After the call, Anton buried himself in business. The only language he trusted.
But even with the sharp edges of strategy and blood around him, Nastya lingered—like a thorn in the back of his mind.
Odessa was becoming a problem.
A rival crew—small-time, but reckless—started skimming off shipments. An accountant who owed Anton money was suddenly playing hard to find. A trail of stolen product was traced to a freight line just outside the city.
Anton flew down with two men, stayed quiet, watched.
In a warehouse outside Mykolaiv, he walked calmly past crates of stolen goods and stopped in front of the man in charge.
No yelling. No show of force.
Just a whisper.
"I don't mind losing product."
"But I don't tolerate weakness."
The man didn't speak again. Not after that night.
Deals were resecured. Money began to flow again.
But through it all, Anton's focus frayed. It wasn't weakness. It wasn't distraction.
It was memory.
Between calls, he found himself staring out of windows.
Wondering if she was still working double shifts.
If her mother was getting worse.
If she was still too proud to ask for help.
He didn't want her to beg.
He wanted her to see.
To understand that survival sometimes meant surrendering pride—not to him, but to reality.
And part of him wanted to know if she'd come back with fire still in her eyes—or fear.
He hadn't touched his vodka in days.
He called off the quiet watch on her neighborhood.
Refused to ask if she was still at the bar.
But the information still came—whispers, unasked for.
Late rent. Hospital visits. Her little sister missing school.
Anton didn't act. But he listened.
Not because he was waiting for her to fail.
But because he didn't want her to disappear.
He could crush rivals, burn routes clean through Eastern Europe, dismantle alliances with a word.
But he didn't know what to do with a girl who looked at him like she still saw the man behind the monster.
And worse: he didn't know what it meant that he wanted her to keep seeing him that way.
____________________________
It was late afternoon, the city a grim blur of sleet and streetlights. Nastya stood inside the narrow pharmacy near her neighborhood—damp coat dripping, scarf half-wet from the walk.
Her hands trembled slightly as she held the prescription:
Painkillers. Something to ease her mother's nights.
The pharmacist gave her the number, and it crushed her. She was short. Again.
She turned, heart racing, throat tight, her mind already rehearsing how to apologize to her mother again—
And nearly crashed into someone standing behind her.
A hand shot out to steady her.
Warm. Firm. Familiar.
She looked up.
And froze.
Anton.
No tailored suit this time. Just a dark coat, gloves. Sharp cheekbones, eyes like polished ice. He looked exactly the same—only quieter. More dangerous for how calm he was.
What the hell was he doing here?
They didn't speak at first. Just stood in the middle of the pharmacy aisle, surrounded by headache pills and cheap cough syrups.
She felt her pulse kick into her throat.
He stared at her—not coldly, not even angry.
Just… seeing her.
Finally, he said, low:
"You're trembling."
She shook her head quickly. "I'm fine."
He glanced at the slip of paper in her hand. Then at the way her coat barely closed. The wear in her eyes.
"No, you're not."
Nastya looked away. "You don't get to say that."
He didn't flinch.
Didn't apologize.
Didn't explain why he was there. Maybe he didn't need to.
Maybe this was just fate—cruel, looping, hungry fate.
She tried to step around him. He didn't stop her.
But as she passed, he said:
"The offer's not on the table anymore."
That stopped her cold.
She turned, confused. Angry. Hurt.
"Then why are you here?"
A beat passed. He didn't answer.
Then—without looking at her—he reached into his coat, pulled out a folded envelope, and placed it on the counter next to the pharmacist. No words. No explanation.
And then he left.
She stood in the aisle, staring after him, heart a knot of confusion and rage and something dangerously close to longing.
When the pharmacist called her name again, she turned.
Inside the envelope was enough to pay for the medicine—and more.