Chapter 24 #2
What if I'm not okay with it? What if I've been lying to myself this whole time, convincing myself I can handle the darkness because I've never had to stand in it?
That man at the penthouse—the one who pretended to be the delivery driver—he got beaten up. Threatened. But not killed.
Right?
What if Ivan killed him later? What if he kills people all the time, and I don't see it? Don't have to face the reality of what loving him means?
What if someone else dies because of me? For me? I don't want that. I don't want blood on my hands, even if it's his hands doing the killing.
What would the women in my books do?
They'd say yes.
They always say yes. The dangerous man offers everything. The ordinary girl takes it. They live happily ever after in their morally gray romance where love conquers all.
Yes. I should say yes.
That's the logical option. The safe option. He won't let me go anyway. I might as well embrace it. Might as well stop fighting and accept that this is my life now.
Except I'm lying to myself again.
I should say yes because I love him. Because three months ago, I saw him walk into the diner and every part of me knew he was dangerous. I knew he'd ruin me and knew I'd let him.
I should say yes because the thought of going back to my previous life makes me want to scream. I should say yes because I can't imagine a world where I don't.
Decision made, I turn around, ready to face him.
"Miss?"
I jump.
A man stands barely five feet away. How long has he been there? I didn't hear him approach. I didn’t even hear the door open.
"I'm with Mr. Petrov,” he says.
I study the man’s face, unable to recognize him. But Ivan has so many men. Dozens. Maybe hundreds.
This one has icy blue eyes and neck tattoos that disappear under his collar. He could be anyone. Half of Ivan's soldiers look similar.
"Is everything okay?" I ask, steeling my nerves.
"Dmitri Volkov entered through the kitchen." His voice is calm yet deathly serious. "Mr. Petrov wants you evacuated immediately."
Heart plummeting, I try to make sense of it. "He's here? Now?"
"This way. We need to move quickly."
He's already walking toward a door I hadn’t noticed before. A service entrance, probably.
I snatch my purse from the ledge and hurry after him, because what else do I do? Stand here and wait for Dmitri to find me? Let Ivan's enemy get to me while I'm overthinking on a balcony?
We enter an elevator. Small. Plain. Industrial. Not the fancy one with mirrors that guests use. This one's for employees. For people who don't matter enough to see.
The doors close, and it’s just the two of us. The space is too small suddenly. Claustrophobic.
I glance at him. A question niggles at my brain, trying to form through the panic.
Why would Dmitri be here? What's his plan?
It doesn't make sense. You don't walk into a restaurant like this and start shooting. Not with witnesses. Not with security. Not in a place that caters to people who have the police commissioner on speed dial.
That's not how this works.
Except what do I know about how this works? What the hell do I know about Bratva politics, gang warfare, or any of that?
Nothing. I know nothing. I'm a waitress who fell for the wrong man, and now I'm in an elevator with a stranger who says he works for Ivan, but I've never seen him before, and something feels wrong, but I don't trust my own instincts anymore.
The elevator opens to the ground floor. We exit fast.
He's walking quickly now. Too quickly. My heels click against concrete, struggling to keep pace. The sound echoes. Loud. Too loud.
"Where are we going?"
"Secure location. Mr. Petrov’s orders."
We’re outside now, entering an alley that reeks of garbage, rain, and decay. He turns toward a darker stretch away from streetlights.
I stop.
Ivan isn’t here. Shouldn’t he be? Shouldn’t Pyotr or Misha be leading me instead of this stranger?
The man notices. "Everything okay, ma’am?"
What the hell do I know? About procedures, security, evacuations? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
I should trust Ivan’s men. Trust that this isn’t a trap.
I take a step.
His grip tightens.
Fingers press into my arm. Hard. Bruising. All professionalism gone.
"You’re not one of Ivan’s—"
"Dmitri sends his regards, sweet girl."
Every thought scatters. My vision narrows. Logic evaporates. Pure terror, sharp, and immediate surges through me.
I open my mouth to scream.
And then… Ivan.
He appears from nowhere. One second, shadows, and the next, he's here—terrifying in a completely different way.
He doesn't speak. His hands find the man's head, and in one smooth motion, a sharp twist.
Snap.
Oh God, the sound.
Wet. Crunching. Final. A sound I'll hear in every quiet moment for the rest of my life.
The man’s body drops. Just drops like someone cut the strings. A puppet with no master, his head at an angle that heads don't go.
Dead.
He's dead, and I watched it happen.
I saw Ivan—my Ivan—end someone's life with his bare hands. No hesitation. No rage. No emotion at all. Like he's done this a thousand times. Like it costs him nothing. Like taking a life is as simple as breathing.
The violence he's capable of. The violence he does for me. Because of me.
That man is dead because of me.
I can't move. Can't breathe. Can't do anything except stare at the body—the corpse, that's a corpse now, that used to be a person with thoughts and a life, and now it's meat on concrete.
My stomach lurches.
Ivan stands over the limp body like it's nothing.
This is what he is. This is what I've been ignoring. This is what’s underneath the tailored suits, gentle touches, and declarations of love.
He's a killer. A real killer. Standing five feet away from me with another man's blood on his hands.
Reality hits differently when you're standing in it, when you smell the blood. When you see how easily a person stops being a person. How quickly life becomes death. How simple it is for him.
Sirens wail. Close. Too close. Getting closer.
What the fuck? How? We're in an alley. We just got here. How do the police already know?
Unless they don't know. Unless the sirens are unrelated.
But my brain won't stop replaying it. The twist. The snap. The body dropping.
Ivan's men rush in. Pyotr first. Then Misha. Others I don't recognize. Suddenly, the alley fills with movement. Voices in Russian. Orders shouted.
The body is dragged away like trash. Like it was never a person. Like the life that ended doesn't matter.
And they're all so calm. So practiced. Like this is routine. How many times have they done this before?
I'm frozen. Watching. Processing.
"I can't." The words come without permission. Without thought. "This is—I'm just a waitress."
Nobody hears me. They're all moving. Executing a plan they've run dozens of times. Cleaning up. Disposing of evidence. Making a body disappear like it never existed.
"I'm nobody special." Louder now. To myself. To the universe. "No. I'm not built for this."
The blood. The violence. The casual way Ivan ended someone's life. The constant danger.
"I'm just... I'm normal."
Ivan's distracted, talking to Misha in rapid Russian. Gesturing. Giving orders. Not looking at me.
So I run.
I run into the Chicago night, away from the blood and the body and the reality I can't handle.
Designer heels click on wet pavement. The sound echoes off buildings. Too loud. Obvious. Leaving a trail anyone could follow.
I don't care.
I keep running. Away from the alley. Away from Ivan. Away from the choice I can't make and the life I can't live.
Three blocks later, I stop to catch my breath against a building. Chest heaving. Legs shaking. Heart trying to beat out of my ribs.
What now? What the fuck do I do now?
I knew he was a killer. But knowing and seeing are different. Knowing is abstract. Seeing is that snap. That body dropping.
This is too much. This is not me.
Dmitri's still out there. Still hunting me. Still trying to get to Ivan through me.
Ivan's going to lose his mind when he realizes I ran. He probably already has. He probably sent half his men to find me. To bring me back and lock me in my suite, distracted by luxuries and sex.
FUCK. It's all coming too fast. Too real. I can't process. Can't think. Can't—
Hands grab me from behind.
Strong hands. Wrong hands. Not Ivan's hands.
I swing my purse wildly, trying to hit whoever’s grabbing me—anything to fight back—but it’s no use. They’re too strong.
Then… a chemical smell.
I try to fight. To scream. To escape.
But the chemical is too fast. The captor’s too powerful. Everything's already fading.
Darkness creeps in from the edges, my vision tunneling. Thoughts scatter like dropped coins. The last before everything goes black: Ivan's going to burn the world down.