I clicked the link with shaking fingers, and line after line seared into my vision.
"The Volkov family wields significant power in Russian organized crime..."
"Suspected in multiple violent incidents..."
"Maintains extensive connections throughout political and business circles..."
"Extremely dangerous—public advised to avoid contact..."
There were several grainy photographs—at upscale bars, business functions, outside courthouses. In every shot, he wore that same cold expression while everyone around him watched with a mixture of fear and reverence.
My phone nearly slipped into the toilet.
Mafia boss. Arms trafficking. Violence.
I'd slept with a mob boss.
Terror washed over me like ice water, freezing me to the bone. All that tenderness that had intoxicated me the night before, all those words that had made my heart race—suddenly they felt like veiled threats.
I remembered how effortlessly he'd taken down those three drunks, the coldness that occasionally flickered in his eyes, that aura of danger that kept people at arm's length—none of it had been an act. That was the presence of someone who'd spilled blood, who'd killed.
I had to get out.
Immediately. Before he woke up.
I'd rushed back to the living room and emptied my wallet—a hundred dollars, everything I had left for the month. I'd laid the bills neatly on his dining table and scrawled a note on a piece of paper with shaking hands:
"Thank you for last night. This is for the meds and other stuff. —Anna"
Meds. Other stuff.
Polite enough, distant enough, clear enough—we'd been nothing more than a transaction, and now we were even.
I'd needed to draw a line. Needed him to understand I wanted nothing more to do with him.
After leaving the note, I'd grabbed my bag and taken one last look toward the bedroom.
He'd still been sleeping, breathing peacefully, completely unaware I was about to disappear from his life.
My chest had tightened—though I couldn't understand why. I should have felt relieved to escape such danger, but instead, there was this hollow ache of loss.
But there hadn't been time to analyze it. I'd turned, opened the door, and fled.
In the elevator, I'd leaned against the wall, gasping for air. My phone had buzzed in my bag—maybe he'd woken up, maybe he'd found the note.
I'd turned it off.
Stepping out of the building into the crisp morning air, I'd shivered.
New York's streets had still been quiet in the early dawn, only street cleaners making their rounds.
I'd limped toward the subway station on my injured ankle.
Every step had hurt.
Looking back now, it really had been a stupid, cruel thing to do.
A hundred dollars? I'd thought I could erase that night, erase everything between us, with a handfulof bills?
