THE CAB'S ENGINE HUMMED a low, steady growl as Chiji navigated Manhattan's Upper East Side, the rain-slicked streets reflecting the glow of million-dollar brownstones and luxury sedans.

Svetlana sat in the backseat, transformed—black leather jacket, tight jeans, red lipstick sharp as a blade. The blood and chaos of Brooklyn felt like a fever dream, but the bullet holes in his cab's frame and the metal briefcase at her feet kept the nightmare real.

"Where exactly are we going?" Chiji's voice was tight, his grip on the wheel tighter. The laundromat stop in Williamsburg had been surreal—watching her stroll out like a runway queen while he sat in a shot-up cab, rain masking the evidence of their escape. Now, driving her to this ritzy zip code felt like delivering a wolf to a sheep pen.

"East 72nd," she said, her tone clipped, eyes scanning the street. "There's a garage entrance—look for the black gate."

He snorted. "What, you live here? Some mafia princess penthouse?"

Her laugh was sharp, cutting through the cab's stale air. "Don't be stupid, Chizh. This is business." She leaned forward. "You think I'd bring you to my home? I'm not that reckless."

"Reckless?" Chiji barked a laugh, checking his rearview mirror for the hundredth time. "Lady, you practically painted a target on my back tonight. If that's not reckless—"

"That's survival," she interrupted, her voice dropping to a dangerous purr. "And you'd do well to remember the difference." Her eyes locked on something outside the window. "Pull over there—now."

He obeyed, easing the cab into a shadowed alley beside a sleek, modern building. A black iron gate loomed ahead, half-hidden by ivy. Svetlana leaned forward, her jasmine scent brushing his senses as she punched a code into a keypad on her phone. The gate slid open with a soft hiss, revealing a ramp downward. Underground. Hidden.

"Drive in," she ordered.

Chiji hesitated, the weight of the night pressing down—gunshots, blood, that radio report branding him a fugitive. "What's down there? Another shootout? Because I'm not—"

"Move." Her voice was steel, the gun flashing in her hand again, not aimed but present. A reminder.

"You know, that thing's getting old real fast," he muttered, but guided the cab down the ramp anyway. The darkness swallowed them whole, the garage door closing behind them with a finality that made his stomach clench. "You ever try asking nicely?"

"Nice doesn't keep you alive in my world," she replied, but there was something different in her tone—something almost like amusement.

The garage was small, concrete, stark—two other cars parked, a beat-up sedan and a gleaming Aston Martin. A safehouse, he realized, not some billionaire's lair. The gate clanged shut behind them, locking him in deeper.

"Out," Svetlana said, grabbing the briefcase and stepping onto the concrete. Her heels clicked, a stark contrast to her barefoot sprint hours ago. Chiji killed the engine and followed, every instinct screaming to bolt—but where? Back to the cops? The AK-47 goons? He was a ghost now, tethered to her storm.

She led him to a steel door, punched another code, and ushered him inside. The room was sparse—a cot, a table, a sink, a single bulb swinging overhead. It stank of damp concrete and stale cigarettes, a far cry from her Upper East Side polish. She dropped the briefcase on the table and rummaged through a duffel in the corner, pulling out a bottle of vodka and a sewing kit.

"What the hell is this place?" Chiji asked, arms crossed, leaning against the wall to hide his shaking hands.

"Somewhere safe," she muttered, unscrewing the vodka bottle. With a wince, she shrugged off her leather jacket, her movements stiff with pain. Tilting the bottle, she poured the alcohol over the gash on her arm, the liquid hissing against torn flesh. She didn't so much as flinch. With blood-streaked fingers, she threaded a needle and began stitching herself up—steady, unshaken. The eerie calm in her movements made it clear—this wasn't the first time.

Chiji watched her work, fascinated despite himself. Her hands were steady, elegant even as she pushed the needle through her own skin. "You've done this before."

"Occupational hazard." She tied off a stitch, her gaze flicking up to meet his. "In my family, you learn to handle your own wounds. Showing pain is weakness."

"And weakness gets you killed?" he guessed.

The corner of her mouth curved up. "You're learning."

He stared, stomach twisting. "Safe for who? You just dragged me across the city with a target on my back. That radio—my cab's on every cop's radar now."

She glanced up, mid-stitch, her arctic eyes glinting under the bulb. "Your cab's a problem, yes. But you're still breathing. That's more than most get tonight."

"Most?" He stepped closer, anger flaring over fear. "What did you do back there? Who's dead because of you?"

She tied off the stitch, snipped the thread with her teeth, and took a swig of vodka straight from the bottle. Then she met his gaze, steady, unflinching. "I stole something from my father. Dmitry Volkov. You've heard the name?"

Chiji froze. Volkov. That radio snippet—Russian gangs—clicked into place. "Bratva," he whispered, the word tasting like ash. "You're mafia."

"Very good, Chizh." She smirked, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Dmitry runs the east coast. Drugs, guns, girls—name it, he owns it. And I took his ledger. Every deal, every dirty secret, written in his own code. It's in that case—" She nodded at the briefcase. "—and it's my ticket out."

"Out?" His laugh was hollow. "You think he'll just let you walk away? With that?"

"He won't have a choice if I play it right." She set the vodka down, her fingers tracing the briefcase's edge. "But he'll kill to get it back. And anyone tied to it."

The air thickened, her words sinking in. "Anyone tied to it," he repeated, voice low. "Like me."

Her silence was answer enough. She wiped her hands on a rag, blood smearing pink across the cloth, and stood, stepping closer. Too close. Her perfume mixed with vodka and blood, a dizzying cocktail. "You're a loose end, Chizh. But you're useful. Smart. You proved that back there—driving like the devil himself."

"So what, I'm your chauffeur till you don't need me?" He straightened, meeting her gaze, inches apart. "Then what? A bullet? A ditch?"

She tilted her head, studying him, lips parting slightly. "That depends on how this goes. Help me, and you walk away rich. Cross me, and..." She shrugged, letting the threat hang.

"Rich and alone?" he challenged in a Nigerian accent. "Or rich and looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life? Because daddy dearest doesn't strike me as the forgiving type."

Something flickered across her face—a ghost of emotion quickly buried. "No one's asking you to join the family, Chizh. I need forty-eight hours. That's it. After that, you take your money and disappear."

"Like you're planning to?"

She turned away, but not before he caught the tightening of her jaw. "Something like that."

His pulse pounded, a war drum in his chest. Help her. Forty-eight hours with a Bratva princess who'd just made him a dead man walking. The ledger—her "ticket out"—was a death sentence for him if Dmitry's men caught up. And they would. Those AKs weren't amateurs.

"Why me?" he asked, voice raw. "You could've picked any driver. Why drag me into this?"

Her smirk faded, just for a heartbeat, something flickering in her eyes—calculation, maybe regret. "I needed someone clean. No record. No ties. Someone who wouldn't sell me out the second things got hot." She stepped back, breaking the tension. "You're a ghost, Chijioke. That's why."

A ghost. The word hit harder than the gun had. His American dream—proving his father wrong, building a life—was ash now, replaced by this: a concrete box, a mafia war, and a woman who'd turned him into a fugitive.

"And what about you?" The question escaped before he could stop it. "What's your endgame here? You steal daddy's book of secrets and then what? Blackmail? Revenge?"

She studied him, something calculating in her gaze. Then, surprisingly, she answered. "Freedom."

"Freedom," he echoed, disbelief coloring the word. "From the Bratva? From your father? People don't just walk away from that life."

"They do if they have leverage." She picked up the vodka bottle, taking another swig before offering it to him. "This ledger isn't just business, Chizh. It's my father's insurance policy. Names, dates, accounts—enough dirt to bring down half the criminal enterprises on the east coast."

Chiji accepted the bottle, their fingers brushing. The vodka burned his throat, liquid courage he desperately needed. "And what's to stop him from putting a bullet in your head the second he sees you?"

"This." She tapped the briefcase. "I've made copies. Digital. Physical. If anything happens to me, they go public." A dangerous smile curved her lips. "Mutually assured destruction."

"That's a hell of a gamble."

"Life's a gamble." She shrugged, the movement drawing his attention to the curve of her neck, the shadow of her collarbone beneath her silk blouse. "Some of us just play for higher stakes."

Before he could respond, her phone buzzed again. She glanced at it, jaw tightening, and muttered something in Russian—sharp, angry. Then she headed for a back door he hadn't noticed.

"Where are you going?" he snapped, following her.

"To make a call. Stay here." She paused, hand on the knob, and looked back. "Don't touch the case, Chizh. Curiosity's a killer."

The door slammed shut behind her, leaving him alone with the hum of the bulb and the weight of her words. He stared at the briefcase, its dull metal glinting like a dare. Dmitry Volkov's secrets. Her ticket out. His death warrant.

Chiji paced the small room, the walls closing in with each step. Ten minutes passed. Twenty. His mind raced through scenarios, each one worse than the last. What if she didn't come back? What if this was a trap? What if Dmitry's men found them?

The sound of the door opening made him spin around, half-expecting to see armed Russians. Instead, Svetlana slipped back in, her face paler than before, eyes hard as diamonds.

"We have a problem," she said, voice tight.

"Just one?" His laugh was bitter. "Add it to the list."

She ignored his sarcasm. "My brother knows I took the ledger. He's cut a deal with our father—bring me in, alive, and he takes over the family business." She set the briefcase on the table with a heavy thud. "Alexei never wanted me to leave."

"Leave what?" Chiji frowned. "The family? The business?"

Something dark passed over her features. "Him."

The implication hung in the air, thick and uncomfortable. Chiji swallowed hard. "Your brother and you..."

"It's complicated," she said, the words clipped. "In families like mine, loyalty takes... many forms."

"Jesus." He ran a hand over his face. "That's fucked up."

"That's power," she corrected, her voice hardening. "And Alexei's never been good at sharing it."

She sank onto the cot, suddenly looking exhausted. The transformation was jarring—the dangerous mafia princess giving way to something almost human. For a moment, Chiji saw through the façade to the woman beneath: tired, hunted, desperate.

"So your brother's after us too?" he asked.

"Not us. Me." She looked up at him, those ice-blue eyes suddenly intense. "He doesn't know about you yet. You could still walk away."

Chiji laughed, the sound hollow in the concrete room. "Walk away to what? My cab's a crime scene. My face is probably plastered on every NYPD bulletin by now. I'm in this, whether I like it or not."

"There are ways out." She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "I have contacts. People who could get you new papers, a fresh start. You could disappear."

"For ten grand?" He raised an eyebrow. "That's barely enough to start over in this city, let alone vanish."

Something that might have been respect flickered in her gaze. "Smart boy. You're right—it would cost more. But I could arrange it."

"In exchange for what?" he countered, recognizing a deal when he heard one. "What do you want from me, Svetlana?"

She rose in a fluid motion, crossing the space between them until they were toe to toe. Up close, he could see the faint scar above her eyebrow, the flutter of her pulse at her throat. "I need someone I can trust, Chiji. Just for the next forty-eight hours."

"Trust?" He scoffed. "You've had a gun on me since we met."

"And yet, here you are." Her hand came up, fingers tracing the line of his jaw with surprising gentleness. "Still alive. Still helping. Why is that?"

His breath caught, body tense under her touch. "Maybe I don't have a choice."

"We always have choices." Her voice was soft, almost hypnotic. "You chose to keep driving. You chose to follow me in here. Why?"

The truth hovered on his tongue—that he was terrified, fascinated, more alive than dodging Lagos gangs as a kid, running from knives with nothing but wits. That something in him recognized something in her: the desperation to escape a predetermined fate.

Instead, he stepped back, breaking the contact. "Ten grand's a lot of money."

She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Of course. It's always about the money." She turned away, moving back to the briefcase. "Rest while you can, Chizh. Tomorrow, we move."

"Move where?"

"To see an old friend." She sat on the cot, back against the wall, gun resting casually on her lap. Her eyes flicked to his, calculating. "Someone who can help us authenticate these files."

"And then?"

"Then we make the trade." Her smile turned predatory. "My freedom for my father's secrets."

Outside, rain drummed against the concrete, a faint echo through the walls. A distant siren wailed, cutting through the rain's drum—a reminder the NYPD wasn't far behind.

Chiji slid down against the opposite wall, knees up, hands raking through his hair. Forty-eight hours. Ten grand. A ledger that could bury an empire—or him. And he was in deeper than he'd ever imagined, and Svetlana Volkov wasn't just danger—she was a meat grinder, chewing up everything in her path.

And he was smack in the middle, with no way out but through.

"I could use that drink now," he muttered.

She tossed him the vodka bottle, and he caught it. "To bad decisions," she said, a hint of genuine amusement in her voice.

Chiji took a long pull, the alcohol burning a path to his empty stomach. "To staying alive," he countered.

Her laugh was softer this time, almost real. "In my world, Chizh, those are often the same thing."

As the night deepened, they sat in uneasy silence, two strangers bound by circumstance and danger. The single bulb swung gently overhead, casting shifting shadows across her face—now hard, now soft, now something in between. Chiji couldn't tell which version was real: the ruthless Bratva princess or the woman seeking freedom.

Maybe both. Maybe neither.

One thing was certain: by morning, his life would never be the same.

***
Please vote and drop a commentッ