Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
MARINA
M y lungs burned, but it didn’t matter.
I had to push through.
I had to push harder.
My life depended on it.
I focused on the space directly in front of me, too afraid to look back. Just one foot in front of the other, running as fast as I could, weaving through the crowded street.
Then—impact.
My shoulder slammed into some guy too busy staring at his phone to see where he was going. The collision sent me sprawling.
Pain shot through my palms as I hit the pavement, the rough concrete scraping my skin raw. A few people stopped to help, but they only got in my way, blocking my view.
I scrambled to my feet, ignoring the sharp ache in my knee.
And looked over my shoulder .
Stupid. Of course he was still following me.
This was Konstantine.
The man who had chased me across Europe, relentless as a shadow, and now across America.
He was far too close. Half a block away, at most. Shoving his way through the crowd, his piercing gaze locked onto me.
Kostya was a force.
A man built for war; tall, powerful, terrifyingly focused. He could see over the heads of the pedestrians, moving with the confidence of someone who knew he could take whatever he wanted.
I wasn’t tall. I wasn’t powerful.
But I was fast.
And that had its advantages.
I twisted through the sea of people, ducking into the middle of a group of giggling schoolgirls in matching uniforms.
Kostya wouldn’t shove aside a bunch of teenage girls. Too much attention. Too much risk.
Men like him hated police involvement. Bribes cut into their bottom line.
A few of the girls shrieked as I pushed through them, others cursed me out, but they all clumped together in confusion, blocking the sidewalk.
Perfect.
It bought me a few precious seconds.
And on the other side of them, I saw it…my salvation.
The ugly green metal staircase leading up to the L.
I could practically taste the stale air, thick with sweat and exhaust. Could already smell the cloyingly sweet cleanser that did nothing to mask the mystery stains on the seats or the toxic fumes of the drunk old man reeking of Malort.
Those weren’t just scents. They were something you experienced.
And right now, they smelled like freedom.
I pushed harder.
My thighs screamed, every footfall sending a jolt of pain up my legs.
And I relished it.
Because the pain meant I was alive.
If Kostya got his hands on me, I wouldn’t feel anything ever again.
The day before my sister died, she had begged me to run with her.
I should have listened.
She knew what was coming. She knew what Kostya was capable of.
"He’s going to kill me, Marina," she had whispered as she packed. "For what I did…he won’t stop. You have to come with me."
But I hadn’t believed her.
Maybe if I had, he wouldn’t have found her.
Wouldn’t have shot her in cold blood. Like a dog in the street.
I knew their marriage had been nothing but a business deal—money, power, and control masquerading as vows. I knew they had hated each other from the start.
But I never thought he would kill her.
Foolishly, I believed he would grant her a divorce. Let her go, wash his hands of her, move on .
I’d underestimated the ego of a Russian mafia enforcer.
If he couldn’t have my sister, no one could.
And now he was coming for me.
Shaking off the morbid memory, I forced myself to focus on the train pulling into the station. The gleaming metal cars screeched against the tracks, a deafening wail that spiked through my head.
It was my salvation.
My only way out.
But it wasn’t close enough.
My heart pounded violently, a frantic drumbeat against my ribs. The only thing that mattered was reaching that staircase.Reaching those doors before they closed.
I ran faster and pushed forward, shoving through the crowd as people spilled onto the platform, their conversations and complaints just white noise.
Someone cursed at me in Polish. Another man, his voice thick with an Eastern European accent, grumbled something about Americans and no manners. A catcall cut through the chaos, lewd and unwelcome.
I ignored them all.
I felt a pang of guilt as I crashed into a guy carrying a fresh box of Stan’s Donuts, sending them tumbling to the ground in a pink-sprinkled massacre. But I couldn’t even spare a second to look back, let alone apologize.
The train doors were closing.
No, no, no.
If I got trapped on this platform with him, I was dead.
Panic tightened its grip around my throat. "No!" I gasped, forcing my legs to move faster, harder, ignoring the fire tearing through my thighs.
Ithrewmyself forward, squeezing between the narrowing gap just as the doors sealed shut behind me. The momentum sent me stumbling. I bent forward, bracing my hands on my knees, struggling to suck in air.
My body felt like it had been ripped apart, but I’d done it. I’dmade it.
Muted conversations swirled around me; a few passengers who clearly weren’t thrilled by my dramatic entrance sent irritated side-eyes my way.
"Could’ve justwaitedfor the next train," someone muttered.
"Shit, baby, I can think of amuchbetter way to get you on your knees,” another man said, grinning.
I ignored them.
And then—I heard it.
The sharp, jarringthumpof fists slamming against the window.
The blood drained from my face.
Slowly, I straightened and turned my head. My stomachplummeted.
Kostya.
His face, flushed with exertion, was twisted in frustration, those piercing blue eyes boring into mine through the scratched, grubby glass. He looked furious, dangerous, and still unfairly handsome.
He shouldn’t look that good.
Not while he was trying to kill me.
It wasn’t fair .
“Marina, you’re in danger!" His voice was muffled by the roar of the engine, but I heard it.
And for the first time, I believed him.
I was in danger.
Because of him.
He was the one chasing me. The one tearing apart my life, hunting me down like an animal.
Why?
Why was he doing this? Why had he taken all the anger, all the rage he felt for my sister, and turned it onto me?
I knew what he must think. That I had helped Veronika betray him. That I had played a part in her affair. That maybe I could have stopped it.
I couldn’t.
No one could have stopped my sister.
But that didn’t matter.
All that mattered was that I had been running since Moscow.
Since the night my sister whispered in my ear, if anything happens to me, you run.
You get out. You disappear.
She knew.
She knew she wouldn’t survive.
But neither of us realized I wouldn’t either.
Not really.
Not as long as he was still after me.
Kostya pounded against the glass, then curled his fingers into the narrow crevice between the doors and pulled .
“Good lord," a woman gasped beside me. "Honey, what did you do to that man?"
I rolled my eyes.
Right. Because clearly, this was my fault.
Just an average Tuesday, being hunted by a terrifyingly attractive Russian mafia enforcer.
A man’s voice cut through the tension, full of amusement. “Can you tell me so I can do it too?"
A few people snickered.
"It’s okay, girl," an older woman said, settling into her seat. “You’re safe for now. He’s not getting those doors open. I don’t care how many muscles he has."
And then a sickening creak.
My stomach plummeted.
The doors were shifting.
My heart stopped.
Why wouldn’t he just let me go?
I had run halfway across the world, left behind everything—my home, my life, not even going to my sister’s funeral—all to escape him.
I thought I had finally evaded him in Chicago.
No one should have known me here.
No one.
But he had found me anyway.
I had barely lasted two weeks in New York before he tracked me down and trashed my apartment.
I had just escaped then.
And now…
My hands trembled. My breathing turned shallow.
If he found me here, where would I go next?
Would there ever be a place where I was safe ?
I backed away, my spine pressing into the far wall of the train car, my knees weak as I stared at him. At the beads of sweat glistening on his forehead. The flex of his biceps, the sheer power of his body as he forced the doors apart.
Time slowed.
Everything narrowed to him.
His scowl. His hands. His eyes fierce, determined.
And the cold, horrifying realization that he was never going to stop .