Chapter Four: Aleksei

I didn’t sleep.

Not because I couldn’t. I rarely slept more than two hours at a time anyway. That’s what years in this life did to you—trained your body to stay half awake, to listen for threats in the silence, to never let down your guard completely.

But tonight, it wasn’t the usual unease that kept me restless.

It was her.

Emilia Volkov. Soft-spoken, stubborn, clever. Dangerous in a way she didn’t even understand yet. Not to me—not physically. But she was already burrowing under my skin, and that made her the most dangerous person I’d encountered in years.

And I’d killed men for less.

I stood at the window of my room across the hall, watching the woods shift in the early light. The storm had eased, but the sky was still a dull gray, bruised and heavy. A perfect cover for a quiet death, if someone were foolish enough to come this way.

I’d already done two perimeter checks since we arrived. The lake house was well-guarded, hidden from prying eyes, and equipped with silent alarms and escape routes.

But no place was ever truly safe.

Not in our world.

My phone buzzed. I didn’t flinch.

Mikhail.

Mikhail: Is she with you?

Me: Across the hall.

Mikhail: Keep it that way. We picked up chatter from the Polzin brothers. They might make a move soon.

The Polzin brothers. Sloppy, desperate bastards who wanted a seat at the table and didn’t care whose throat they had to cut to get there. They’d already tried once to take a piece of Mikhail’s business. Now they were turning toward the personal. Family.

Emilia.

I replied quickly.

Me: If they come here, they won’t leave breathing.

Mikhail didn’t answer. He trusted me. He had to.

That was the problem.

I ran a hand through my hair and stepped out into the hallway, pausing in front of her door. I didn’t knock this time. I just stood there.

I could hear movement inside—light footsteps, the rustle of clothing. She was awake.

I shouldn’t have cared.

But I did.

She opened the door before I could walk away.

No makeup. Hair pulled into a loose bun. A faded sweatshirt hung off one shoulder. She looked tired. Not in the fragile way most people did—this was the weariness of someone constantly balancing too many masks, too many expectations.

She blinked at me. “Good morning?”

“You’re up early,” I said.

She raised an eyebrow. “Is that a problem?”

“No. Just unexpected.”

“Well, I’m full of surprises.”

That much was true.

She stepped back. “Do you want coffee?”

I frowned. “Are you offering?”

She sighed and turned around. “You’re standing in front of my door like a watchdog. You might as well make yourself useful.”

I followed her into the small kitchen. It was strange seeing someone like her in such a domestic setting. She moved with practiced ease—quiet, graceful—but not helpless. She opened cabinets until she found what she needed, not once asking for help.

“I don’t cook,” she said, pouring water into the kettle. “But I make a mean cup of black coffee.”

“I’ll take it.”

She didn’t ask how I liked it. Somehow, she already knew.

While the coffee brewed, she leaned against the counter, arms folded. Watching me.

“So what’s your story, Aleksei?” she asked.

I didn’t answer right away.

“You know what I am,” I said finally. “That’s all that matters.”

She tilted her head. “That’s not what I asked.”

“And you’re not going to get more than that.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, but she didn’t push. Instead, she handed me a mug and turned away, taking a sip from her own.

We drank in silence. Not uncomfortable silence—more like a silent challenge.

I couldn’t stop watching her mouth.

She noticed.

“You’re staring.”

“No,” I said. “I’m memorizing.”

She blinked. “What?”

“The way you carry yourself. The way you speak. The things you don’t say.”

She looked at me like she wanted to say something sharp. Instead, she stepped closer.

Too close.

“You don’t know me,” she said.

“Yet I’m supposed to die for you if it comes to that.”

“Because Mikhail told you to?”

“Yes.”

“And if he hadn’t?”

I stared at her for a moment too long. “Then I would’ve kept walking the moment I saw your eyes.”

She flinched—just barely. But it was there.

Because she knew exactly what I meant.

I would’ve walked away… because I was already in too deep.

The doorbell rang.

Both of us froze.

I was at the door in seconds, gun drawn, safety off.

Emilia moved behind me instinctively. Smart girl.

I checked the monitor. One man. No weapon was visible. He was holding a package—courier uniform. Legitimate.

But I didn’t relax.

“Stay here,” I told her.

I opened the door and stepped outside. The cold air hit my face. The courier—young, nervous—handed me the package.

“For a… Emilia Volkov?”

I didn’t correct him.

“What’s in it?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I just deliver.”

I took it. “Leave.”

He didn’t argue.

I brought the box inside and set it on the table. Small. Wrapped in black paper. No return address.

Emilia stood at the end of the hallway, watching me. Her face was pale.

“Is it from Mikhail?”

“No.”

I handed her gloves, and she slipped them on before opening them. Carefully. Slowly.

Inside was a single velvet jewelry box.

She opened it.

I saw her body stiffen.

I stepped forward, looking inside.

It wasn’t jewelry.

It was a bullet.

And carved into its casing, in fine, precise Russian script, were the words:

For the ballerina. One shot. One warning.

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