THE MUSTANG'S GROWL FADED as Chiji pulled into the lot of a rundown motel off Jerome Avenue, its neon Vacancy sign buzzing like a dying insect.

The South Bronx rain had eased to a drizzle, misting the windshield, but the night felt heavy—Dmitry's cleaners, Alexei's men, the cops, all shadows hunting them. Svetlana checked her gun, the ledger still tucked inside her jacket, her frost-sharp gaze flicking to the motel's sagging facade.

"This is it?" Chiji asked, voice rough with exhaustion. His jaw throbbed from her kick, his palm itched from the glass cut.

"Best we've got," she replied, stepping out. Her leather jacket gleamed wet under the motel's flickering lights, her silhouette sharp against the haze. "Cheap. Cash only. No cameras." She paused, scanning the desolate parking lot. "And if someone finds us here, there's a back exit through the bathroom window."

"You've stayed in places like this before," Chiji observed, not a question.

Her lips curved into a humorless smile. "When you're running from the bratva, you learn to appreciate the shitholes of America."

He followed, locking the Mustang, the crowbar from its trunk tucked into his belt—a poor man's weapon, but better than nothing. The air smelled of stale cigarettes and wet asphalt, the motel's sign casting a sickly green glow over cracked pavement. A distant siren wailed, then faded, the city's constant reminder that danger was never far.

"Keep your head down," she murmured as they approached the office. "The clerk won't remember us if he never sees our faces."

Chiji nodded, pulling his hood up. The rain beaded on his lashes, blurring the world into smears of neon and shadow. His fingers brushed against hers as they walked—accidental, fleeting—but the contact sent electricity up his arm. She didn't pull away, and that small mercy felt like victory.

They crossed the lot, her boots silent, his sneakers squeaking faintly. The office door jingled as they entered, revealing a cramped space that reeked of weed and instant ramen. A bored clerk with bloodshot eyes barely looked up from his phone.

"Room," Svetlana said, her accent deliberately thickened. She slipped a wad of hundreds across the counter. "One night. No questions."

The clerk's gaze flickered to the money, then to her face, then back to his phone. "Whatever, lady. ID?"

"Cash only means no ID," she replied, sliding another hundred toward him. "Unless that's a problem?"

The clerk sighed, pocketing the bills with practiced indifference. "Room 12. Check-out's at eleven. Toilet's temperamental—jiggle the handle. Walls are thin, so keep it down."

He slid a key across the counter—an actual metal key, not a card, attached to a plastic fob yellowed with age. Svetlana snatched it up, and Chiji caught a glimpse of her palm—a thin scar running across it, old and white against her skin. Another story she hadn't told him.

Room 12 was a dive—peeling wallpaper, a bed with a stained quilt, a single bulb flickering like it was on its last breath. The carpet squished beneath their feet, damp from some ancient leak that had never been fixed. The window overlooked the lot, curtains moth-eaten but thick enough to hide them. A radiator clanked in the corner, hissing steam that smelled faintly of rust.

"Home sweet home," Chiji muttered, checking the locks—flimsy, breakable, but better than nothing. "We should barricade the door."

Svetlana dropped her jacket on a chair, the ledger thudding beside her gun. "Already ahead of you." She dragged the room's only chair under the doorknob, then scanned the bathroom. "Window's clear. Small, but we can fit through if we need to."

She returned to the main room, her movements precise, calculated.

Without warning, she peeled off her blouse in one fluid motion—revealing a black bra and skin pale as moonlight, streaked with dried blood from her stitched-up gash. A tattoo curled around her ribs—Cyrillic letters Chiji couldn't read, disappearing beneath the fabric of her bra.

He froze, heat slamming into him like a truck. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Changing," she said, casual as if she weren't half-naked in front of him. She grabbed a fresh shirt from her bag—a tight, dark thing—and glanced over her shoulder, catching his stare. "Problem, Chijioke?"

He turned away, jaw tight, blood roaring in his ears. "Warn a guy next time."

Her laugh was low, wicked. "Where's the fun in that?" She stepped closer, the shirt still in her hand, her scent—jasmine, sweat, gunpowder—flooding his senses. "You're blushing. Cute."

"Fuck off," he muttered, but his voice betrayed him—rough, unsteady. He faced her, defiant, and regretted it instantly. She was too close, her bra straps cutting dark lines against her skin, her lips parted like an invitation he didn't trust himself to refuse.

"You don't mean that," she purred, dropping the shirt. She moved in, slow, deliberate, her fingers brushing his chest through his damp shirt—five points of fire that burned through his resolve. "I can tell you want me."

"Stop." He caught her wrist, his grip firm, but his pulse hammered—fear, desire, a line blurring fast. Her eyes glinted, arctic and alive, daring him to push back or pull closer. Her skin was warm beneath his fingers, pulse fluttering like a trapped bird.

"Why?" She leaned in, lips hovering over his ear, her breath hot against his skin. "Scared you'll like it?" She pressed herself against him, her body a weapon—soft curves, hard intent—and shoved him back. He stumbled, hitting the bed, and she followed, straddling him in one fluid motion.

"Svetlana—" His hands landed on her hips, instinct overriding sense, gripping her like she might vanish. She was all heat and weight, her thighs clamping his, her blood-streaked arm a stark reminder of the night's violence. She pinned his wrists above his head, her strength surprising, her smirk a blade's edge.

"Good boys wait," she whispered, her lips brushing his—not a kiss, a tease, close enough to taste her mint and danger. She held there, breath mingling, her chest rising against his, then pulled back, leaving him pinned, breathless, aching.

"Get off," he growled, bucking under her, but it only pressed her closer, her laugh vibrating through him.

"Make me." Her voice was a challenge, her grip tightening, nails digging into his wrists. She rocked once—deliberate, cruel—and his body betrayed him, a sharp jolt of need he couldn't hide. "There it is," she whispered, her eyes darkening. "That's what I wanted to feel."

Something snapped in him—restraint, perhaps, or sanity. "Enough games," he growled.

He twisted, flipping her under him in a burst of strength, pinning her wrists now—roles reversed, power flipped. Her eyes widened, surprise flashing before that smirk returned, darker, hungrier. "There's the fight," she murmured, her legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him flush against her.

"Stop playing," he said, voice hoarse, every nerve screaming to close the gap. Her shirtless skin burned against his wet t-shirt, her pulse racing under his thumbs—a mirror to his own. The tattoo on her ribs seemed to move with her quick breaths, the Cyrillic letters dancing in the dim light.

"Who's playing?" She arched up, lips grazing his jaw, her breath a shiver down his spine. "You want this. I feel it."

He did—God help him, he did—but her games twisted it into something dangerous. She was a trap wrapped in skin and sin, and he was falling willingly.

"What's the matter, Chijioke?" she taunted, her voice a velvet caress. "Afraid of me? Or afraid of yourself?"

"Both," he admitted, the word escaping before he could stop it.

Something shifted in her eyes—a flicker of vulnerability quickly masked. "Smart man," she whispered, but the taunt had lost its edge.

"You're a fucking tease," he spat, shoving off her, rolling to the bed's edge. His chest heaved, his hands shaking as he raked them through his hair. The room felt too small, the air too thick with her scent.

She sat up, unbothered, grabbing the shirt and slipping it on—slow, deliberate, like she knew he couldn't look away. "And you're still here," she said, voice soft but cutting. "Why's that, Chijioke?"

The question hung between them, heavier than the humid air.

"Maybe I'm as crazy as you are," he finally said, staring at the grimy ceiling.

"Or maybe," she said, leaning back against the headboard, "you're tired of being the good boy. The one who plays by the rules, who drives the cars, who keeps his head down." She reached for her gun, checking it with practiced ease. "Maybe you want to be the one who makes the rules for once."

Her words hit too close to home, piercing armor he hadn't realized was so thin. The safe life he'd built—driving cabs, saving money, planning a future far from the chaos of his past—seemed hollow now, a pale shadow compared to tonight's vibrancy.

"You don't know me," he said, but the defense sounded weak even to his own ears.

"I know enough." She twirled the gun once before setting it back beside the ledger.

He didn't answer, couldn't—his mind a tangle of want and warning. The Lagos rush—dodging gangs, Lekki-Epe car races, outsmarting death—paled next to this: her, a storm he couldn't outrun, a thrill he couldn't shake. She'd kicked him, saved him, dragged him into hell, and now this—pushing him to the edge, dangling release she wouldn't give.

"What's more in the ledger?" he asked suddenly, changing course. "What's worth dying for?"

Her expression hardened, the playfulness vanishing. "Names. Dates. Records of every girl Dmitry trafficked through his clubs. Every cop he paid. Every politician who looked the other way." Her fingers curled into fists. "Every man who bought a girl too young to fight back."

The raw hatred in her voice told a story she hadn't shared—one carved deep, personal, visceral.

"Wow," Chiji scoffed. "To think Dmitry Volkov's own daughter would give a damn about random girls. You actually have a conscience for a Bratva princess."

Her laughter was sharp, brittle—like glass shattering in a silent room. "You know nothing."

"No?" He met her gaze, unflinching. "Then tell me—"

"My father didn't give a damn," she snapped, voice tight with something deeper than anger. "Sure, I'm privileged, but my family is sick. You know that by now. Incestuous deals, daughters served up like hors d'oeuvres to his billionaire friends." She exhaled sharply, like the words burned on the way out. "Anya. Seventeen. He promised her modeling contracts, American dreams. By the time I found her..." She trailed off, but the silence finished the story.

Chiji clenched his jaw. "Jesus."

"The bastard mourned her," she said, voice hollow. "Like he hadn't sold her off himself."

A beat of silence. Then, quietly, "I'm sorry." The words felt pathetic in the face of her loss.

Her eyes flashed as she stood, pacing the small room like a caged tiger. "I don't want your pity." Her movements were restless, coiled with something violent. "I want justice. That ledger puts Dmitry away forever. It frees the girls still trapped. It burns his empire to the ground."

"And gets you killed," Chiji said.

She shrugged. "Maybe." But the look in her eyes wasn't resigned—it was fire. "But I'll take as many of them with me as I can."

And just like that, the game between them shifted. She wasn't just playing him. She wasn't just seducing him for some agenda. This was something deeper. Her body was a weapon, yes—but her real war was with the man who made her this way.

Svetlana sat on the bed, then stretched out with the ease of someone who had nothing left to lose. One arm rested behind her head, the other near her gun. Her expression was unreadable again. The fire banked. The mask back in place.

"Rest," she said, all business, like she hadn't just set his world on fire. "I'll keep watch."

He glared at her, sprawled there—lethal, beautiful, untouchable. "You're insane."

"You like it," she shot back, a faint smile playing on her lips. "Sleep, Chijioke. Tomorrow's worse."

"How worse?" he asked, settling against the wall, close enough to the door to hear if anyone approached.

"The forger we're meeting—Pavel—he's Alexei's cousin." She said it casually, like mentioning the weather instead of a potential death trap.

"Jesus Christ," Chiji muttered. "You're taking us straight to them?"

"Pavel hates Alexei more than I do. Family feud. He'll help us, but we'll need to be careful. Alexei will have men watching his shop."

"And your brilliant plan?"

She smiled, teeth gleaming in the dim light. "We walk in the front door. Sometimes the most obvious move is the one they don't expect."

"Or the one that gets us killed fastest," he countered.

Her laugh was soft, almost genuine. "Where's your sense of adventure?"

"Back in Manhattan with my sanity."

She rolled onto her side, watching him with those ice-blue eyes that seemed to see too much. "You should shower," she said, nodding toward the bathroom. "You're covered in blood and glass."

He was—his clothes stiff with dried sweat and blood, his skin gritty with city grime. The thought of hot water was tempting, even in this dump of a motel.

"Fine," he conceded, pushing himself up. "But I'm taking this with me." He grabbed the crowbar, unwilling to be weaponless even for a shower.

Her smile widened. "Paranoid. I approve."

The bathroom was as grim as expected—cracked tiles, a rust-stained tub, a mirror speckled with age. But the water ran hot, and for a moment, Chiji let himself forget—about the ledger, about Dmitry's men, about Svetlana and her dangerous games. He scrubbed away the night's evidence, watching red swirl down the drain, and tried not to think about whose blood it might be.

When he emerged, towel wrapped around his waist, Svetlana was cleaning her gun with methodical precision. She glanced up, her gaze sliding over his bare chest, lingering on the scar that curved across his abdomen—a souvenir from Lagos he rarely showed.

"Knife?" she asked, nodding toward the scar.

"Machete," he corrected. "Gang territory dispute. I was in the wrong place."

She nodded, appreciative. "You survived."

"Barely."

She set the gun down and stretched, her shirt riding up to reveal a slice of pale skin. "My turn," she said, grabbing her bag. "Don't peek."

"Wouldn't dream of it," he lied, and they both knew it.

While she showered, Chiji dressed in the cleanest clothes he had left, checked the windows, the door, the escape routes—habits from a life he'd thought he'd left behind. The ledger sat on the nightstand, innocuous but deadly. He could grab it, run, disappear—let Svetlana handle her own mess. But the thought felt hollow, a coward's exit from a game he'd chosen to play.

When she returned, hair wet and slicked back, she found him sitting on the bed, staring at the ledger.

"Thinking of running?" she asked, voice casual but body tense.

"Thinking it would be smarter," he admitted. "But I won't."

She relaxed slightly, sitting beside him. "Why not?"

He met her gaze, steady now, decision made. "Because I want to see this through. Because those girls deserve justice. Because you can't do this alone, even if you think you can."

Something softened in her face—not gratitude, exactly, but recognition. She reached out, fingers tracing the line of his jaw where her kick had left a bruise. "I underestimated you, Chijioke."

"Everyone does," he said, catching her hand. This time, he didn't let go. "That's how I survive."

Her lips curved, and for once, the smile reached her eyes. "We make a good team."

"We'll see," he replied, but he didn't release her hand, and she didn't pull away.

He slumped against the wall, the crowbar within reach, exhaustion clawing at him. The motel hummed—rain, distant traffic, his own pounding heart. She watched him, eyes glinting in the dim light, a predator at rest but never dormant. Forty-eight hours stretched ahead, a countdown of bullets and betrayals—and now this, her game sinking claws into him deeper than he'd admit.

"Sleep," she said again, softer this time. "I'll wake you in four hours."

Sleep came hard, fractured—her scent lingering, her weight an echo on his skin. In his dreams, they ran through Lagos streets, bullets whizzing past, her hand in his, both of them laughing in the face of death. He was in too deep, and she knew it.

But for the first time since this chaos began, Chiji wasn't sure he wanted out.

***
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