His sentence cut off as he was dragged away.
His curses and screams faded into the background noise of the club.
Security had already formed a perimeter around the scene.
Blocking view. Containing witnesses. Controlling narrative.
Ruslan turned slowly toward me.
The dagger remained in his hand.
Blood continued sliding down the blade in slow, deliberate streams.
He looked almost exactly like the man I remembered.
Same sharp jawline. Same intimidating posture.
Same commanding presence.
But time had carved subtle differences.
Fine lines etched around his mouth.
Silver threading through his dark hair near the temples.
He approached me calmly and pulled the stool my father had occupied closer.
He sat down.
Our knees nearly brushed.
Close enough for private conversation. Close enough for confrontation. Close enough for history to feel immediate again.
The scent of him hit me first.
Cedar. Gun oil. And fresh blood.
It was a familiar combination.
One I had once associated with protection.
Then betrayal.
Now — Complication.
He placed the dagger on the bar between us without breaking eye contact.
His gaze studied my face carefully — scanning for shock, fear, reaction.
“Elena,” he said, his voice smooth but measured, “good to see you again.”
I forced my breathing to even out.
Inhale.
Hold.
Exhale.
