THE ENGINE'S GROWL WAS the only sound keeping Chiji sane as he tore through Brooklyn's backstreets, her gun still pressed against his ribs like a cold promise. His knuckles bleached white on the wheel, every nerve screaming to slam the brakes, kick her out, and run. But that stack of crisp hundreds—ten thousand dollars—sat heavy on the center console, a devil's bargain he'd already half-accepted.

Rain now pelted the windshield, matching his racing heart. Three hours ago, he'd been celebrating his first night as a cabbie. Now, he was an accomplice to whatever the fuck had happened back at that warehouse.

"Where are we going?" His voice cracked, raw from the chaos still echoing in his skull—gunshots, shattering glass, the image of those AK-47 goons burned into his brain.

She didn't answer right away. Her arctic blue eyes flicked to the side mirror, scanning the empty street behind them. Her bare feet shifted on the glass-strewn floor, blood smearing the leather seat—hers, someone else's, he couldn't tell anymore. The cab smelled like a warzone: copper, gunpowder, and that damn jasmine perfume.

A siren wailed in the distance. Chiji's pulse spiked, and he jerked the wheel, nearly clipping a parked car.

"Careful," she murmured. "I'd hate to add 'car crash' to your growing list of problems."

He shot her a glare through the rearview mirror. "My problems? Lady, I didn't have any problems until you dove into my cab with a fucking arsenal on your tail."

"Keep driving, Chizh," she said finally, her Russian accent wrapping his name in a velvet noose. "You'll know when we stop."

"Chizh?" He spat the word back, hating how it sounded—too familiar, too hers. "My name's Chijioke. And I'm not your fucking pet."

Her lips twitched. "Chijioke," she purred, testing it, rolling each syllable on her tongue like she was tasting expensive wine. She leaned closer, the gun's barrel digging deeper. "You are what I say you are. For the next forty-eight hours, you're mine. No questions. No cops. Just you, me, and this cab."

He swerved around a pothole, the jolt knocking her gun off his side for a split second. Forty-eight hours? His mind spun—two days with this psycho, this bleeding nightmare who'd turned his first shift into a death race. "And then what? You shoot me? Dump me in the river?"

She laughed, low and throaty, like he'd told a joke. "If I wanted you dead, Chizh, you'd be cold already." Her fingers trailed along the stack of bills, caressing them. "Ten thousand dollars. That's my price for your wheels—and your silence."

The money stared up at him, crisp edges glowing faintly under the dashboard lights. Ten grand. Enough to breathe, to shove his father's warnings—"You will suffer, my son"—back down the old man's throat. But silence? That word landed like a brick. Silence about what? The warehouse? The blood? The men who'd turned his cab into a bullet-riddled coffin?

"I need more than cash," he said, voice steadier than he felt. "I need answers."

"What you need," she replied, "is to survive the night. The less you know, the better your chances."

Her phone buzzed. She glanced at it, her expression hardening into something cold and lethal. For a heartbeat, she looked like someone else—someone dangerous enough to make those men with assault rifles seem like child's play.

"Turn right. Now."

He complied, tires squealing as he made the sharp turn down a narrow alley. The cab's headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating brick walls on both sides.

"Kill the lights," she ordered.

"Are you insane? I can't—"

The gun pressed against the back of his neck, ice-cold metal against his sweat-slicked skin. "I said, kill the lights."

Chiji flicked them off, plunging them into darkness broken only by the faint glow of distant streetlamps. The cab rolled forward at a crawl.

"Now stop."

The cab idled, engine purring like a predator waiting to pounce. She shifted in her seat, peering through the rain-streaked windows. Her phone buzzed again. She answered it this time, speaking in rapid Russian, her voice a harsh whisper. Chiji caught only fragments, tones of anger and urgency.

Before he could argue, the radio crackled to life, cutting through the tension. "...breaking news: police investigating a shooting at a Brooklyn warehouse. Witnesses report a yellow cab fleeing the scene, suspect armed and dangerous..."

Chiji's stomach dropped through the floor. His cab. His license plate. His life. He slammed the volume knob off, but the words hung there, a noose tightening around his neck. "That's me," he whispered, more to himself than her. "They're looking for me."

Her smirk widened, predatory. "Relax, Chizh. You're with me now. That's your shield—or your shovel. Your choice."

"With you?" He barked a laugh, bitter and jagged. "You're the one who got me into this shit! Who are you? What the hell did I just drive away from?"

She shifted, the gun resting casual on her lap now, like it was a handbag instead of a loaded threat. Her eyes locked on his in the rearview, unblinking, arctic ice cutting through his panic. "My name is Svetlana Volkov. That's all you need for now. As for what you drove away from..." She paused, licking a fleck of blood off her lip. "Let's just say I took something that doesn't belong to me. Something my enemies want back."

"Enemies?" His voice climbed, disbelief cracking it. "Those guys with the AKs? That's who's after you?"

"Among others." She shrugged, like it was nothing—like men with assault rifles were just another Tuesday. "Drive."

He obeyed, foot heavy on the gas, the cab lurching through a red light as horns blared. His mind raced faster than the engine. Volkov. The name tugged at something—maybe that radio snippet about Russian gangs, the one he'd ignored. Mafia? Mob? Whatever she was, she'd painted a target on his back, and he was too deep to peel it off.

"Ten grand's not worth this," he muttered, half-hoping she'd hear, half-praying she wouldn't.

She did. "It's not just money, Chizh. It's survival. You're in the game now—play it right, and you walk away rich. Play it wrong..." She trailed off, tapping the gun barrel against her thigh, a soft clink that said everything.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, they pulled up to an abandoned auto shop in Red Hook. The building sagged under years of neglect, windows boarded, graffiti scrawled across its brick facade like colorful scars.

"Stay in the car," Svetlana ordered, sliding the gun into her waistband as she reached for the door handle.

"Like hell," Chiji snapped, killing the engine. "I'm not sitting here like a fucking duck while you do God knows what."

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "You don't want to be part of this."

"I'm already part of this." He gestured to the bullet holes peppering his cab's exterior. "You made sure of that."

For a moment, she studied him, something unreadable flickering in her gaze. Then she nodded once, sharp and decisive. "Fine. But you follow my lead, and you keep your mouth shut."

They approached the building through a side entrance, Svetlana moving with predatory grace despite her injured leg. Inside, the air hung heavy with the ghosts of motor oil and rust. Moonlight filtered through gaps in the boarded windows, casting long shadows across the concrete floor.

"Viktor," she called out, her voice echoing. "Ya zdes'."

A figure emerged from the shadows—tall, broad-shouldered, with a face that looked like it had been carved from granite with a dull blade. His eyes landed on Chiji, narrowing with suspicion.

"Who's this?" he asked in thickly accented English.

"My driver," Svetlana replied smoothly. "He's clean."

Viktor grunted, unconvinced. "Idiota. You bring outsider to drop?"

"Plans changed." She gestured impatiently. "You have it?"

The man disappeared back into the shadows, returning moments later with a metal briefcase. Chiji's throat tightened. Whatever was in that case, it had cost lives tonight—and might cost his too.

Viktor handed over the case, then grabbed Svetlana's wrist, yanking her closer. "Brat looking for you," he growled. "Very angry."

"When isn't he?" She pulled away, her smile all teeth. "Tell him I'm just getting started."

The exchange sent ice water down Chiji's spine. Brat. Brother. This wasn't just about stolen goods or money—this was family business. And from the little he knew about Russian crime families, that was the deadliest kind.

Back in the cab, Svetlana placed the case carefully on the floor by her feet. Her earlier urgency had faded, replaced by a controlled calm that somehow felt more dangerous.

"Where to now?" Chiji asked, hands hovering over the ignition.

"Manhattan. Upper East Side."

He blinked. "You're joking."

"Do I look like I'm joking?" She raised an eyebrow, challenge written in the curve of her mouth.

"You want me to drive you—covered in blood, with bullet holes in my cab and likely an APB out on my plates—to the fucking Upper East Side?"

"Precisely." She leaned forward, close enough that he could smell jasmine and gunpowder on her skin. "And I need you to stop somewhere first. I can't show up looking like this."

That's how Chiji ended up behind a 24-hour laundromat in Williamsburg, engine idling as Svetlana vanished inside. She emerged ten minutes later, blood swapped for a stolen leather jacket and blue jeans that hugged curves he'd been trying not to notice. Her blonde hair remained loose and wild. The feral edge stayed, just wrapped in a new skin.

She slid into the backseat, crossing long legs elegantly. Gone was the feral creature who'd held him at gunpoint. In her place sat someone equally dangerous—a woman who could move between worlds, who wore violence and luxury with the same ease.

"Pull around front," she instructed, applying red lipstick in a compact mirror. "I have another stop to make."

Chiji's laugh was hollow. "You know, most fares just want to go from point A to point B. They don't typically drag me into firefights and crime scenes."

"Most fares don't pay ten thousand for the privilege." She snapped the compact shut, those ice-blue eyes finding his in the mirror. "Besides, I think you're enjoying this more than you want to admit."

"Enjoying?" He shook his head in disbelief. "Lady, you've got a warped sense of fun."

But as he guided the cab back onto the main street, a treacherous part of him wondered if she was right. Twenty-four hours ago, he'd been suffocating under his father's expectations, trapped in a future mapped out for him since birth. Now, his heart pounded with adrenaline, his senses razor-sharp. He felt more alive than he had in years.

And that was the most terrifying part of all.

The streetlights blurred past, neon streaks against the night, and Chiji's pulse hammered in his ears. Survival. That's what it came down to—his dream of proving his family wrong twisting into a nightmare of staying alive. He glanced at her in the mirror—those eyes, that smirk, the blood drying on her arm like war paint. She wasn't just dangerous; she was a storm, and he was caught in the eye.

"Tell me something, Svetlana," he said, breaking the silence that had settled between them. "What happens when your forty-eight hours are up? When you don't need me anymore?"

She studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. "That depends on you, Chizh. On how useful you make yourself."

"I'm not looking for a career change."

"No? What were you looking for when you took this job? Safety? Security?" Her laugh was soft, mocking. "I saw you back there. When those bullets started flying, when everything went to hell—you didn't freeze. You didn't beg. You acted."

He gripped the wheel tighter, knuckles whitening. "I didn't have a choice."

"We always have choices. You chose to drive. You chose to stay. You chose the money." She leaned forward, her breath warm against his ear. "So what does that make you, Chijioke? A victim? Or an accomplice?"

The question hung between them, unanswered. In the distance, Manhattan's skyline glittered like a thousand broken promises. Chiji swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his decisions—bad or otherwise—settling on his shoulders.

"Forty-eight hours," he said, voice steadying, a decision locking in. "Then I'm out. Money or not."

She tilted her head, studying him like a cat with a new toy. "Good. I like a man who knows his limits." She leaned back, gun still in hand, legs stretching across the seat with that casual confidence that made his skin crawl—and burn. "Turn left up here. We've got a stop to make."

"Where?" He hated how small the question sounded, how it handed her more control.

"You'll see." Her smile was a razor's edge, promising both danger and something else—something that made his pulse quicken for reasons that had nothing to do with fear. "Keep those hands on the wheel, Chizh. You're doing fine—for now."

The cab roared down a shadowed street, the city swallowing them deeper. Chiji gripped the wheel tighter, the weight of her gaze heavier than the gun. Forty-eight hours. Ten thousand dollars. A name—Svetlana Volkov—that promised hell. He was in, whether he liked it or not, and the road ahead was a one-way ticket to chaos.

Bad decision #3? Maybe. But who was counting anymore?

***
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