Chapter 2 #2
"I saw you trying to get into the building," she says, gesturing toward the front glass doors—where my forehead print is probably still fogged onto the glass like a sad little ghost.
"Yeah, I work there," I reply, tilting my head, keeping my tone casual.
"Kind of late for an office job, isn't it?" she comments, lips pulling into a too-knowing smirk.
I shift the bags in my hands and channel Nadia's voice in my head—Always smile at nosy neighbors, but never tell them a damn thing.
"Well, you know lawyers," I say with a shrug. "They never stop until they crack the case."
"Oh? So you're a lawyer?"
I give her a tight-lipped smile, noncommittal. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name."
"Dahlia," she says, extending a hand toward me.
I don't take it. Instead, I grip the food tighter, offering a chirpy, fake-ass smile.
"Jessie," I reply brightly, jiggling the takeout bags in my hand as if that counts as a handshake.
"I just wanted to—"
"Sorry, Dahlia," I cut in, taking a step back. "Lawyers can't really function without their midnight grub."
"Right," she says, her grin stretching wide and bright—but it never reaches her eyes. Something flickers behind them, cold and curious.
My skin prickles. Warning signs. Sirens screaming under my skin.
Something's wrong. She's wrong.
"I'll see you around later, Jessie," she adds, voice lilting and sing-songy like it's a threat wrapped in lace.
"Dahlia," I repeat with a polite nod, mimicking her same eerie tone—because two can play at the creepy name game.
I turn quickly and make my way toward the alleyway between buildings.
That interaction? Capital W, Weird. And something is definitely up. I can feel it, that crawling sensation across the back of my neck, the sense that every shadow might be watching.
I keep walking, practically running down the icy concrete, my egg roll abandoned in my haste when I hear groaning—and not the kind that comes from subway vents creaking from the rustle of a train, but groaning that sounds distinctly human and in pain.
I freeze, but only for like five seconds—just long enough to tilt my head and hold my breath to make sure I didn't imagine it. Nothing but the slosh of melting snow and the honk of a distant cab.
So I push forward.
Because this is New York City, and there are questionable noises everywhere.
I've lived here long enough to know that half the weird alleyway sounds aren't worth a second thought.
Could be a drunk guy. Could be a raccoon.
Could be a ghost with unfinished business.
Honestly, could be all three sharing a studio apartment.
None of those things are my problem tonight. Not when I'm holding three bags of piping-hot food and stuffing my face with an egg roll.
Whoever—or whatever—made that sound is going to have to pry this food from my frozen, dead hands if they want it.
And besides, I'm maybe fifty feet away from the warm, concrete safety of the Petrov building.
If anyone so much as breathes wrong in my direction, they're going to meet the fiery, badass fists of my best friend Nadia.
I once knew a guy in high school who smacked my ass in front of her. He no longer has that hand.
That fucker does not want to know what she'd do to someone who messes with me and her dinner.
I turn down the skinnier alley that leads to the backside of the building—wedged between the glass and steel giants of Eighth Avenue and the glittering rows of restaurants and shops on Seventh.
This shortcut is always a little too dark, a little too quiet, and smells vaguely like old fryer grease and whatever yoga mats are made of.
Then I hear it again. Groaning. And rustling.
This time, I pause. Fully.
I do a slow, deliberate 360-degree scan of my surroundings, because—like any self-respecting Final Girl knows—you don't just run.
They will chase you. You don't just hide.
They will find you. You have to fight. And despite being a 160-pound woman who hasn't seen the inside of a gym in months, I did take boxing for years and I still have a killer right hook when the adrenaline hits.
That particular sound combo—groans plus rustling—usually means one of three things: rats, an unhoused person, or, you know… a murder.
And listen. I have sympathy, I do. But I also have three bags of food and a deeply rooted fear of rodent-related chaos, and it is way too cold for the first two options to be lingering out here for fun.
So if it's the third? Well. I hope they are ready for a broken nose and to choke on some dumplings.
I pick up my pace, practically speed-walking now, the plastic handles biting into my forearms. My boots squish through icy slush that soaks into the seams no matter how waterproof they claim to be.
The alley ahead yawns open like a narrow mouth.
The flickering security light above the back entrance casts long, jittery shadows that seem to move on their own.
Trash bags sag against the walls, and steam rises from a nearby grate, curling in slow tendrils that snake across the ground.
This entire scene feels and looks like I am going to die, and I can't die without reading Stephen King's entire discography. It is literally my only life goal.
"Do you know…" A voice echoes down the alley way and seems like it is straining to speak. "How fucking stupid you are being right now?"
I take another step forward and see a body behind the dumpster, leaned up against the wall. A figure in all black steps forward, the crunch of ice under his boots as he makes his way closer to the slumped over body.
"No," the too familiar voice of the man responds, leaning against the brick alley wall. "Tell me."
I press myself flat against the wall, holding my breath. The food bags sway with my movement, rustling softly as the scent of soy sauce and fried dough wraps around me. My eyes are locked on the man, leaning over to the side, his light grey wool jacket is darkening with each moment.
"Come on, Petrov," the man on the floor responds. His voice is sharper, cockier, laced with desperation as he lets out another hacked cough. "We can come to some kind of deal. You don't have to go down with everyone else."
The distinctive chuckle of Aleksandr rolls through the alley, followed by the wet sound of spit hitting pavement. The figure in all black who I know in my gut is Aleksandr leans over the man's body, his hand pressing on the darkening spot on his side.
"You want me to betray my family?" he snarls, the words so sharp they practically slice the air. He leans in, close—so close I can't even see the man he's speaking to anymore. All I see is Aleksandr, a silhouette carved in vengeance, the shadows eating him alive.
In all my years of knowing the Petrov siblings, I've seen the darkness that clings to them like perfume. I've seen the aftermath of their wrath, the despair in their quiet moments. I've known, without a shred of doubt, that they are not good people—not to most. Not to many.
But to me? They've always been good. Protective. Fierce. Unshakably loyal.
Still… this? This is something else entirely.
Aleksandr isn't angry. He isn't snarling or screaming. His voice is low, smooth, deadly calm. He sounds happy. Not the kind of happy you find in a smile or a laugh—but the kind of joy found in clarity. In purpose. In knowing exactly what needs to be done.
The man before him is on the ground, knees soaked in slush and blood, body shuddering like it's trying to slip out of itself.
But Aleksandr? He's relaxed. Loose. Like he's finally taken a breath after holding it for years.
And I realize with sudden, stomach-twisting certainty: this is Aleksandr free. Not restrained by pretense or business suits or polite smiles. This is Aleksandr in his element.
And it is absolutely terrifying.
And utterly mesmerizing.
My chest tightens as I watch him work. I feel lightheaded. Dizzy. Like watching a panther toy with its prey just before the final kill.
Then—crack.
The sound of Aleksandr's fist colliding with the man's jaw rings out like a firecracker, bouncing off the alley walls in a brutal echo. There's nothing theatrical about it. No wild swings. Just clean, practiced violence—delivered with surgical precision.
A grunt, low and choked. The man slumps further.
Aleksandr grabs him by the collar, yanks him upright with one arm like he weighs nothing. Then—another blow. This one lands somewhere deep—stomach, ribs, maybe the liver. The man coughs, sputtering, blood flecking the grayed snow in front of him.
I flinch, even though I knew it was coming. My fingers tighten on the takeout bags, crinkling plastic and paper like brittle leaves. The warmth from the egg roll dies instantly on my tongue.
Aleksandr's knuckles are split now—red blooming across skin, dripping in rivulets that stain the front of the man's coat.
And still, Aleksandr's face remains composed. Emotionless. Only his eyes—those pale, eerily dead grey eyes—burn, and Aleksandr looks alive.
I want to capture this moment. I want to make it happen again. Fuck, how can I witness him alive like this again, make him see that I want this side of him. That despite what he said all those years ago. I can take it. I want it.
"That was for expecting me to betray my family the way you did yours Jakub," Aleksandr murmurs.
There's the sickening sound of a body slamming against the wall. The groan that follows is raw and guttural.
"I've got the evidence. You kill me, it doesn't disappear." Jakub coughs into the snow. "You are going to go down with the rest of them. Do you know what the FBI has on us? Murders? RICO charges? You will never see the light of day again."
Aleksandr doesn't even raise his voice, and he leans back onto the heel of his feet, cracking his neck from side to side.
"You think we do not control the courts?
You think there is no way out for us, Jakub?
That we would allow scum like you into those rooms without knowing exactly who you are?
" Aleksandr taps his cheek twice. "Don't make me laugh, Jakub, or should I call you Officer Lyon in your final moments? "
Officer?
The word slams into my brain like a brick. My mind kicks into overdrive—Officer Lyon. Undercover. A cop. They just found a cop that was in the conference room for hours with both the Petrov siblings.
And I saw the ice cream truck. And Dahlia just tried to talk to me about getting into the building so late, and she was too dry for a snowstorm, asking weird questions.
Fuck.
This whole thing is a setup. The Petrov building is compromised.
Everything in me screams run. Get everyone out of here.
But I can't.
Because Aleksandr leans in just slightly, his voice dropping low and lethal. "Any last words, traitor?"
Jakub wheezes, blood-slick and shaking. And somehow, laughs.
"Yeah, dipshit," he slurs. "You're under arrest."
Aleksandr's face doesn't twitch. But he lets out a single laugh—sharp, cold, amused like he's genuinely baffled by the stupidity in front of him.
Then—he flicks off the safety.
The sound is louder than it should be. Like it slices the air in half, and steals every ounce of oxygen from the air.
"Aleksandr, don't!" I shout, the words ripping out of me as the takeout bags crash to the ground.
I take a shaky step forward, heart in my throat, breath caught somewhere behind it.
His head snaps toward me.
His voice is low, calm, and iron-clad as he locks his finger on the trigger.
"Lily," he says. "Close your eyes."