Chapter 3
LILA
I drop my pencil, and it rolls across the floor in the sudden silence that follows the bang. It must be Mick coming back. He probably forgot his drug stash and is going to take it out on everyone else.
But it's not Mick.
It's Ivan.
He slips in the back door, looking like a nightmare… ripped from my 3 a.m. fantasies. His designer shirt hangs off him in strips that reveal—oh.
Oh God.
The man is all muscle. Not gym muscles. His are different.
Functional. Dangerous. Muscles that come from real violence.
Black ink paints them like a canvas. Orthodox crosses mark his chest. Cyrillic script wraps around his ribs.
Stars decorate his shoulders, seemingly meaningful in ways I probably don't want to know.
My mouth goes dry. I've imagined what he looks like under those expensive suits for three excruciatingly long months, and now here he is, half-naked in my diner's doorway, and my brain has completely short-circuited.
Then I see it.
Blood. On his hands. On his chest. The dark stain spreads through what's left of his shirt. A gun rests in his waistband like that's a normal accessory, and a cut above his eyebrow leaks red down his face.
What the hell?
I can't move. Can't think. All I can do is stare at the blood—is it his? Someone else's? Both?
He steps inside, closes the door, and suddenly the diner feels too small. He fills the space now, all that exposed skin and violence making the air charged with an undercurrent of danger.
"I need—" He stops, sways slightly, and catches himself on the doorframe. More blood seeps through his shirt.
"You're hurt." My voice sounds far away, like someone else is speaking.
"I'm fine."
"You're bleeding."
"Not all of it's mine."
Jesus Christ. That's not reassuring. That's the opposite of reassuring.
He moves past me toward the kitchen, and I follow because what else am I supposed to do? Call 911?
"Don't just stand there," he says, pulling his ruined shirt off completely.
More tattoos reveal themselves. A cathedral spans his entire back, with onion domes and crosses in intricate detail. And scars—so many scars. White lines and puckered marks that tell stories I don't want to hear, but can't stop staring at.
He turns on the sink and starts washing his hands.
Blood-tinged water swirls down the drain, and I'm frozen between terror and a darker pull—an entirely inappropriate awareness of how his shoulder muscles move when he reaches for paper towels, how water droplets run down his chest following the lines of his abs.
"I need a shirt," he says without looking at me.
"I—what?"
"A shirt. Unless you want me to explain this—” He stops to gesture at the wall of blood, tattoos that occupy his abdomen. “To whoever walks through that door next."
Right. Think, Lila. Lost and found box.
Hands trembling, I dig through the cardboard box in the corner. Reading glasses. A child's toy. A scarf that smells like old-lady perfume. Finally, at the bottom, rests a black T-shirt. Size large. It'll be tight, but it's better than nothing.
When I turn back, he's using paper towels to clean a wound on his ribs. The methodical way he does it—like it’s routine—makes my stomach twist.
"Here." I hold out the shirt, trying not to stare and failing miserably.
He takes it, and our fingers brush. His hand is still damp, warm despite everything, and the brief contact sends electricity up my arm.
"You're shaking," he observes.
"You just—there's blood—what happened?"
"Nothing that concerns you."
"You're in my kitchen, covered in blood. I think it concerns me a little."
He pulls the shirt on instead of answering. It is too tight, clinging to everything I shouldn't be noticing right now. This is insane. There's blood in my sink, a gun in his waistband, and I'm thinking about how good he looks in a too-small T-shirt.
The bell above the front door chimes.
We both freeze.
"Stay here," he says, but I'm already moving because this is my diner, my responsibility. He grabs my wrist, grip firm but not painful. "I said, stay."
"It's my job—"
"Your job is to not get killed,” he interrupts.
Three voices drift in from the dining room, speaking Russian.
"Girl!" one of them calls. "You are here, yes? We need to talk."
Ivan grips his gun and shakes his head at me in a wordless message: don't respond.
"We know you are here. We saw lights. Come out, or we’ll come find you."
I look at Ivan. He's completely still, coiled like a spring, ready to explode into violence. This is what he is, I realize. Not the quiet customer who leaves hundred-dollar tips. This is the real him—lethal and ready to kill.
"I'm coming," I call out, because what else can I do? Hide in the kitchen until they come looking?
Three men stand by the entrance. They look like cheaper versions of Ivan—tracksuits instead of suits, gold chains instead of subtle wealth, crude menace instead of controlled danger.
"Ah, there you are." The one in front smiles. It's all teeth, no warmth. "Alone tonight?"
"Yes."
"You sure about that?" He steps closer. "Because we are looking for someone. Someone who might have come here. You would tell us if you saw someone, yes?"
"I haven't seen anyone."
He moves faster than I expected, grabbing my chin and forcing me to look at him. "Little girls who lie to us have accidents. Terrible accidents. You understand?"
My whole body trembles. This is nothing like my books. In books, the heroine is always brave, always defiant. I want to cry and run away.
"I understand."
"Good. Now, we check. Make sure you are telling the truth."
They move toward the kitchen, and I know it's over. They'll see the bloody paper towels, the sink that's still splattered in red, and they'll know.
Ivan steps out from behind me.
"Gentlemen."
All three men reach for weapons. Ivan already has his gun halfway out of his waistband.
"Petrov." The leader spits the name like a curse.
"Tell Dmitri his dog fought well," Ivan says calmly. "Oleg was a worthy opponent."
"You fucking—"
Sirens cut them off. Loud and close, multiple cars from the sound of it.
The three men exchange rapid-fire Russian. The leader looks at me, Ivan, and back at me. His eyes promise terrible things.
"This is not over," he says.
As quickly as they came, they're gone, the bell chiming their exit like punctuation to a death threat.
My legs give out. Ivan catches me, his arm looping around my waist, holding me up.
"Breathe," he says. "Just breathe."
"They were going to—"
"But they didn't. You're okay."
"I'm not okay! Nothing about this is okay!"
The sirens are getting louder.
Ivan guides me to his usual booth, sits me down, and slides in across from me.
"Listen to me." His voice is calm and steady, designed to cut through panic. "The police are about to come through that door. Tell them I've been here since midnight. I'm a regular customer who couldn't sleep."
"I can't—"
"You can. You will." He leans forward, those ocean eyes holding mine. "Those men saw you with me. Saw you lie for me. To them, you're involved. The only thing keeping you safe after tonight is me."
"This is insane."
"It's reality. Tell them I've been here all night, Lila."
The way he says my name makes my chest tighten.
The cops burst in like a SWAT team raiding a drug den. Guns drawn, shouting, chaos.
Ivan doesn't even flinch. He sits, hands visible on the table, looking bored.
"Chicago PD! Hands where we can see them!"
The lead officer approaches, gun still drawn. "We got a report of shots fired in the alley. You two see or hear anything?"
I shake my head.
“And you?” He turns to Ivan. “What have you been up to tonight?”
"He's been here since midnight," I hear myself say. The lie comes out smoother than expected.
The cop's eyes narrow as he looks between us. "Since midnight, huh? Convenient."
"Couldn't sleep," Ivan says with a shrug. "She’s kind enough to keep me company."
"ID."
Ivan produces his license slowly. The cop examines it, and recognition flickers across his face.
"Petrov," he says flatly. "Of course."
"Problem, officer?"
"Someone got killed in that alley tonight. Professional hit."
I feign shock. "That's awful!"
The officer peppers us with questions for what feels like hours, occasionally circling back in a thinly veiled attempt at tripping us up. Ivan's story never falters: He couldn't sleep, came for coffee, and spent the night talking to me. All I can do is follow his lead.
They want to know if we saw anything, heard anything. We didn't. Other than the sound of what we thought might be fireworks, it was just a quiet night until the sirens started.
The lead cop hands Ivan a card as they leave. "Stay out of dark alleys, Mr. Petrov. Dangerous neighborhood."
"I'll keep that in mind."
Finally, they leave.
I expect Ivan to go too. To disappear into the night and let me pretend this never happened. Instead, he stays seated, studying me with those impossible eyes.
"Are you okay?"
"No." The word comes out sharp. "I'm not okay. You just—there was blood—those men—"
"I know."
"Do you? Do you know what it's like to be a normal person with guns pointed at you?"
"No," he admits. "I don't."
We sit in silence for a moment. My heartbeat thuds in my ears, still too fast, still panicked.
"Those men," Ivan says finally. "They work for Dmitri Volkov. He's... a competitor of mine."
"Competitor?" I laugh, but I’m not amused.
"He wants me dead. I want him dead. Tonight, I killed his second-in-command. Those men were looking for me."
My breath catches. He admitted to killing a man as if it were nothing.
"And now they know you helped me," he continues. "Which means you're a target."
"I didn't help you. I just—"
"You lied. To them, that's the same thing." He pulls out his phone and types quickly. "Pack a bag. Essentials only. You're coming with me."
"What?" The word comes out as a squeak. "No. Absolutely not."
"It wasn't a request."
"You’re not—"
"I’m keeping you alive." He stands, and suddenly he seems bigger, more dangerous. "Those men saw your face. They know where you work. How long do you think it'll take them to find out where you live?"
"That's not—you can't just—"
He moves around the table, stopping just inches from me. My heart kicks into overdrive.
"Your old life ended the moment you lied for me," he says softly. "I can keep you safe. I will keep you safe."
"Why?"
"Because you saved my life tonight."
"I just told a lie—"
"To the men who would have killed me on sight. That lie bought me time. Now let me return the favor."
He's so close I can see gold flecks in his blue eyes. Heat radiates from him. This is exactly like in my books—the dangerous man declaring his protection, the ordinary girl swept into his dark world. Except in the books, the heroine always wants it, craving the danger and excitement.
I just want my normal, boring life back.
But that's not entirely true, is it?
"I need to go to my apartment," I say, hating how breathless the statement comes out. "I need clothes, I need—"
"Too dangerous. They’re likely watching it already."
"Then what am I supposed to wear?" I ask, gesturing at my hideous uniform. “I can’t walk around in this forever.”
"I'll take care of it."
"You'll take care of it." I scoff and shake my head. "Like I'm a pet."
"Like you're under my protection." He raises a hand, fingers ghosting along my jaw, not quite touching. "I take care of what's mine."
"I'm not yours."
"No?" His thumb brushes my cheek, the lightest touch, but it burns like a brand. "Then why did you lie for me?"
I don't have an answer to that. Or I do, but I don't want to admit it.
"Three minutes," he says, stepping back. "Get whatever you absolutely need. My car is outside."
This is it. The moment of choice. I could call the police, tell them everything, and go back to my life.
Or I could join Ivan in whatever darkness he's offering. Away from my life. Away from this godforsaken diner.
Damn it.
I grab my bag from behind the counter, shoving my sketchbook inside. The one full of his face. It’s essential, almost like I need proof that I saw this coming, that I've been drawing this moment for months without knowing it.
"Ready?" he asks.
No, not even close. I nod anyway.
We exit out the front. There's a black car idling at the curb, expensive and anonymous. The driver doesn't turn around when we get in.
"Where are we going?" I ask as we pull away from everything I know.
"Somewhere safe."
I want to protest, but I'm suddenly exhausted. The adrenaline is wearing off, leaving me shaky and hollow. Ivan is sitting too close in the backseat, his thigh pressed against mine, and I can't decide if I want to move away or lean into him.
It doesn’t matter, I remind myself. I’ve made my decision, and now I’m trapped. What happens next isn’t up to me.
It’s up to him.