THE SAFEHOUSE DOOR SPLINTERED inward with a deafening crash, shards of steel and wood exploding across the concrete floor like deadly confetti.

Three hulking shadows stormed through—Dmitry's cleaners—guns raised, faces carved from stone beneath the harsh fluorescent light that spilled in from the garage. Their eyes were dead, void of emotion—the eyes of men who had long ago traded their souls for loyalty to the Bratva.

Chiji's heart slammed against his ribs, every instinct screaming run, but there was nowhere to go in this concrete tomb. Svetlana's grip on his wrist tightened, her fingers digging into his pulse point, her whispered "Now" slicing through the dark like a blade against silk.

She moved first, a blur of leather and fury, firing two shots—sharp cracks that echoed in the confined space, momentarily deafening him.

One cleaner grunted, clutching his shoulder as blood sprayed in an arc across the wall, but the other two ducked low, returning fire with military precision. Bullets ricocheted off the concrete walls.

"Table!" Svetlana barked, shoving him toward it, her voice steel wrapped in velvet even now.

He didn't think—just dove, flipping the rickety metal slab onto its side for cover as sparks flew where bullets struck metal.

She slid in beside him, her shoulder slamming into his, gun still smoking. Their faces were inches apart, close enough for him to see the flecks of silver in her ice-blue eyes, the tiny scar above her right eyebrow. The air stank of cordite and blood, her jasmine scent a faint ghost beneath it.

"Stay down," she hissed, popping up to fire again—one shot, very precise, dropping the second cleaner with a hole through his throat. He fell with a wet gurgle, limbs twitching, blood pooling beneath him on the concrete.

Two down, one left—but the third was fast, rolling behind the cot, his pistol spitting lead. A bullet grazed the table's edge, inches from Chiji's skull, and he flinched, tasting blood from his still-bleeding lip.

"We're pinned!" he yelled, voice raw with fear and adrenaline. "What now?"

"Shut up and think!" she snapped, reloading with a speed that spoke of muscle memory, of years spent in the shadows of her father's world. Her eyes darted to the back door she'd used earlier—ten feet away, a gauntlet of open ground with no cover. "That's our out. When I say go—"

The cleaner's voice cut through, low and guttural in Russian, barking into a radio clipped to his tactical vest. Chiji didn't need a translator—the tone screamed backup.

Svetlana cursed under her breath, a string of Slavic venom that would have made a sailor blush, then met his gaze with a fierce intensity that made his breath catch. "He's calling more. We go now or we're dead."

"No shit!" Chiji's mind raced, engineering smarts kicking in despite the panic. The garage—they'd come through there. Cars. A way out. "The cab—up the ramp. We can ram through."

Her eyes narrowed, calculating, then flashed with something like approval—maybe even respect. "Good. Cover me."

"Cover you with what?" he shouted, but she was already moving—sliding out, firing three shots to pin the cleaner behind the cot. Chiji scrambled after her, adrenaline drowning his fear, snatching the vodka bottle from the floor where it had rolled during their earlier confrontation. Not a gun, but it'd do.

He hurled it at the cleaner's head—wild, desperate—and it smashed against the cot with a satisfying crack, glass shattering, liquor splashing across the man's face and chest. The cleaner flinched, swiping at his burning eyes, just enough distraction for Svetlana to sprint for the door.

"Move, Chizh!" she yelled, kicking it open with a boot to the lock. He bolted after her, legs burning, as bullets chewed the wall behind him, so close he could feel their heat slicing the air. The cleaner roared, firing blind, but they were through—stumbling into the garage's stark concrete light that momentarily blinded him.

The cab sat there, bullet-riddled but intact, beside the sedan and Aston Martin. Svetlana beelined for it, but Chiji grabbed her arm, yanking her toward the sedan instead. "Cab's tagged—cops'll spot it in seconds!"

She didn't argue—rare enough to shock him—diving into the driver's seat as he threw himself into the passenger side.

The keys were in the ignition, a sloppy gift from Dmitry's men. She twisted them, the engine snarling to life like a beast awakened, and floored it up the ramp. The gate loomed ahead—closed, iron, unyielding, a final barrier between them and freedom.

"Hold on!" she growled, and Chiji braced as the sedan slammed into it. Metal screeched against metal, bending under the impact, but it gave—bursting open into the alley with a groan of surrender. Rain pelted the windshield, blurring Manhattan's neon glow as she swerved onto the street, tires screaming against wet asphalt.

"That was too easy," Svetlana muttered, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. "They let us go."

"Or they're terrible at their jobs," Chiji countered, his heart still pounding like a war drum in his chest.

Her laugh was brittle. "Dmitry doesn't hire amateurs. This is chess, not checkers."

Behind them, headlights flared—another car peeling out of the garage, the cleaner on their tail like a bloodhound that had caught their scent. Chiji twisted in the seat, spotting the glint of a gun barrel through the pursuer's window. "He's coming!"

"Let him," Svetlana said, voice cold as a Siberian winter, weaving through traffic with surgical precision.

Horns blared as she cut off a delivery truck, forcing it to spin and block the lane. The cleaner's car swerved, losing ground, but not enough—he fired, a bullet shattering their rear windshield in a spectacular spiderweb of cracks.

"Fuck!" Chiji ducked, glass raining into his hair like sharp, crystalline snow. "You said this place was off-grid! Safe house, my ass!"

"It was!" she snapped, yanking the wheel to dodge a taxi whose driver shouted obscenities in their wake. "Someone talked—or Alexei's smarter than I thought." Her lips thinned, something like pain flashing across her face at the mention of her brother before her mask slammed back into place.

"Great time to figure that out!" He gripped the dash, knuckles white, heart in his throat as she took a hard left, narrowly missing a bus.

The Upper East Side blurred past—brownstones, boutiques, oblivious pedestrians wrapped in designer coats—none of it built for this kind of chaos. "Where are we going?"

"Bronx," she said, eyes locked on the road, hands steady on the wheel despite the madness unfolding around them. Rain streaked down her face like tears she'd never shed. "We need to lose him, then ditch this car. Too hot now."

The cleaner's headlights stayed glued to them, closing the gap as they hit a straightaway. Another shot cracked the air, punching through the trunk with a metallic thud. Chiji's stomach lurched—he was no stranger to danger, not after Lagos street hustles and schemes that had nearly cost him everything, but this was a whole new level of insane.

"Faster!" he yelled, uselessly, but Svetlana ignored him, scanning the road with the focus of a predator.

Then she smirked—a feral, reckless thing that transformed her face from beautiful to dangerous—and jerked the wheel right, cutting into a narrow side street between two imposing buildings. The sedan fishtailed, scraping a dumpster, sparks flying like angry fireflies, but she held it steady with impressive skill.

"Hold tight," she said, and before he could brace, she slammed the brakes, spinning the car into a perfect 180 that left them facing the way they'd come. The cleaner's vehicle shot past the alley, too fast to stop, and Svetlana gunned it back the other way—barreling toward an intersection crowded with late-night traffic. Chiji's breath caught as she blew through a red light, horns exploding around them in a cacophony of outrage, but the headlights behind faded into the rainy night.

"Did we lose him?" he gasped, twisting to look through the shattered rear window.

"For now," she said, voice tight, easing off the gas as they merged into traffic on a busier street. Her hands stayed steady on the wheel, but her knuckles were white—the first sign he'd seen that she wasn't entirely invincible. "He'll call it in. More will come. They're like fucking cockroaches—kill one and ten appear."

The rain streaked the cracked windshield, Manhattan's neon bleeding into a hazy watercolor. Chiji slumped back, adrenaline crashing, his jaw still throbbing from her earlier kick. "Your plan's falling apart, Svetlana. What's next?"

"Next?" She glanced at him, arctic eyes glinting with something wild—respect, maybe, or just adrenaline's afterglow. A drop of someone else's blood had dried on her cheek like macabre war paint. "We survive the night. Then we get that ledger to the forger. You wanted in, Chizh—you're in. Welcome to my world."

"Yeah, well, your 'in' comes with a body count," he muttered, brushing glass from his shirt. A shard had cut his palm, a thin line of red welling up. "And stop calling me Chizh."

Her laugh was sharp, edged with exhaustion. "Earn that, Chijioke. You're doing fine so far." She paused, studying him for a moment as they stopped at a light. "Most men would have pissed themselves back there."

"I'm not most men," he replied, meeting her gaze.

"No," she admitted, something like curiosity flickering in her eyes. "You're not."

The light turned green, and she focused back on the road, navigating through the labyrinth of streets with the confidence of someone who knew every escape route in the city.

For several minutes, they drove in silence, the tension slowly easing as no pursuer appeared in their mirrors.

"We need to change vehicles," Svetlana finally said, turning onto a quieter street lined with auto repair shops, most closed for the night. "This one's too easy to track."

"And how do you suggest we do that? Grand theft auto?"

Her smile was all sin and danger. "Precisely."

She pulled into an alley behind a mechanic's shop, cutting the engine. The sudden silence was almost as deafening as the gunfire had been. Rain pattered on the roof, a soothing counterpoint to the chaos they'd just escaped.

"Stay here," she ordered, reaching into her jacket and pulling out a slim case. Inside were lock picks—professional grade. Before Chiji could protest, she was out of the car, melting into the shadows like she'd been born to them.

Five minutes later—the longest five minutes of his life—she returned, twirling a set of keys around her finger. "Blue Honda, two blocks down. Let's go."

"You just stole a car in five minutes?" he asked, incredulous.

She arched an eyebrow. "Four minutes and twenty seconds, actually. I'm getting slow." She tossed him the keys. "You drive this time. They'll be looking for a woman driver."

The rain had eased to a drizzle as they abandoned the sedan, wiping down any surfaces they might have touched. Chiji followed her through back alleys, sticking to the shadows, until they reached a modest Honda Civic parked on a residential street.

"This doesn't seem your style," he commented as he slid behind the wheel. "No Aston Martin?"

"Inconspicuous is the style when you're running," she replied, checking the glove compartment and under the seats with practiced efficiency. "Clean. Good."

Chiji started the engine, pulling away from the curb with careful nonchalance. "Where to?"

"South Bronx," she directed. "I know a place we can lay low until morning." She leaned back, reaching into her boot to adjust a thick roll of hundreds—a silent promise of survival—then closed her eyes briefly. "I've been planning this for two years. I won't fail now."

As they drove, Svetlana pulled out her phone, typing rapidly. Her face was illuminated in the blue glow, shadows accentuating the sharp angles of her cheekbones.

"Calling for backup?" he asked, keeping his eyes on the road.

"Making sure we still have a buyer for that ledger," she replied without looking up. "If Dmitry's men found us that quickly, things are more complicated than I thought."

"You mean more dangerous."

"Danger is relative, Chizh." She set the phone down, staring out at the rain-slicked streets. "To me, staying in my father's world is more dangerous than running from it."

Something in her tone made him glance over. For a fleeting moment, he caught a glimpse of the woman beneath the predator—someone who had survived her own kind of war, someone fighting for freedom the only way she knew how.

"What's in the ledger?" he asked quietly. "What makes it worth all this?"

She was silent for so long he thought she wouldn't answer. Finally, she turned to face him, her expression unreadable in the dim light. "Names. Dates. Proof of what my father and brother have built. It's not just drugs and guns, Chijioke. It's people. Children. Sold like cattle across borders."

The weight of her words hung between them, heavy as lead. Chiji's grip tightened on the steering wheel. "And the buyer? What do they want with it?"

"Leverage," she said simply. "Power. But they've promised to shut down the operation. That's all I care about."

"And the money?" he asked, remembering her promise of payment.

A bitter smile crossed her lips. "The money buys us new lives. Far from here. Far from them." She leaned back, eyes closing briefly. "I've been planning this for two years. I won't fail now."

The Honda roared through the night, rain hammering the roof, the Bronx looming ahead like a fortress of concrete and steel. Dmitry's cleaners were out there—Alexei too, maybe—hunting them through the dark like wolves after wounded prey.

Forty-eight hours felt like a lifetime, and Chiji was starting to wonder if he'd see the end of it. But as Svetlana sat beside him, her profile a mix of steel and shadow, her breathing falling into rhythm with his, a reckless part of him—the part that had dodged Lagos gangs and dreamed of America—knew he wouldn't trade this for anything.

Not yet.

"We're being followed," Svetlana said suddenly, her voice cutting through his thoughts. She was staring at the side mirror, her body tensing like a coiled spring.

Chiji checked the rearview. A black SUV had appeared behind them, keeping pace at a careful distance. "You sure it's them?"

"Three cars back. Tinted windows. Moving too deliberately." Her hand slid to her gun. "Take the next right."

He obeyed, turning onto a narrower street lined with warehouses. The SUV followed, closing the distance. No coincidence, then.

"Faster," she urged, her voice tight.

Chiji floored it, the Honda's engine protesting as they shot forward. "This isn't exactly a getaway car!"

"It doesn't need to outrun them," she replied, rolling down her window. The sound of rain filled the car. "It just needs to get us close enough."

"Close enough to what?"

Her smile was all teeth. "You'll see. Just keep driving."

The SUV was gaining, its powerful engine easily overtaking their modest sedan. Chiji's heart hammered in his chest as headlights flooded their car, blinding him.

"Svetlana..." he warned, tension coiling in his gut.

"Almost there," she murmured, eyes fixed on something ahead. "Three..."

"Svetlana..."

"Two..."

"Svetlana!"

"Now!"

She leaned out the window, gun raised, and fired—not at the pursuers, but at a stack of construction scaffolding beside an abandoned building. The shots echoed in the night, steel pipes collapsing onto the street behind them just as the SUV tried to pass. Metal screeched against metal as the driver swerved to avoid the falling debris, losing control. The SUV spun, slamming into a parked car with a thunderous crash.

"Go, go, go!" Svetlana shouted, sliding back inside.

Chiji didn't need to be told twice, pressing the accelerator to the floor as they tore away from the scene, taking random turns until they were deep in the maze of South Bronx streets.

"That won't stop them for long," she said, checking her gun's ammunition. "But it buys us time."

"Time for what?" Chiji asked, heart still racing from the near miss.

Svetlana pointed to a rundown auto shop ahead, its sign flickering in the night. "To make this car disappear and find somewhere to lay low until morning." She studied him for a moment, her expression softening fractionally. "You did good back there, Chijioke."

"We're still alive," he conceded, pulling into the darkened lot behind the shop. "That counts for something."

She nodded, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. "In my world, that counts for everything."

As they stepped out into the rain, the ledger secure in Svetlana's jacket, Chiji couldn't help but feel they were balanced on the edge of a knife. One slip and they'd fall. But standing beside this dangerous, enigmatic woman, with her arctic eyes and deadly grace, he felt more alive than he had in years.

Forty-eight hours. A lifetime. A heartbeat. However long they had, he was in this now—for better or worse.

And God help anyone who got in their way.

***
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