2. Cora
2
CORA
H is hand snatches my wrist mid-swing, twisting just enough to make me drop the wood. I barely register the loss before I’m spun, my back slamming against his chest, his arm locking me in place.
His breath is hot against my ear, low and amused.
"You’d make a terrible assassin, printsessa," he murmurs, the deep timbre of his voice curling through me like smoke. "You breathe too loudly and you left footprints all the way to your hiding place.”
I shudder. Despite the terror racing through my veins, and the pure survival instinct screaming at me to get away, he doesn’t feel anything like Darren.
Darren is cruelty wrapped in a cheap suit.
This man?
This man is colder. Sharper.
His arm tightens just slightly as I try to move away. He’s strong, unshakably solid, and for one brief, insane second, I feel safe.
I crush the thought before it can take root.
Men can’t be trusted.
They lie. They hurt. They take.
So I bare my teeth and hiss, “If you’re going to kill me, just get on with it. Stop the yakking.”
His chest vibrates with a soft, almost mocking chuckle. “Who said anything about killing?”
His grip loosens just enough.
I take my chance.
I twist, aiming for his ribs with my elbow. But he anticipates it, shifting effortlessly, spinning me right back where I started.
Trapped.
His smirk is slow, like he’s enjoying this.
“You’re persistent,” he muses. “I’ll give you that.”
His gaze flicks to the duffel bag, then back to me. He releases me, and I whirl, putting space between us.
“Over there by that wall panel behind you.” His voice is cold. “Open it.”
“Open what?”
He sets the gun down. I think about lunging for it but he reads my mind. “I wouldn’t,” he says. “I’m faster than you.”
I watch as he shrugs out of his jacket, then yanks his ruined shirt over his head, revealing hard, lean muscle cut with fresh blood. A deep gash slices across his side, dark and ugly, but what really catches my eye is the tattoos.
Black ink sprawls across his skin—intricate lines, symbols, words in Cyrillic. Some are faded and amateur, like they’ve been there for years. Others look newer, etched into his body with far more precision.
I force my gaze away. Focus on the wound. Not the rock hard abs as he points at the wall behind me. “There’s a first aid kit in there.” He nods toward a section of rotting wood. “Get it.”
I hesitate. “And if I say no?”
His eyes flick to mine, unreadable. Then, flatly, “I bleed to death. Are you the type of person to watch a man die when you could help?”
I move to the panel. It pulls back with a creak, revealing a sterile metal cabinet, its interior bathed in a dim blue LED glow. A temperature reading tells me it’s close to zero in there.
The contents make me pause.
Blood bags. Plasma. Scalpel sets sealed in plastic. Like a miniature emergency room.
“What the hell is all this?” I ask, grabbing the first aid kit.
“Bratva aid station,” he says simply.
“Am I supposed to know what that means?”
He exhales through his nose, a hint of amusement sliding across his face. “It means we get hurt a lot. So we need places like this where we can get fixed up.”
We. Not I.
Whoever this man is, he’s not alone in this world.
Unlike me.
I press my lips together and flip the kit open.
“Okay, what now?”
He sits on a crate, his posture absurdly relaxed for a man bleeding this much. “First, gloves. You don’t want my blood on you.”
I pull them on and he nods approval.
“Good. Now disinfect the wound. There’s a bottle in the kit—brown, labeled in Russian.”
I find it and hesitate again. “Is it going to hurt?”
He smirks faintly. “You worried about me?”
I scowl. “I just don’t want you punching me if it stings.”
That smirk deepens. “I’ll be nice. Promise.”
I press a soaked gauze pad to his side.
“Now,” he says evenly, like he’s teaching a class instead of bleeding all over the place, “take a clean gauze and pat it dry. Then grab a butterfly strip, peel it, and press the edges of the wound together.”
I fumble through the supplies, my hands shaking. “I can’t?—”
“You can,” he cuts in. His voice is quiet but firm. Not soft, but not unkind. “Trust me.”
I grit my teeth and press the strip into place.
He nods, approving. “Good. Now cover it with one of the patches—blue package, silver backing.”
I find it, peel it open, press it over the wound.
He smirks. “Make a doctor of you yet.”
I shake my head, stripping off the gloves. He’s just another man. Another liar.
I clear my throat, gesturing at his tattoos. “So are we going to talk about those, or should I just pretend I don’t see them?”
He glances down at himself, then shrugs, unbothered.
“You want a history lesson, printsessa?”
“I want to know what the hell I’m nursing.”
He leans back slightly, giving me a better view of the ink. Most of it is black—harsh, military-like designs mixed with intricate patterns and Russian script. Some symbols I recognize. Others look older.
He gestures to a star tattoo on his collarbone. “Vor v zakone. Means ‘thief-in-law.’ High rank in the Russian mafia.”
I blink. “You’re Russian mafia?”
“This one—” he points to an elaborate cathedral inked onto his ribs, “—means I’ve served time.”
“Prison?”
Another hum. “In Siberia.”
I swallow, suddenly aware of just how dangerous this man is. “For what?”
The smirk returns. “Getting caught.”
I roll my eyes. “Helpful.” I point to a script tattoo curling around his side. “And this?”
He hesitates. Just for a second. Then, quieter, “It says ‘Honor or death.’”
I stare at him. “Who are you?”
“Ivan Stepanov. Why were you running from Darren Pinchon?”
“You know him?”
He taps the gauze. Need to let this seal up for a while.” He looks up at me. “A friend of mine stole something from Darren. He was bringing it to me when he got himself shot.”
“What was it?”
“I’ve no idea. He sent me a photo of a duffel bag, said it was inside, said it was worth millions. Told me to look out for it if they got him. I told him he’d be safe. I was wrong.”
“What happened?”
“Darren killed him. I walked into an ambush. Darren’s goons killed two of my men. I find out where that asshole lives and get there in time to find him running after some woman. A woman carrying the bag I’m looking for. I get shot and that brings us up to date. Where’s the bag?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He smiles coldly. “Sure. How long have you known Darren?”
“A week.”
“A week?” His eyebrows quirk upwards.
I nod. “I was begging and he gave me twenty, then told me he knew somewhere I could get warm and dry. I wouldn’t normally say yes but it was so cold that night. Ended up at his place and he was a perfect gentleman, didn’t try anything. Let me stay on his spare bed, fed me, found me some clothes.”
“So why’d you run away if he was so good to you?”
“He brought some men over tonight. I heard them talking. They said they were going to fuck me, then sell me to a brothel.”
His eyes flash something but it’s gone in an instant. “Italian mafia scum. The Bratva would never treat a woman that way.” He shakes his head. “If he’s into trafficking, it looks like he’s trying to fill the gap Lombardi left when he died.”
I freeze. “Lombardi? Who’s that?”
He nods once. “Vito Lombardi, mob boss over in New York. No heirs. His death left a vacuum in a lot of cities. I’m here making sure the Bratva take over Chicago before someone else can.”
“You think Darren wants to be a mob boss?”
“I’d never heard of the piece of shit up until a week ago but all kinds are crawling out of the woodwork to take over from Lombardi. My job’s to make sure none of them get very far.”
He lunges past me so fast I don’t see it happening until he’s got hold of the bag, dragging it out of the hiding place. “This the bag you’ve not got?” he says, pulling it open.
Money spills out. He frowns. “He killed Vlad for this?” He empties the bag completely, running his hands over it. “Doesn’t make any sense. Can’t be more than twenty thousand. Real notes. What the fuck?”
He gets to his feet, muttering something in Russian. I’m guessing a curse.
I hesitate. “You’re not taking it?”
“I don’t need money.” His tone is casual. Rich-guy casual. “I need answers.” His gaze flicks to the bag again, considering. “What were you gonna do with it?”
I shrug. “Always dreamed of opening a restaurant. My parents ran a bakery but they always wanted a restaurant of their own some day.”
“Going to give it to them? That’s noble.”
“They’re dead.”
“How?”
“Mob burned the bakery when they wouldn’t pay protection. They were inside. I was at school. I came back and…” My voice fails.
He examines me closely, like he’s checking whether I’m telling the truth. He nods. “Twenty thousand is nowhere near enough for a restaurant. Want my advice?”
“Not really.”
“Use it to start over someplace new.”
I snort. “And you care because…?”
He leans in just slightly, those icy eyes locking onto mine. “Because if you stay in Chicago, you’ll be dead in a week. He’ll find you soon enough. You’re not very good at hiding.”
“Been on the streets since I was twelve. Never got picked up by the cops once in that time.”
He considers for a moment. “What’s your name?”
“Cora Jackson.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-one. Why?”
“Because you tried to fight me and I’m nearly twice your age. You’ve got some balls on you, Cora Jackson. You ready?”
I shake my head, taking a step back. “For what?”
His smirk returns as he picks up his gun. “You’re coming with me.”