran barefoot into the dark and dared me to catch her.
“I’ll tell her what she needs to know,” I say.
Roman hums. “She’s getting to you.”
“She already got to me.”
He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t need to.
I hang up and glance once more at the photo on my phone. Rachel, barely holding herself up, stepping toward the car.
She could’ve died.
She could’ve vanished and the world wouldn’t have blinked.
But she didn’t. Because fate, luck, God, whatever you want to call it, put her in my fucking woods instead.
And now?
Now I’m going to make damn sure the men who tried to steal her know exactly what it means to take something that doesn’t belong to them.
By the time Aleksei finds them and brings them to me, they’ll be begging for death.