30. Veronica
30
VERONICA
The next day…
I step inside my new bookstore for the first time. Maxim left the keys on my bedside table along with a note telling me to take a look while he’s busy signing the paperwork with his father.
He never joined me in bed last night. I don’t know how to feel about that.
I stop dead the moment I enter the store.
It's perfect.
Maxim made it perfect.
The shelves, painted a soft sage green, are lined up exactly as I’d imagined during those late-night planning sessions with him. All ready for the books to be lined up in order.
The reading nook in the far corner—a little oasis of comfort with its oversized armchair, matching ottoman, and a soft rug—is exactly where I’d dreamed it would be.
The chair we picked together sits proudly in its place, the fabric a deep navy that stands out against the lighter tones of the space.
I trail my fingers along the edge of the counter, feeling the smooth wood beneath my fingertips. He listened to me. Every detail, every little wish I’d mentioned in passing, is here.
My throat tightens as the weight of it hits me. He didn’t just give me a bookstore. He gave me this .
But the hollowness in my chest refuses to fade. I have this but I’m losing him. I’ve achieved my dream and I should be happy.
Instead, I feel empty. How can he do something so kind and thoughtful and still tell me he’s a monster who can’t change? Slit a man’s throat without giving a shit about it.
My two security guards wait near the front door, watching the street as I take a deep breath, forcing myself to focus.
I grab a box cutter from the counter and start slicing open one of the cardboard boxes stacked near the shelves.
The scent of fresh ink wafts up as I pull back the flaps, revealing a stack of brand-new books, their covers glossy and inviting.
"Do you need help, ma’am?" one of the guards asks, stepping closer.
"No, I’m surprisingly capable," I reply, giving him a curt smile. “You can make me a coffee though if you like.”
He disappears into the back as his colleague moves across to the window, staring out at the street.
I start stacking the books onto the shelves, arranging them by genre, then by author.
My fingers tremble slightly as I work, my emotions bubbling too close to the surface. I blink back the sting in my eyes, unwilling to let myself cry here, of all places.
I stop to take a breath, leaning against the counter and glancing at the chair in the corner. I can still hear his voice in my head as he insisted that it would look better with a soft throw draped over the back. I laughed and told him he had surprisingly good taste for someone so terrifying.
And in a day or two, it’ll be over forever.
I shake my head, pulling myself out of my thoughts. Dwelling on what-ifs won’t change anything.
With a deep breath, I pull another box closer and get back to work.
An hour later, I stop working when I hear the faint sound of the doorbell chime. I glance up from behind the counter to see two men step into the store.
They’re not customers. One of my guards is making coffee again. The other has his hand near his jacket, waiting for shit to go south.
Something about the smirks of the newcomers—the way their eyes lazily scan the space as if they own it—sets me on edge immediately. Their leather jackets and heavy boots don’t scream book lover .
“We’re not open yet,” I say, forcing my voice to stay steady as I straighten from behind the counter. My fingers curl tightly around the box cutter I’ve been using.
One of the men looks at me, his grin widening. “That’s alright. We’re just browsing.”
My stomach churns. Their tone isn’t playful—it’s mocking.
“Not today,” I reply, injecting steel into my voice. “Come back when the store is actually open.”
They ignore me, stepping further inside. One of them drags a finger across the counter, eyeing me like I’m something to eat.
“Nice place you’ve got here,” the other one says, his voice dripping with fake admiration. “Shame if something were to happen to it. Lot of fires in this area, you know?”
The guard by the window steps forward, his hand resting on the holster at his hip. “You need to leave,” he says firmly.
The first man shrugs. “Gonna make us, you Russian prick?”
In the blink of an eye, the men explode into motion. The nearest intruder lunges at my guard, his fist colliding with the guard’s jaw in a sickening crack.
The second man pulls a knife from his pocket, slashing at the other guard’s arm as he emerges from the back.
“Get down!” someone shouts, and I don’t think—I drop behind the counter, my heart hammering in my chest.
Gunfire shatters the quiet serenity of the store, bullets splintering wood and sending books tumbling from the shelves. I clamp a hand over my mouth to muffle my panicked breaths, curling into a tight ball beneath the counter.
I hear grunts, the thud of bodies hitting the floor, and more gunshots. My pulse races as I peer around the edge of the counter, trying to make sense of the madness.
One of my security guards is down for good, blood pooling beneath him. The other is locked in a brutal struggle with one of the intruders, but it’s clear he’s losing ground. “Run,” he gasps at me as hands slip around his throat.
I duck back as another bullet whizzes past, burying itself in the wall behind me. My fingers tighten around the box cutter in my hand, the blade shaking slightly.
I sprint out the back door of the bookstore. Behind me, the sound of scuffling footsteps grows louder.
I glance over my shoulder and see the two attackers emerging from the doorway, their faces twisted into cruel grins.
My guard bursts out but just as I’m hoping he’ll help, he slumps against the wall near the dumpster, unmoving. It’s just me now. Me and two armed men.
“Marco wants to see you,” the taller one says with a grin. “You remember him, right? Why’d you pick a Ruski prick when you could be eating real Italian meat?”
My pulse hammers in my ears as I grip the box cutter tighter. My fingers are shaking, but I force myself to point it at the men. Project confidence, that’s what I was taught.
“Stay back!” My voice is louder than I expect, the tremor in it betraying the fear I’m trying to suppress.
One of the men laughs—a deep, guttural sound that chills me to my core. “What are you going to do with that, sweetheart?”
I don’t respond.
He kicks a piece of broken glass across the ground as he steps closer. “What now, little girl?”
I square my shoulders, planting my feet firmly on the ground, remembering everything Maxim taught me. “We do this mano a mano.”
They laugh, but it’s not the laugh of men with humor.
I remember what Maxim told me. Sometimes you have to act. To kill without thinking, without guilt.
As the first man lunges at me, I sidestep, pivoting sharply, and slam the box cutter into his ribs. He grunts in pain, stumbling, but I don’t stop there. Now I understand why Maxim slit that guy’s throat.
I pull it back and dig it in again, pushing as far into his chest as I can. At the same time, my knee comes up, catching him in the balls, and he drops to the ground with a groan, blood pouring from his body.
The second man doesn’t give me time to recover. He grabs me from behind, his arm locking around my throat, pulling me against his chest.
“Feisty one,” he growls, his breath hot against my ear. “What are you going to do now?”
I thrash, my hands clawing at his arm as I try to break free. My heart pounds wildly, fear and adrenaline surging through me.
“Get off me!” I scream, twisting and stomping on the man’s foot, trying to loosen his grip.
“You’ve got nowhere to run,” he sneers, forcing the box cutter from my hand. “Might as well make it easy on yourself.”
I prepare myself to break free, but just as I’m abut to twist my hands and knock him off balance I freeze.
From the end of the alley, looking like the cat who got the cream, Marco Gorlami is prowling toward me.