The driver floors it before I even get my seatbelt on.
I’m crying now—big, hiccupping sobs. My whole body shakes. This can’t be happening. It can’t be real. And yet, I know that this isn’t a nightmare. I know that this actually is happening.
He turns to me, face hard but eyes… softer than I expected.
“You’re safe,” he says. Firm. Like it’s a fact. “But you need to trust me. Just for now. Can you do that?”
I stare at him—dark eyes, sharp jaw, blood on the cuff of his shirt that isn’t his.
More gunfire echoes behind us, fainter now.
The car swerves around a corner.
I swallow hard.
“I—I don’t even know your name,” I whisper.
“Viktor,” he says.
Another tear slides down my cheek. I know I need to hold things together. I know that despite Viktor—if that’s actually his name—saving me, the trouble might only just be beginning.
But the car is speeding away from the gallery, away from the bodies, away from the chaos.
And right now, with bullets still ringing in my ears and my sculptures left behind in a war zone, trusting him feels like the only option I have left.
I nod once. Small. Trembling.
“Okay,” I breathe. “Okay.”
Viktor reaches over, buckles my seatbelt for me with careful hands, then pulls me against his side.
“Hold on, little one,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
And for reasons I can’t explain, I believe him.
The only question now is what’s next? And where the hell are we going?
Chapter 4
Viktor
The darkness outside blurs into hazy lights, tunnels, and endless road. I’m wide awake, my mind contemplating everything that’s just happened. But fifteen minutes into the drive and he’s already out.
His head has slipped sideways against my shoulder, sandy-blonde hair spilling across the dark wool of my coat like spilled sunlight. Every few seconds a small, hiccupping breath escapes him, the remnants of tears still drying on his cheeks. His fingers are curled loosely around the golden mane of that stuffed lion. Goldie, he called him earlier… I shouldn’t care about such trivial details, but the boy mumbled it once when he thought I wasn’t listening.
I don’t move him.
I don’t dare.
The last of the city lights blur past the tinted windows in streaks of red and white. My driver—Alexander, the one with the smart mouth and the steady hands—keeps his eyes on the road and his mouth shut. Smart man. He knows when questions will get him a bullet instead of an answer.
But I can trust him at least. I’m sure of that.
My mind is a war zone.
Who the fuck were the shooters?
First the lone gunman who dropped my associate like trash—clean work, professional. Then the second wave crashing through, uncoordinated but determined. Not a hit squad sent for me specifically, surely? It felt too sloppy for that. But they knew I’d be there. They knew the building would be empty except for Milo’s art setup and…him.
