He paused, glancing at me, his tone softening slightly. "She's not seriously hurt, just shaken. But Pakhan... this was premeditated."
Something came through from the other end, but I couldn't hear. I only saw Sasha's expression growing darker until he said curtly, "Understood," and hung up.
Less than three minutes later, urgent tire screeches sounded in the distance.
Two black sedans swooped in like falcons, screeching to a halt at the café entrance. Doors were roughly shoved open. Four Bratva members in black suits with obvious gun bulges at their waists jumped out, professionally spreading out to seal off the entire street.
Then the third car—that all-too-familiar armored Bentley—crashed through barriers like an enraged beast, pulling directly in front of me.
The door was wrenched open.
Nikolai jumped out.
He wasn't even wearing his suit jacket—shirt sleeves carelessly rolled to his elbows, collar open, his expression so dark he looked ready to kill.
He strode over, those dark gray eyes burning with an almost uncontrolled violence I'd never seen.
"Vivienne."
He dropped to one knee before me, his large hand roughly gripping my shoulder, checking me over from head to toe, thoroughly. When he saw the scraped skin on my elbow and blood seeping through my knee, his jawline tensed so tight it looked ready to snap.
"Nikolai..."
Like a drowning person finally finding a life preserver, I clutched desperately at his tailored suit lapel. Tears broke through in that instant. I buried my face in his chest, breathing in that familiar cedar scent, trembling uncontrollably.
Only in this moment did I truly realize what kind of bloody, dangerous world the man I'd fallen for inhabited. The mob wasn't romantic words in a novel—it was real guns and real murder.
"It's over, it's over, Vivienne. I'm here." He tightened hisarms with tremendous force, nearly crushing me into his bones. He turned his head toward where the Chevrolet had disappeared, voice hoarse with a chilling deadness. "Sasha, pull all surveillance footage from this street. I want every trajectory of that vehicle. Contact all our informants downtown. Within three hours, I want those two bastards kneeling before me."
"Yes." Sasha nodded and left.
Nikolai carried me to the Bentley, carefully placing me in the back seat before sitting beside me. The moment the door closed, all the outside chaos was sealed off.
"Nikolai..."
"Don't talk." He interrupted, voice still cold but his hands incredibly gentle. He took out antiseptic cotton and bandages from the car's medical kit, personally cleaning my wounds.
I watched his tense jawline, the vein pulsing at his temple. That terror that had scrambled my senses was suddenly replaced by something more intense.
He was afraid.
This most dangerous, coldest mob Pakhan in all Washington was now experiencing near-loss-of-control fear because of my injury.
"Does it hurt?" he asked quietly, voice rough.
"A little," I answered honestly.
His movement paused, then he bandaged my wounds even more carefully. After treating the last scrape, he didn't let go but pulled me into his arms, chin resting on my head, large palm pressing tight against the back of my skull.
"I'm sorry." He closed his eyes, voice so low it was almost a murmur. "I underestimated how insane those bastards would be."
I leaned into him, nose filled with that cedar and faint gunpowder scent. My frantically pounding heart finally began to calm.
"Nikolai." I looked up at him. "I'm okay. Really."
He opened his eyes—something almost fragile flickered in those gray depths.
"If anything had happened to you..." His voice caught, Adam's applebobbing violently. "I would've burned Washington's entire underworld to ashes."
