Chapter 4 - The Art of War
The black sedan dropped me off two blocks away from Rossi Gallery. Nikolai hadn't forced me to quit work, nor had he offered me a gilded cage—yet. Instead, he had left me with a new set of keys to a reinforced set of apartment locks, a bodyguard stationed quietly in the lobby whom I was forbidden from talking to, and a swirling vortex of emotions that defied every logical instinct I possessed.
By the time Friday evening arrived, the tension in my shoulders had settled into a permanent knot.
I was standing in my kitchen boiling water for pasta when the power cut out.
Not the whole building—just my apartment. The refrigerator hum died. The overhead lights flickered once and plunged into absolute darkness, save for the pale glow of the streetlights filtering through the blinds.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
I froze, listening.
Click.
The sound of a lock being picked. Not subtly. Not quietly. Someone was using a heavy-duty torque wrench on my deadbolt.
I backed away from the kitchen counter, my hand groping blindly across the surface until my fingers wrapped around the heavy wooden handle of a chef's knife. My breath came in short, ragged gasps. The apartment door groaned, creaking inward as the heavy oak gave way.
Heavy, uneven footsteps entered the hallway.
“Elena, sweetheart,” a gravelly voice called out from the darkness, thick with cheap whiskey and malice. “Daddy’s friends are here to collect.”
It wasn't Nikolai’s men. It was someone worse.
I edged toward the dark corner of the living room, knife raised, my knuckles white. A bulky silhouette filled the doorway of the kitchen, casting a long, menacing shadow across my easel.
“Come on out, little girl,” the intruder sneered, stepping forward. “The boss wants a word.”
Before I could lunge, a shadow detached itself from the hallway behind him.
It was silent. It was lethal.
A gloved hand clamped over the intruder's mouth from behind. A sickening crack echoed through the apartment, followed instantly by a heavy, boneless thud as the man crumpled to the floor like a sack of wet cement.
Standing over him, bathed in the dim amber glow of the streetlamps, was Nikolai.
He wore a dark tactical turtleneck, his forearms entirely bare, revealing a dense sleeve of intricate black ink that seemed to pulse in the shadows. In his right hand, he held a suppressed pistol, lowered casually toward the floor.
Behind him, two of his guards stepped over the fallen intruder, securing the perimeter with terrifying efficiency.
Nikolai stepped into the living room, his dark eyes scanning the space before locking instantly onto me. He saw the knife in my shaking hand, the pale terror in my face, and the way my entire body was trembling.
In two long strides, he crossed the room. He didn't say a word. He simply reached out, took the knife gently from my unresisting fingers, and set it down on the table. Then, before I could process a single thought, his arms came around me.
May you like
He pulled me against his chest so hard I could hear the steady, heavy beat of his heart.
“You’re safe,” he murmured into my hair, his voice rough, fierce, and utterly unyielding. “I told you, Elena. Nobody touches what is mine.”
