THE SAFEHOUSE BULB BUZZED overhead, casting jagged shadows across the concrete as Chiji paced, the vodka bottle still clutched in his hand.

Svetlana's words—"My brother knows," "authenticate the files"—looped in his head like a broken radio signal.

Alexei.

Dmitry.

A ledger that could sink empires or bury him. Forty-eight hours stretched ahead, a tightrope over a pit of bullets and betrayal, and he was done dangling.

She sat on the cot, gun resting on her thigh like an extension of herself, scrolling her phone with that icy calm that made his skin crawl. The blue light illuminated the sharp angles of her face—high Slavic cheekbones, a mouth crafted for cruelty and seduction in equal measure. The vodka's burn lingered in his throat, fueling a spark of rebellion he couldn't snuff out. Enough. He wasn't her damn puppet.

"More bad news?" he asked, watching her face for any tell, any crack in that porcelain mask.

Svetlana's lips thinned. "Nothing you need to worry about, Chizh."

"Everything about tonight seems like something I should worry about,"

She ignored him, tapping away at her phone with elegant fingers tipped in blood-red polish. The same color as the stain on his upholstery that he'd never get out. The same color as what awaited him if he stayed in her orbit.

Chiji stopped pacing, planting himself in front of her, the bottle thudding onto the table beside the briefcase. "I'm out."

Svetlana's eyes flicked up, arctic blue and unreadable. "Out?" Her lips twitched, a smirk threatening to break. "You think it's that easy, Chizh?"

"Don't call me that." He stepped closer, voice low, steady—his Nigerian accent thickening with anger. "You don't get to rename me like some stray you picked up. I'm not your driver, your ghost, or your loose end. I'm done."

She set the phone down, slow and deliberate, her gaze locking on his. "Done," she echoed, tasting the word. Then she stood, fluid as a panther, closing the gap until they were inches apart. The gun stayed on the cot, but her presence was a weapon all its own—jasmine, vodka, danger radiating off her in waves that crashed against his resolve. "And where will you go, Chijioke? Back to your cab? The cops?" She leaned in, her breath hot against his ear. "My father's men will find you before sunrise."

"Let them." He held her stare, chin up, refusing to flinch under that glacier-blue scrutiny. "I'd rather take my chances out there than sit here waiting for you to decide if I'm 'useful' enough to live."

Her smirk broke free, sharp and wicked. "Brave words. Stupid, but brave." She reached for the gun, but Chiji moved faster—grabbing her wrist, pinning it to the cot. Her breath hitched, eyes widening for a split second before narrowing into slits. Something electric passed between them, something dangerous.

"Get off me," she hissed, voice lethal, but she didn't pull away. The pulse beneath his fingers raced, betraying the calm on her face.

"Not till you listen." His grip tightened, heart hammering against his ribs—he'd crossed a line, and there was no going back. "You dragged me into this. You made me a target. I get no questions, no cops—fine. But I'm not your dog on a leash. You want my help? Tell me the plan. All of it."

She twisted, testing his hold, but he didn't budge. Her free hand darted up, fingers curling around his throat—not squeezing, just resting there, a warning. Nails like talons against his skin. "You don't make demands, Chizh."

"Then shoot me." He leaned into her grip, daring her. "Go on. End it. Because I'm not moving till you talk."

The air crackled, thick with adrenaline and something darker. Her nails dug into his skin, her breath hot against his face. For a heartbeat, he thought she might—those arctic eyes burned with a fury he hadn't seen before. Then, impossibly, she laughed—low, throaty, a sound that sent a shiver down his spine and heat pooling in his belly.

"Good boy's got teeth," she murmured, her grip on his throat easing into a slow, almost mocking caress before she wrenched her wrist free. "I was beginning to wonder if you had any fight left in you at all."

The moment he thought she was retreating, she struck—an elbow to his gut, then a sharp twist of her hips, sending a brutal kick straight to his jaw. The move was pure poetry, executed with lethal precision that spoke of years of training.

Chijioke hit the ground hard, groaning as he clutched his face. His vision blurred for a second, pain radiating through his skull like a lightning storm. Blood filled his mouth—blood from where he'd bitten his tongue. He spat it onto the concrete, watching the red stain spread.

Above him, Svetlana stood like a queen surveying her conquered territory. She tilted her head, eyes dark with something unreadable. "Don't ever touch me again." Her voice was smooth, lethal. "I keep you alive. I fucking keep you alive. You don't call the shots."

Chijioke glared up at her, defiant even from the floor, his fingers pressing into his aching jaw. But instead of pure fury in her gaze, there was something else—curiosity, amusement, and beneath it all, a grudging respect.

"Fuck you," he muttered, the words thick around his swelling lip.

She laughed, the sound bouncing off the concrete walls. "Now you're sounding like a real player, Chizh." She exhaled, rolling her shoulders back. "Fine. You want the plan? You've earned that much." She stepped over him, lowering herself into a chair with a smirk. "Sit."

He didn't sit. He climbed to his feet, muscles protesting, but stayed a reasonable distance away from her, leaning against the wall. Pride was all he had left.

She rolled her eyes, grabbing the vodka and taking a swig before holding it out. "Here. For the pain."

When he made no move to come closer, she laughed and set it on the table. "Suit yourself. I don't bite." Her smile was all teeth and promises. "Until I'm provoked."

"I've seen what happens when you're provoked," he said, touching his jaw gingerly. "I'll pass."

"Smart man," she replied, almost approving. "Most don't learn so quickly."

She sighed, crossing those long legs encased in leather, the gun never far from her reach. "My 'old friend' is a forger," she said, leaning against the table, the briefcase glinting beside her like buried treasure. "Best in the city. Tomorrow, we take the ledger to him—authenticate it, make sure it's real. Then we use it to trade with a buyer. Someone who hates Dmitry enough to pay for his ruin—and my freedom."

"Who?" Chiji found his voice. "Who's the buyer?"

She hesitated, lips pursing as she studied him. "You don't need that yet. Point is, they're out of state. We get the ledger verified, ditch your cab, and move south. Forty-eight hours, Chizh—then you're free, cash in hand."

"Ditch the cab?" He frowned, the words sinking in like stones in a cold lake. "That's my life—my job. You're asking me to torch everything."

"It's already torched." Her tone hardened, brooking no argument. "You heard the radio. That cab's a neon sign—'Here's your fugitive.' We'll get you a new one. Clean plates. Untraceable."

He shook his head, bitterness rising like bile. "And what about Alexei? Your brother who wants you back? He's just gonna let us waltz south?"

Her jaw tightened, a flicker of unease breaking her calm. For the first time, he saw vulnerability—a hairline crack in her armor. "Alexei's a problem," she admitted, fingers toying with the gun's safety. "He's got men—good ones. They're probably already sniffing around Brooklyn. That's why we're here, not some dive in Queens."

"How long till they find us?" he shot back, the reality of his situation crashing down anew. "Because I'm not liking my odds in a concrete box when they do."

"They won't." She straightened, confidence snapping back like a rubber band. "This place is off the grid—Dmitry doesn't know it exists. Neither does Alexei. We're ghosts here."

"Ghosts," he muttered, the word tasting sour on his bloodied lip. "That's what you keep calling me. Like I don't exist outside your mess."

"You didn't," she said, blunt as a blade. "Not to them. Not till tonight. Now you're on the board—deal with it."

"What am I to you, then?" he challenged, voice barely above a whisper. "A pawn? A knight? The expendable rook?"

Her eyes darkened, something flickering behind them that he couldn't name. "You're alive," she replied simply. "Most who cross paths with the Bratva don't stay that way for long."

Before he could fire back, a muffled thud echoed from above—the garage ramp. Then another. Footsteps. Heavy. Deliberate. The unmistakable sound of men trying to move quietly and failing.

Svetlana's head snapped up, hand darting for the gun with instinctive grace. "Get down," she whispered, voice razor-thin.

Chiji dropped behind the table, heart slamming against his ribs. She killed the bulb with a flick of a switch, plunging them into darkness so complete it felt like being buried. The only sound was their breathing—his ragged, hers steady as a metronome—and the creak of the steel door as someone tested it.

"Friends of yours?" he hissed, crouched beside her in the dark, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her body.

"Not mine," she muttered, cocking the gun with a click that seemed to echo in the silence. "Stay quiet."

The door rattled harder, a low voice barking in Russian—harsh, urgent. Chiji didn't catch the words, but the tone said enough: trouble. Svetlana pressed against him, her shoulder warm through the leather jacket, her gun raised. He could feel her pulse—fast, alive, a mirror to his own.

"Alexei?" he breathed, barely audible, the name a prayer and a curse.

"Worse," she replied, her whisper cold as a Siberian winter. "Dmitry's cleaners. They don't ask questions—they erase."

The door groaned, metal straining against the lock. Someone cursed, then a heavier impact—they were trying to break through. Chiji's mind raced—trapped, no exit, no weapon but his fists. He'd pushed back, demanded answers, and now the Bratva was knocking. Forty-eight hours? He'd be lucky to survive forty-eight minutes.

"How many?" he asked, his mouth dry as sand.

"Three, maybe four," she replied, calculating. "Good news—they're expecting just me. Bad news—they won't hesitate to put a bullet in anyone they find."

Her free hand found his in the dark, squeezing once—not comfort, but communication. A silent question: Ready?

Svetlana's eyes met his in the dark, glinting like a predator's. "Ready to run, Chizh?"

He nodded, adrenaline drowning his fear. "Only if you beg first."

Her laugh was a ghost of a sound, cut off as the door buckled inward, and hell came crashing through.

"Behind me," she whispered, her breath warm against his ear. "When I move, you follow. No hesitation."

"What's the plan?" he demanded, pulse thundering in his ears.

She grinned, teeth flashing white in the darkness. "Survival, Chijioke. Stay alive long enough to see sunrise."

The door splintered with a crash of metal, and silhouettes filled the frame—three men, hulking shadows against the dim light filtering down the stairwell. Guns raised. Faces grim as death itself.

Svetlana's fingers tightened around his wrist, a silent countdown. Three. Two. One.

"Ready or not," she breathed.

***
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