Nikolai stepped back from the apartment building as the elevator doors closed with a soft metallic sigh, sealing her safely behind them. He stood still for a moment, watching the reflection of the city lights play across the glass doors of the lobby. A slow, amused smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
A bunny.
That's what she looked like—wide-eyed and soft, with that delicate kind of beauty that made a man want to either break her or protect her from the world. And God help him, his first instinct had been the latter. It surprised even him.
He shoved his hands into the pockets of his dark coat and turned away from the building, his boots thudding lightly against the pavement as he made his way down the sidewalk. He wasn't supposed to stop. He hadn't meant to get involved. But his body had moved on its own the second he saw that creep cornering her like a predator. The man's hand had hovered too long, too close, and before Nikolai had even consciously registered it, his fist had already found the bastard's jaw.
Not like him. Not at all.
He was not the savior type. Hell, if anything, he was the monster they warned people about in hushed whispers, behind closed doors. There was blood on his hands, and he wasn't interested in redemption. He didn't believe in it. Never had.
But her.
She was sunshine and softness and innocence, walking through the city like the world had never tried to eat her alive. She had looked up at him with those round, startled eyes, so full of disbelief and confusion. Not fear—though maybe she should've feared him. Most did.
He ran a hand through his thick dark hair, the muscles in his jaw flexing with tension. He needed to get a grip.
The city buzzed around him, but it all felt distant as his mind wandered back to her. Elara.
Her voice stuck in his head like a melody. Sweet. Hesitant. Grateful.
His phone buzzed in his coat pocket.
Nikolai didn't stop walking as he pulled it out and glanced at the screen. A message from Viktor.
Viktor: Don't forget the meeting. Father is already here. Don't be late.
Nikolai sighed.
Of course. Duty called. It always did.
With a flick of his thumb, he locked the phone again and shoved it back into his pocket. The streets were familiar to him, not in the charming way a native might claim, but in the sense that he had walked them long enough to memorize their pulse—the shadows, the alleyways, the places where danger lurked and whispered his name with reverence.
He was supposed to be at the warehouse an hour ago. The shipment from Odessa had arrived two days late, and the books weren't matching up. His father was already irritated. Viktor even more so. There were rumors that someone was skimming off the top again, and while Viktor loved to dig for rats, Nikolai had grown tired of always finding them.
Still, none of that mattered in the moment when he saw her.
Elara.
He repeated her name in his mind, just once. Soft. Feminine. He wondered what her world looked like. What she did. What kind of life she led that allowed her to walk alone in a city like this, head held high, unaware of the monsters that watched her from the shadows.
He knew better than to linger on these things. Women like her didn't belong in his world. They didn't survive it. But still… still, something about her clung to him.
Maybe it was the way she had smiled—grateful, a little shy. Maybe it was the way she had walked with him, not speaking, not asking too many questions, trusting him with her silence. Or maybe it was the way she had looked as the elevator doors closed: a moment of quiet, like the world had paused just to take her in.
He turned the corner, the warehouse now in sight—an old, steel-boned building with rust-streaked walls and flickering security lights. Two guards nodded as he approached, their eyes widening slightly when they registered the expression on his face. Not angry. Just… distant.
He paused at the door, glanced once over his shoulder at the direction he came from, then pushed the memory of Elara deep into the corners of his mind.
There was work to do.
And for men like him, there was never time for softness.
Not even when it wore the face of a bunny-eyed girl with a voice like velvet and a soul that didn't yet know what it meant to live in a world ruled by men like him.
Nikolai's boots echoed against the concrete floor of the warehouse as he walked through the main corridor, the dull hum of fluorescent lights casting a cold, pale glow over the room. The air smelled of oil, dust, and something darker—something that clung to the walls like a permanent stain. As he entered the chamber where the meeting was being held, his sharp eyes scanned the table lined with men cloaked in shadows and power. His father, Dmitri, sat at the head of the table beside Nikolai's grandfather, Mikhail Volkov, the true king behind the Bratva's iron throne.
Both men looked visibly displeased. Viktor, his younger brother, was slouched in his chair with a scowl on his face, tapping the butt of his knife on the table as if daring someone to speak out of turn. The others—men with names etched into criminal folklore—stood tense, their shoulders rigid, their expressions unreadable.
The moment Nikolai stepped inside, the room turned silent.
"Late," Dmitri growled without looking at him.
Nikolai said nothing. He took his place on the right, standing, not sitting. He didn't need to explain himself. His presence was always enough.
Mikhail, the old lion with cold eyes and a mean temper, slammed a thick folder onto the table. It echoed like a gunshot.
"Disgrace," he snarled, his voice a harsh rasp that scratched at every corner of the room. "This—this is what we're reduced to now?"
He opened the file and spread the photographs across the table. Women, bruised and bloodied. Some visibly pregnant. Others with terror frozen in their eyes. Nikolai didn't flinch. He'd seen worse. He done worse.
"This is what you call a shipment?" Mikhail barked. "This is garbage! Damaged merchandise! We don't deal in trash."
Viktor sneered and leaned forward. "That wasn't our doing. Someone tampered with the cargo before it reached us. They weren't supposed to be pregnant. Someone else touched our girls before they arrived."
Nikolai glanced at the photos briefly, then at the room. He knew this world like the back of his hand—knew its rot, its codes, its violence. It was a world where mercy was considered weakness, where innocence was currency to be bought and sold. Nothing about this shocked him. Not anymore.
"And as if this mess isn't enough," Dmitri interjected, his fingers drumming rhythmically on the steel table, "we have the Colombians stepping into our territory. They're setting up deals with our suppliers, our clients. They're making moves, and if we don't cut them off now, they'll have a foothold."
Mikhail let out a bitter laugh, the kind that promised death. "So not only are we letting tainted product slip through our hands, but we're also letting cockroaches crawl into our kitchen. How far we've fallen."
Nikolai exhaled slowly, resting his hand on the back of an empty chair. A part of his mind flicked back to just an hour ago—to her. To Elara, standing on that quiet city street, wide-eyed and startled, looking at him like he was a savior.
She had no idea.
No idea that the man who stood between her and danger was the same man who ordered danger like a meal. No idea that his hands, which had gently guided her away from that creep, were the same hands that had pulled triggers, snapped necks, and signed off on shipments just like the one they were dissecting now.
She looked at him like he was something good.
How ironic.
You might ask if he had a conscience. He didn't. Maybe he never had. Some said men were shaped by experience, but Nikolai knew better—he was born into this life. Baptized in blood, raised on rules that rewarded cruelty, and disciplined with a fist full of brass and bone.
This wasn't just business. This was his blood.
Mikhail turned his searing gaze on him. "You were supposed to oversee this shipment personally."
"I delegated," Nikolai replied flatly.
"Delegated?" Mikhail's voice cracked with fury. "We don't delegate integrity. We don't delegate quality. We control everything. If our name is on it, it better be perfect. Do you think our clients will pay for spoiled meat?"
Nikolai's eyes narrowed slightly, but his face remained impassive. "Then we fix it."
"Fix it?" Viktor scoffed. "We've got pregnant girls and bruised bodies. The cartel's laughing behind our backs. And now they want to deal on our docks. They're calling us soft."
Mikhail slammed his hand on the table again. "No one calls the Volkovs soft. Not unless they want to wake up with their tongues cut out."
Dmitri leaned forward. "We retaliate. Show them we're not to be trifled with. Burn one of their shipments. Send a message."
"Two messages," Viktor added darkly. "One to the suppliers who think they can shortchange us. One to the Colombians who think we're open for business."
There was a pause. A breath held collectively, like the air itself feared to move.
Nikolai finally spoke, his voice low and calm, deadly in its steadiness. "Let me handle it."
Mikhail looked at him, eyes hard. "You're sure?"
"I'll find who tainted the shipment," Nikolai said. "I'll handle the cartel presence. Quietly, efficiently. There won't be anything left of them to bury."
Mikhail stared at him for a long moment. Then he gave a curt nod. "Make it painful."
Viktor smirked. "As always."
The meeting began to dissolve into quieter whispers, orders passed between lieutenants, phones pulled out, plans made. But Nikolai stood still, one hand resting on the cold steel chair, the other hanging at his side.
His mind wandered again—to Elara.
How soft her voice had been. How her eyes had clung to his with silent trust. How ridiculous it was to think that for a second, in her eyes, he was anything but a monster.
He wasn't her hero.
He was just a man who had done terrible things for so long, he couldn't remember what it felt like to be clean. His world wasn't one of sunshine and coffee dates. It was this—dim warehouses, bloodied photographs, and conversations about mutilation like it was just another line in the business ledger.
But for some reason, her face kept flickering in his mind.
Soft.
Innocent.
Like a bunny.
And he? He was the wolf who had spent his entire life tearing things like her apart.
Still, that one moment of humanity clung to him like a stubborn shadow. He didn't plan on interfering earlier. His instincts simply reacted. A crack in the armor, maybe. Or a fleeting lapse in judgment. But now, standing in the cold concrete tomb of the Bratva's empire, he realized what a wide chasm existed between her world and his.
He wondered, for a split second, what would happen if she ever truly saw who he was.
Not the man who offered to walk her home.
But the man who sent bodies to the bottom of the river without blinking.
He wondered... and then he pushed it away.
There was work to do.
And blood to spill.