Chapter 15 #2
I fought back desperately. Clawed at the hand covering my mouth with my nails, tried to knee him in the leg, tried to stomp on his toes. I bit his hand—bit down hard through that glove. He grunted but didn't let go.
Another one walked over, gripping a knife. The blade flashed in the light.
He held it up to my face. The tip was less than five inches from my eye.
"Don't move." His voice was low, muffled by the mask.
The room went quiet.
Only my own gasping breaths and the three of them breathing.
Tears streamed from the corners of my eyes.
I thought of Sasha. Thought of the turkey she'd make tonight, how she'd said "whenever you come, I'll make it." Thought of the caretaker at the orphanage, the woman who taught me to tie my shoes when I was five—I couldn't even remember her face anymore.
Thought of Misha. The weight of her chin resting on my knee, the feel of his fuzzy head nuzzling into my palm, those amber eyes.
Thought of him.
Sergei.
Gray eyes.
Silver hair.
That word—"Whatever."
Sergei, save me.
Please come save me!
A car engine outside.
Not just any car—the kind with that low, heavy rumble, like a large animal growling.
The one holding the knife whipped his head toward the window. Headlights swept past the curtain from below, casting a flash of white light across the wall before disappearing.
"Shit." He cursed under his breath.
The other two heard it too. Their bodies tensed simultaneously.
"They're watching close! Fuck, lucky you! Move out!"
The hand on my arm released.
The one with the knife pulled it back and quickly tucked it into his waistband.
All three turned without another glance at me, heading out through the bedroom door. Their footsteps pounded down the hallway, then the stairwell door creaked open, rapid footsteps descending.
The apartment fell silent again.
Just my ragged breathing and the wind outside.
I sat on the floor, staring at my destroyed home.
The couch. The drawers. The words on the wall.
Red words.
Like blood.
"BITCH"
"VOLKOV'S WHORE"
I didn't know when the tears had started, but now they covered my face.
I hugged my knees, curling into myself.
Why.
Why is this happening?
What did I do wrong?
I just fell for someone. I just—
The sound of a car door closing came from downstairs.
Then urgent footsteps echoing in the stairwell, getting closer, getting clearer.
Someone was coming up.
Fast.
Like they were running.
My body tensed.
Were they coming back?
I tried to stand, but my legs were still weak.
The footsteps reached the third floor.
Stopped at my door.
I'm done for.
I closed my eyes in despair.
I should've known. Good luck never found me.
"Ella."
That voice came from outside the door.
Low, carrying a tension and anger I'd never heard before.
I snapped my eyes open.
What?
"Ella, are you in there?"
It was Sergei. I wasn't hallucinating. It was him.
I opened my mouth to answer, but my voice stuck in my throat. Nothing came out.
The door was pushed open.
Sergei stood there.
Gray coat, silver hair. Snow covered his coat, a patch on his shoulder still unmelted. His breathing was heavy, chest rising and falling like he'd been running. His eyes—
Those gray eyes, like the sky before a storm.
I'd never seen them like this.
The moment he saw me, his whole body seemed to relax.
He strode over, crouched down to my level, fingers gently lifting my face as his gaze swept quickly over me—my face, my body—his voice urgent.
"Ella, are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere?"
I looked at him.
His jawline was tight, the muscle below his cheekbone slightly bulging—his masseter, he was clenching his teeth. His lips pressed into a thin line, almost colorless. Those gray eyes were full of worry.
All the grievances, all the fear, everything I'd kept bottled up this week—it all erupted in that moment.
Instantly, my body reacted before my brain could catch up, like a drowning person grabbing the last rock on shore. I threw myself into his arms.
My face crashed into his chest. The fabric of his coat brushed my cheek—cold, but his body heat seeped through that wool. Snow still clung to his shoulder. My tears smudged against it, turning the snowflakes into little wet patches.
My fingers clutched the lapels of his coat, gripping tight. I was afraid if I let go, he'd do what he did that day in the parking lot—turn around, get in the elevator, hit the gas, disappear.
"I was so scared!" I said, my voice breaking. "They... they just came out of nowhere. I-I thought—"
"It's over," his hand settled on the back of my head, palm against my hair, fingers curling slightly, pulling me into him. His other arm circled my waist, palm pressed against my side. Even through the sweater, I could feel the warmth of his hand. "I'm here. It's okay."
I cried so hard my whole body shook. Snot and tears smeared everywhere, all over his obviously expensive coat.
He didn't say anything.
Just tightened his arms, holding me closer.
His chin rested on top of my head. I could feel the vibration in his chest when he spoke.
"It's okay."
Light. Heavy. Falling from above, passing through my hair, through my skull, landing in my heart that had somehow emptied out without me realizing.
"I'm here."
By the time I finally stopped, the front of his coat was soaked through.
He loosened his hold, stepped back, hands on my shoulders, examining me carefully.
"Are you hurt?" His fingers gently lifted my chin, checking my face, then my neck, then my arms.
"No," I said, my voice still shaking. "They—I think they heard you coming and ran."
His gaze landed on my hair—probably from when they'd grabbed me earlier.
"They touched you." Not a question.
"Just—just grabbed me," I said. "Really, I'm fine."
His fingers lightly brushed through my disheveled hair, movements gentle, but his jawline was tight, something burning in his eyes.
Then he turned and looked at the words on the wall.
He stood in front of that spray-painted message, completely still.
But I could feel the fury radiating from him.
That fury was cold. Not explosive—suppressed. Like magma under ice. Once it erupted, it would destroy everything.
Bogdan and the others saw it too. Their faces changed.
"Boss—" Bogdan started.
"Seal the scene," Sergei said, his voice cold as ice. "Pull surveillance, fingerprints, don't miss a single trace. I want to know who sent them."
"Yes, sir."
Bogdan waved his hand. The others immediately dispersed, starting to examine the scene.
Sergei turned back and walked over to me, crouching down in front of me.
"What is this?" I asked. "Sergei, who did this?"
He was silent for a second.
"Ella," his tone wasn't evasive—it was something more certain. "This isn't something you need to know the details of right now. It's not something you can fix." He looked at me. "Right now there's only one thing that matters—you can't stay here tonight."
"I can go to Sasha's—"
"No," he said. "Anywhere you go, anyone you know, you'll bring the danger with you."
I looked at him.
His gaze held no hesitation. It was the kind of look that said he'd already considered every possibility, reached the only conclusion, and was now placing that conclusion in front of you.
"Come with me," he said. "Tonight, and for the foreseeable future, you stay at my place."
"Sergei—"
"This is my decision, not yours," he said, his tone not harsh but final. "Go pack what you need. Just the important things. I have clothes, you don't need to bring much."
I stood there, watching this man standing in my destroyed home, suit immaculate, tie loosened a notch, eyes holding something he'd never admit to in front of others.
I could only nod.
When Bogdan came back with an unfamiliar brown-haired man, I'd already packed a suitcase—design sketches, drawing tools, spare clothes, and that paper bag from under the bed.
Sergei and Bogdan exchanged a few words in the hallway—Russian, I couldn't understand—but Bogdan's expression was grave. He nodded, then turned and went inside to examine the scene.
"Let's go," Sergei picked up my suitcase, his other hand resting on my lower back.
I followed him downstairs, out of the building. Cold wind rushed in again. I hunched my shoulders. He took off his coat and draped it over my shoulders—natural, without saying anything.
The car was parked by the curb, interior lights on, warm.
I climbed in and looked back at the building. The window on the third floor glowed with light, Bogdan's silhouette moving inside.
Sergei sat down beside me and closed the door.
The car started moving. Queens streets receded behind us. Christmas lights drifted past the window in blurs—red, green, gold—melting into one mass, as if trying to soften everything that had happened tonight, soften it into something bearable.
His hand rested on top of mine. Not holding, just resting there.
I turned my hand over and gripped his fingers.
"Sergei," I said, my voice still hoarse. "Thank you for coming."
He didn't speak.
His fingers tightened slightly.
The car drove for a long time, crossing the Hudson River, entering Manhattan, pulling up in front of that high-rise I'd only seen after work. The elevator rose all the way up. He held my hand until the door opened.
The top floor guest room. Floor-to-ceiling windows, New York skyline, a bed bigger than my entire apartment.
"This is your room," he said. "Let me know if you need anything."
I stood by the window, looking down at the city below. Lights like a sprawling galaxy. From this height, everything looked small, distant, quiet.
"Rest first," he said. "We'll talk about everything else tomorrow."
I heard him walking toward the door.
"Sergei," I called out.
He stopped and turned around.
I looked at him, wanting to say something, but nothing came out. I opened my mouth, then closed it, then shook my head.
"Never mind," I said. "Good night."
He stood in the doorway for a second, looking at me.
"Good night," he said, then gently closed the door.
I turned back to the window, staring out at New York for a long time until my eyes burned. Then I walked over and sat on the edge of that big bed, pulling the paper bag from my suitcase and setting it on my lap, fingers tracing the wrapping paper.
A scarf.
A sweater.
And that little maroon sweater with the gold reindeer embroidered on the chest.
Everything from tonight replayed in my head—the words on the wall, those three masked men, and the expression on Sergei's face when he stood in that hallway.
I knew tonight wasn't simple.
But Sergei wouldn't tell me.
I held that paper bag, lay down on that unfamiliar big bed, stared at the ceiling, listened to this city's faint breathing in the deep night, thinking about what he'd said.
This isn't something you need to know right now.
I know. Not now.
But someday, I'll need to know.