36. Nicolai
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
NICOLAI
Heat pulses beneath my skin and crawls up my spine. The world distorts, blurring at the edges until I can’t tell where I end, and the fever begins.
Then, the gunfire comes.
Relentless and unforgiving. I see the warehouse, the burst of a muzzle flashing in the dark, and I feel it again: that searing pain ripping through my side.
I fight to move, but my body won’t listen.
Figures appear, their faces familiar, yet twisted. Carlo stands untouched, smirking like he’s been waiting. “You always thought you were untouchable,” he murmurs, his voice slithering through the smoke. “Guess not.”
Then blood.
Too much blood.
I press my hand to my side, but it keeps slipping through my fingers, thick and endless. The pain’s unbearable, worse than before.
And then. Another voice. Softer. Closer. Cutting through the nightmare and my confusion.
“Nico.”
It’s familiar, something that pulls at the edges of my mind.
Luna.
I try to reach for her, but the fever keeps me trapped, spinning me deeper into the obscurity.
It’s so hot I can barely breathe. It feels like a thick blanket is smothering me. My arms and legs feel like they’re made of stone—like I’m wading through mud just to move an inch and warping the edges of reality until I’m not in the cellar anymore.
I’m back there.
The alley’s dark, the air thick with the stench of death. My hands are slick, my knuckles raw, and the metallic taste clings to my tongue. I hear them, footsteps echoing off the walls, closing in.
I was younger then. Impulsive. Hungry to please my father but too green to understand the cost.
The deal had gone south fast. I’d been outnumbered, and the only thing keeping me alive was sheer, unrelenting will.
The first blow comes from behind, a brutal crack against my ribs that sends me stumbling. I spin, swinging blindly, and my fist connects with something solid. A grunt. A curse. But there are too many of them.
Pain explodes across my side as a blade slices through flesh, hot and searing. I stagger, clutching at the wound, but there’s no time to think, no time to breathe. Another hit lands, and I go down hard, the pavement unforgiving beneath me.
I remember the blood, so much blood, pooling around me, staining my hands. I remember how my vision blurred, and the world tilted as I fought to stay conscious.
And then I see him. Carlo Morales.
A shadow in the frenzy, stepping forward with a smirk that makes my blood run cold. “You thought you could take me on?” he sneers, his voice dripping with mockery. “You’re nothing, kid. Just another body for the morgue.”
I should’ve died that night. I came so close I could feel the void pulling at me, whispering promises of peace.
The world’s slipping, dragging me down with it. My vision blurs, the sounds around me distorting into a distant hum, but I know what’s coming. The final hit. The finishing blow.
Then, movement.
A figure steps into the anarchy, fast and precise. A gunshot splinters through the night, followed by an angry curse.
I don’t process it right away, until hands grip my shirt, hauling me upright. My body protests, the pain searing through every nerve, but suddenly, I’m moving.
Not by choice.
“Stay awake,” a voice orders, low and unrelenting. “You go under now, you’re dead.”
I blink, fighting through the fog, and for the first time, I see him.
His face is expressionless, but his grip is solid as he drags me into the alley, gunfire still erupting behind us. I don’t know him. I don’t understand why he’s here. But at this time, he’s the only thing keeping me from bleeding out on the street.
Despair tugs at the edges of my vision. I try to speak, but the words stick to the back of my throat, thick with blood and exhaustion.
“You good to stand?” he asks, shaking me slightly, forcing me to focus.
I let out a ragged breath. “No.”
“Didn’t think so.” Then, everything blurs as the ground moves, and I’m flying. And then, through the haze, I hear it again.
“Nico.” The voice slices through the noise. I grab it, trying to free myself from the blackness, but the chill won’t loosen its grip.
The darkness clings to me like a heavy blanket. I can hear the echoes of gunfire still ringing in my head, the phantom sting of pain licking up my side, but something’s different.
The cold pavement is gone.
Instead, there’s warmth. A rough mattress beneath me, the scent of antiseptic lingering in the air.
I force my eyes open, the world blurring before it comes into focus. The room’s dim, unfamiliar. Not a hospital. Not the alley.
A figure leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching me with a calculating gaze. The same one who dragged me out, pulled me from the brink.
“You’re alive,” he says, casual, like my survival was optional.
I blink, my throat raw. “Where?—”
“Safe house,” he interrupts. “You were bleeding out, figured I’d do you a solid.”
I study him, the way he speaks, like this is just another job, another moment in a long line of them.
“Who the hell are you?” I manage, my voice hoarse.
He smirks, finally pushing off the wall. “Mateo.”
The name barely registers, because I’m still trying to piece together why a stranger threw himself into my disaster. Why am I still alive?
Mateo steps forward, setting a water bottle on the nightstand beside me. “Rest up, kid. You’re gonna need it.”
I don’t know why he saved my life. I should have been just another casualty of the world I was born into. But one thing is certain, I’ll never forget this man or what he risked for a stranger like me.