The night deepened around them, wrapping the apartment in a fragile stillness. The only light came from the streetlamp outside, its glow filtering through the curtains and spilling in soft gold over Scarlett's face. Nicolas hadn't moved since he said those words. His thumb still brushed against her knuckles, tracing small, restless circles — the only sign of unease he ever allowed himself to show.
Scarlett could feel the tension in him, thick and restrained. "You don't have to be afraid of me," she whispered finally.
"I'm not afraid of you," he said, voice low. "I'm afraid of what comes with me."
His gaze drifted to the window, to the faraway city lights that never really slept. "My family... it isn't what people think," he continued, his voice quieter now, heavy with something that sounded like regret. "Everyone believes the Volkovs are just another Italian dynasty running the underworld. They don't know how it began."
Scarlett listened, her heart tightening as his tone changed — no longer cold, but burdened.
"Two hundred years ago," Nicolas began, "my great-grandfather wasn't a criminal. He was a businessman from Southern Italy. He traded wine, fabrics, iron — anything that kept his ships moving. Then Europe began changing. The wars, the alliances... he started dealing in weapons to survive. At first, it was just trade. But power—" he paused, meeting her eyes, "—power has a way of corrupting even those who swear they'll never take it."
Scarlett said nothing, her eyes soft, urging him to continue.
"By the time my grandfather took over, our business wasn't business anymore. It was empire. Weapons, politics, secret alliances — everything became blood and profit. My father turned it into something far greater… and far darker."
He leaned back, running a hand over his face. "He built a network that spans half of Europe. Moscow, Rome, Vienna… everywhere. And now he wants an alliance that would secure his control for another generation."
Scarlett frowned, quietly. "The Mengs," she said softly.
He looked up, surprised — and for the first time that night, something like admiration flickered in his eyes. "You're sharper than you look when you're angry," he murmured, almost a smile.
"So he wants you to marry Alisa Meng?"
Nicolas didn't answer immediately. He just exhaled, slow and deliberate. "The Meng family's construction empire is just a front. Their reach goes far beyond business. If my father gets that alliance, the Volkovs and Mengs together would control half of the arms routes in Europe."
Scarlett's fingers tightened slightly in his hand. "And you don't want that."
"I don't want to build a kingdom made of corpses," he said, his voice hardening again. "But refusing him means war — with my own blood, with the Mengs, with Osborous… all of them."
The name sent a chill down her spine. "Osborous," she repeated.
"They've hated us for decades," Nicolas said, his tone dropping. "A family feud stretching back to when my grandfather betrayed one of their founders. They've been waiting for a weakness — and now, with the Mengs getting involved, I think they've found one."
Scarlett's chest ached as the puzzle began to piece itself together — the intruder, the weapons, the fake shipment, the attack. It wasn't random. It was war brewing behind the curtains.
"And you think I'll get caught in it," she said quietly.
Nicolas looked at her then, really looked — the softness of her features, the quiet strength in her eyes. "You already are," he whispered. "The night they broke into the lab… that wasn't a robbery. It was a warning. They knew you were close to me."
Scarlett's throat tightened. "So that's why you tried to push me away."
He nodded, wordless.
For a long moment, the silence between them was unbearable — thick with all the things neither could undo. Then Scarlett took his hand again, her fingers trembling but certain. "I don't care who your father is. I don't care who they are. I'm not leaving."
"Scarlett—"
"No," she cut him off, voice breaking but steady. "You think protecting me means walking away. But you don't understand… the only thing that scares me more than your world is you not being in mine."
He froze. Her eyes were glistening, not with fear, but defiance — that same fire that had drawn him to her in the first place.
When he finally spoke, his voice was almost a whisper. "You don't know what it means to love a man like me."
"Then teach me," she said.
The clock ticked in the quiet, and outside, the storm began again — soft rain against glass.
Nicolas reached out, brushing his thumb under her chin, lifting her face toward his. "You'll regret it," he said softly.
"Maybe," she whispered, "but not tonight."
And when he kissed her this time, it wasn't anger or fear — it was surrender. The kind that burned slow and deep, where love and danger were no longer separate things, but the same fatal truth.