The city was asleep when Nicolas returned.
The rain had stopped, but the night air still smelled like metal and smoke — a scent that clung to him as he pushed open the door to Scarlett's apartment. It was late. Too late. The clock on the wall ticked past midnight, its sound unnervingly loud in the quiet.
Scarlett was still awake.
She sat curled on the couch, a blanket draped around her shoulders, her phone still in hand from the last message he sent. The worry in her eyes shifted to relief the moment she saw him — and then, to something sharper.
"You're bleeding," she said softly.
He looked down. His shirt was dark with rain and smeared with dried blood — not his, but someone's from the docks. His jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He just stepped inside, closing the door behind him as if to lock the outside world away.
"Don't," he murmured when she started toward him. "It's not mine."
"Then whose—" she began, but his eyes silenced her. There was something in them tonight — something cold and faraway. It scared her more than the blood.
He brushed past her and went to the sink, splashing water over his hands, scrubbing until the red faded down the drain. His movements were rough, mechanical. The water kept running long after his hands were clean.
"Nicolas," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "What happened?"
He turned off the tap but didn't look at her. "You don't want to know."
"Don't decide that for me," she said, standing now, her tone trembling but firm. "You keep pushing me out like I'm some stranger—"
"You are a stranger to this world," he cut in, his voice low, dangerous. "You don't understand what it costs to survive in it."
Her chest tightened. "Then help me understand."
He met her eyes then — sharp, silver-gray, and full of something she couldn't name. Regret? Fear? Or just the cold exhaustion of a man carrying too many secrets.
"There's a storm coming, Scarlett," he said quietly. "Moretti Meng isn't just playing politics anymore. He's aligning with Osborous… and his son's back."
"His son?" she echoed, confused.
"Dmitri Meng," Nicolas said. "The real heir. The one no one talks about. He's been staying near the Russian border, managing trade lines for years. Now he's back — and he's not here for peace."
Scarlett's brows furrowed. "You mean Alisa's brother?"
"Yes," he replied. "And he's more dangerous than she'll ever be."
She absorbed his words in silence, her fingers tightening around the edge of the blanket. "So this… this means war."
Nicolas gave a dark, humorless smile. "It already is."
---
He moved to the window, lighting a cigarette — though it shook faintly between his fingers. The glow briefly lit his face, cutting across the faint bruise on his jaw. Scarlett came closer, her voice gentler now.
"Why are you telling me this?" she asked.
He exhaled, the smoke curling in the cold air. "Because no matter how far I try to keep you from this, you keep getting pulled back in. You were almost killed once. I won't let that happen again."
Her eyes softened. "You can't protect me by breaking me, Nicolas."
His hand froze midway to his lips.
"You think I don't see it?" she continued. "Every time you look at me, you're scared — not of me, but of yourself. You think you'll hurt me just by letting me stay. But I already made my choice."
She stepped closer until she was right in front of him, her voice trembling but fierce. "I'm not leaving. Not again."
He didn't answer. The silence stretched, heavy and brittle. Then, slowly, she reached for his hand — the same hand that had been covered in blood hours ago — and held it.
"I don't care if you're Volkov or the devil himself," she whispered. "You're still the man I waited for."
For a moment, Nicolas just stood there, the cigarette forgotten between his fingers. His jaw flexed, his throat working as if the words she'd said cut deeper than any bullet.
"Scarlett…" His voice cracked, raw and low. "You don't understand. My family isn't what you think."
"Then make me understand," she said again, her voice unwavering. "Tell me the truth."
He stared at her for a long time, torn between the need to protect and the need to confess. The muscles in his shoulders went rigid.
Finally, he spoke — each word slow, deliberate.
"My family… didn't just build the Volkov empire. They built Italy's underground itself. Two hundred years of power, blood, and deceit. And now, every mafia that survived it wants to destroy us. The Mengs. Osborous. Even greek , Aras men are doubting our alliance."
Her breath caught.
"So that's why you left me back then?"
He nodded once, eyes dark. "I thought I could end it before it reached you. I was wrong."
Scarlett's heart ached at the raw honesty in his voice. She wanted to say something, anything — but instead, she stepped forward, wrapping her arms around him. He stiffened for a second, then slowly exhaled, letting his chin rest on her shoulder.
The storm outside had passed, but inside, the air was heavy with everything unsaid — love, danger, and the fragile thread tying them together.