49. Kat

Chapter 49

Kat

The nerve of that man.

I storm into the guest room after our fight, slamming the door harder than necessary before twisting the lock. It won’t stop him if he really wants in, but at least it might piss him off a little. Or so I thought. Hours pass, and he doesn’t even try. would’ve known—I stayed up most of the night, stewing over everything we said. Every word cuts deeper than before, and the longer I sit here, the angrier I get.

So, I focus on what I can control. The plan. The heist. Getting the Flame of Mir back, along with the evidence. I pour everything into it, mapping out every detail, running through every possible scenario. By the time the first light of dawn creeps in through the curtains, I’m mentally and emotionally drained—but at least the plan is solid.

Dragging myself to bed, I flop onto the mattress, determined to squeeze in a few hours of sleep. I’ll need every ounce of energy to deal with both Nik and the stronzo today. But, of course, just as my body begins to surrender to exhaustion, my phone rings.

Groaning, I reach for it, momentarily delirious enough to think it might be Nik, calling to beg for forgiveness. Why he’d call instead of busting down the door, I don't know. But when I croak a hoarse hello, it's A.J.’s voice that greets me, way too awake for this hour.

“So. How did it go yesterday?” she askS, straight to the point.

“It went great,” I say, rubbing my eyes. “I’ve got everything I need. Thanks again. Where are you?”

“Safe. Don’t worry about me,” she says, her tone softening. “You sound off, though. You okay?”

“Yeah. Just… tired,” I mutter, throwing an arm over my eyes.

Her tone turns teasing. “Did your new boyfriend keep you up all night with his reportedly legendary lovemaking skills?”

I scoff. “As if,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. “No, I stayed up working—by myself. If I hadn’t, the only thing Nik and I would’ve been doing is driving each other insane. And not in the fun way.”

“Uh-oh. Spill. What happened? You were so into him last time we talked.”

I let out a long sigh. “I still am. God help me. It’s just… we had a fight. A big one. Let's just say that his overprotectiveness and need to control every damn thing—including me—cannot be overstated.”

“Damn, babe. I wish I could say I’m shocked, but… Still, you know I’m here for you, right? If you need me to come save you from your mafia fairytale, just say the word.”

I smile despite myself. “Thanks. But I’m okay. I think I can handle him… probably. You’ve got enough to deal with without worrying about my love life.”

There’s a beat of silence, then she says, “Well, if you change your mind, you know how to find me. In the meantime, wanna run your plan by me? Maybe I can help.”

I take her through it, keeping my voice flat and detached, as if that’ll somehow make the plan sound less insane. Breaking into the stronzo’s safe house. Retrieving proof of his secret lovechild. And, of course, stealing back the Flame of Mir. If everything goes right, we’ll get the diamond back and proof that he’s been cheating on his wife—the same woman who made him don in the first place.

Yesterday, I spent hours crouched in the shadows outside the safe house, sweating my ass off, watching the place and trying to figure out how the hell I was going to pull this off. It was supposed to be a simple recon—watch the guards, figure out their patterns, and scope out the best way to slip inside and hit the safe. At first, things looked promising. The guards were predictable, at least—patrolling in lazy loops, completely uninterested in doing their jobs well. One of them even punched in the front door keypad code without bothering to shield it. Amateurs. I was feeling pretty good about my chances, right up until I heard two of them talking as they loaded gear into a van.

"Reinforcements still coming tomorrow," one said, his voice gruff. "Boss wants full lockdown after that.”

My stomach twisted. Reinforcements. Full lockdown. Perfect. No pressure or anything. One night. That’s all I’ve got to break in, crack the safe, and get the hell out before they turn this place into Fort Knox. Simple. Totally fine.

Just talking about it makes my chest tighten. Nik’s going to lose his mind when he realizes I’m gone. And I hate that. I hate making him worry. He might be a controlling, possessive jerk, but he’s my controlling, possessive jerk—and I wouldn’t trade him for the world. He’s also impossibly wonderful and caring, far more often than he’s a pain in the ass.

But there’s no other way. I have to do this. For him. For us. For everyone. I’ll explain everything later, when it’s safe. I just hope he’ll understand.

When I hang up, I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor. The weight of it all presses down on me, but so does the ache to see him. One night away from him, and I feel like I’m suffocating, pining for the sound of his voice, the feel of his arms around me.

I get up and open the door, my stomach twisting with nerves as I brace myself for what’s sure to be a frosty welcome. I’ll take it, because the alternative is going another second without seeing him.

The penthouse is too quiet. I step out of the bedroom, my bare feet brushing against the cold floor as I look around, the silence wrapping around me like a bad omen. Nik isn’t brooding on the balcony, sulking in his office, or even pacing the living room. The kitchen? Empty. He isn’t even slouched on the couch with that annoyed look he gets when he’s pretending not to wait for me to give him some sugar. My chest tightens with every room I pass. He always broods somewhere I can find him, somewhere I can go to make up—or fight him some more. Where the hell is he?

My stomach churns as a thousand worst-case scenarios flash through my mind. We fought last night, but it wasn’t bad enough for him to leave—or so I thought. I just need to see him, to hear his voice. I need to know he’s okay. We spent the night apart after our fight, and I hated every second of it. Waking up without him next to me felt… wrong. Now, I just have to see him. I need him to apologize to me, yell at me, something. Anything.

Then I hear it. Voices, sharp and urgent, slicing through the quiet. My stomach drops. The elevator dings, and I run toward it just as the doors slide open, spilling chaos into the room.

Dmitri stumbles in first, looking like he got into a fight with a brick wall and lost. Blood streaks the side of his face, dripping onto his collar. Behind him, two of Nik’s men stride in, half-dragging Nik between them. My heart stops.

His shirt is torn, soaked with blood near his shoulder. It clings to him like a second skin, the crimson stain spreading across his chest like something out of a nightmare. My nightmare. His skin is pale, almost ghostly, and Blood streaks down his arm, seeping through the bandage someone half-assed slapped on him. He’s walking, but barely. He drags himself forward like sheer force of will is the only thing keeping him upright. Blood drips onto the marble floor with every step, painting a trail of red that makes my knees go weak.

"Nik!" The word tears out of me, my voice cracking as I run to him, my legs barely working. My heart is pounding so hard it feels like it might crack my ribs. "Oh my God. What happened? Are you—Nik, you’re bleeding?—“

"I’m fine," he says sharply before I can even reach him, his voice clipped, like he’s angry at me for caring. He brushes past me like he hasn’t just scared ten years off my life.

"Fine?" I stop in front of him and glare up at him like he hasn’t just been dragged in, bleeding. My hands hover over him, unsure where to touch without making it worse. It’s just his shoulder—he’ll probably live—but the sight of it makes my knees weak. "You’re bleeding all over the place! That’s not fine—it’s the opposite of fine! That’s dying !”

He glares at me, but it’s weak, the kind of glare he uses when he knows he’s losing the argument. "It’s nothing. I’ll live," he mutters, his voice low, as if that makes everything better. He even tries to shrug, but the motion makes him wince. Good. Maybe pain will remind him he’s mortal.

"Nothing?" I whirl around, following him. "Oh, sure, it’s just a scratch, right? Just a little flesh wound on your—what is that—your heart-adjacent area? Nik, you’re literally dripping blood on the floor.”

He lowers himself into the nearest chair with a wince, his breath hitching as he leans back. "Everything’s under control," he says, his voice tight, but I can see the tension in his clenched jaw and the stiffness in his shoulders. His men step back, leaving him to his stubbornness.

"Yeah, you look super in control right now," I snap. I drop to my knees in front of him, my hands hovering near the mess of blood on his shoulder. "What happened? And don’t you fucking dare tell me 'nothing.' Spill it. Literally, at this point.”

Nik exhales sharply, his jaw ticking.

"We had a lead on McGuire," Dmitri cuts in from where he’s collapsed on the couch, wiping blood from his temple. "Turns out, it was a trap. But don’t worry, I’m fine. The only thing that’s seriously hurt is my pride." The corners of his mouth twitch like he might try to smile.

"Well, your pride isn’t bleeding out in front of me, so excuse me if I don’t care too much right now," I snap back, my eyes darting to Nik. "A trap?" My voice rises, sharp and frantic. "You walked into a trap? Nik, look at me. You could’ve been killed. Do you get that? Killed. Dead. What the hell were you thinking?”

He finally looks at me, his gaze steady, cold, and unrelenting. "Obviously, I didn’t know it was a trap," he says through clenched teeth, his exhaustion visible in the lines of his face.

"That’s your excuse?" I spit, my voice trembling with anger and fear. "That’s what you have to say to me? How can you be so careless with yourself?”

"It’s not an excuse," he growls, straightening despite the obvious pain. "And I wasn’t careless. Sometimes, shit happens. This is… part of the job.”

The job. Oh-fucking-course.

I stare at him, disbelief making my voice rise. "Oh, sure. Getting shot is just part of the job description, right? Maybe next time you could schedule a concussion for Thursday and a stab wound for Saturday. Really round out the week. But make sure not to book anything for Friday—we’ve got dinner plans." My heart is pounding, and I hate how scared I sound, but I can’t stop. "What if they’d aimed higher? Lower? What if they hit something vital? What if—" My throat closes, and I force the words out. "What if next time, you don’t come back?”

"It is what it is," he says, his tone low and hard. "You think I planned this? You think I like being shot at?”

"Then stop getting into situations where people shoot you!" The words fly out before I can think. "Quit! Walk away! You don’t have to keep doing this?—“

He sits up straighter, his hand brushing against the bloodied bandage as though daring it to hurt him. "This is the job, Kat. You knew what this was when you chose to stay with me.”

I freeze, as anger surges, hot and unstoppable. "Don’t you dare throw that at me," I whisper, my voice trembling. "Choosing to be with you doesn’t mean choosing to watch you bleed out in our living room! It doesn’t mean being okay with you recklessly walking into a trap like you don’t give a damn about your life! Like you don't give a damn about me !”

His face hardens, and he tries to push to his feet, before giving up with a wince. "You think I don’t care?" His voice is low, dangerous. "You think I’d still be here if I didn’t care?" His laugh cuts me off before I can say anything, bitter and sharp. "You know what? I'm not having this conversation with you. Definitely not now. Preferably not ever again."

His words hit me like a slap, the weight of them slamming into my chest. He shifts slightly, grimacing, and I swallow the lump in my throat and force my voice steady. "Yeah, well, unless you’re planning to redecorate in crime scene chic, you need a doctor. Now . Stitches, antibiotics—something.”

"It’s a scratch," he mutters, waving me off like I’m being dramatic.

"It’s a gunshot wound," I snap. "You don’t just slap a bandage on a bullet hole and call it a day!" My gaze is locked on him, on the shallow rise and fall of his chest, the streaks of blood painting his skin. My hands shake as I press them over the bandage. It’s soaked through. "We’re calling someone. Dmitri, hand me my phone. It's on the coffee table."

"No," Nik says sharply, his hand snapping up to grab my wrist. His grip is strong, unrelenting, even though I know he’s hurting. "No phone calls.”

"Why not?" I demand, my voice rising.

"Because I said so." His eyes blaze, but there’s something dangerous and raw underneath it. "Let it go, Kat.”

I swallow hard, blinking back tears. My hands fall to my lap, useless. "You could’ve been killed," I whisper, my voice trembling. "Do you get that? You could’ve died. Do you even care what that would do to me?”

His jaw tightens, and his gaze flickers away. Just for a second. But it’s enough. "How the fuck do you get the nerve to ask me that? Everything—every single fucking thing—I do is for you.”

"Then let me get you some help. For my sake, if not yours. You need a doctor. This isn’t something I can fix with gauze and disinfectant.”

"No fucking doctors. Period," he growls, his voice hard.

I blink, staring up at him. "Are you crazy? You need stitches! Antibiotics! Hell, probably a transfusion at this point!”

"Kat." His voice cuts through my panic, sharp and commanding. "I said no.”

"And I say you’re not dying on me today!" My voice shakes, and I hate it, but I can’t stop. "I'm getting you a doctor, I don't care what you say?—“

"Many of McGuire's men died today. I won't have your name or mine on any conversation that links us to a gunfight with the Irish. You never know who's listening to my phone calls—and yours, too, now that you're with me. You’re not getting yourself seen near anything suspicious. I won't have you connected to any of this organized crime crap. End of discussion.”

I scoff, glaring at him, horrified. "If you think I care about any of that more than I care about your life?—“

"No," he snaps, his voice sharp, but there’s something else underneath it. Anger. Exhaustion. Something raw and jagged. "How many times do I have to tell you? This is not a democracy.”

"Fine!" My voice cracks like a whip. "If you won’t let me call someone, I’ll go in person. I’ll find a doctor, offer them a ridiculous amount of cash to keep their mouth shut?—“

"No!" His voice booms, his hand tightening around my wrist. His eyes blaze with fury, but it’s not just anger. It’s fear. "You’re not leaving me again.”

The words hit me like a punch to the chest. My breath catches as I stare at him, his fingers tightening even more around my wrist, his jaw locked like he’s holding back something he can’t say.

"Nik, don't be ridiculous. I'll be right back?—“

"No. Don't leave me. It's too dangerous. And you promised. The night we..." He pauses, clears his throat, the movement making him wince. "I warned you. I told you if you stayed, there was no turning back. Don't do this to me.”

And that's when I see it, clear as day.

He doesn’t trust me.

It’s not about the doctor, not really. It's not even about McGuire. It’s about me. He’s terrified I’ll walk out that door and not come back. That I’ll leave him.

The realization hits me like a punch to the chest, stealing my breath. After everything, he still doesn’t believe I’ll stay. Because of how we started. Because I lied, stole from him, hid my name. I thought we were past this, but clearly, no matter what he says, some part of him is still waiting for me to betray him again. And maybe he’s right to worry. Because right now, looking at him bleeding, I don’t know if I can live with this for the rest of my life.

"You don’t trust me," I whisper, the words catching in my throat.

His grip loosens slightly, but his eyes narrow. "This isn’t about trust," he says, his voice cold now, defensive. "It's not safe out there right now. Yesterday when you left, I was worried sick about you, and that was before McGuire tried to kill me today.”

I swallow hard, but the lump in my throat doesn’t budge. "It’s not about that, Nik," I say softly. "You’re scared I won’t come back.”

His jaw tightens, his eyes darkening. "I have no reason to lie to you.”

But he’s lying. I know it. He knows it. And it makes my chest ache.

"Nik, I swear?—“

"Dmitri," he cuts me off. "If she tries to leave, stop her. Disobey me, and I'll shoot you.”

The tension in the room is suffocating. His eyes meet mine, full of anger, but something else flickers there—fear.

"You're un-fucking-believable," I mutter, turning before he can see the sting of that fear etched across my face. "Fine. You win. Just me and a roll of gauze, because apparently that’s all it takes to fix a bullet wound. I’ll get the first aid kit."

I grab the first aid kit from the bathroom, slamming drawers louder than I need to. My hands shake as I fumble for the gauze, but I force myself to take a deep breath. Calm. Stay calm.

When I return, Dmitri and the others are gone, and Nik’s slouched in the chair, his head tilted back, his eyes closed. The sharp lines of his face are etched with pain, his skin pale under the streaks of blood. For a moment, I just stand there, clutching the kit, unsure if I’m about to help him or strangle him.

"Move your arm," I mutter, dropping to my knees beside him.

He doesn’t argue this time, just shifts enough for me to peel back the soaked bandage. The wound on his shoulder is deep, ugly, and still bleeding sluggishly. My stomach churns, but I force myself to focus. I press a clean cloth against it, holding firm despite the shaking in my hands. Nik doesn’t flinch, but his body is taut, the tension radiating off him like a live wire.

I clean the wound in silence, trying not to focus on the blood staining my fingers. Nik doesn’t make a sound, but I can feel his pain, the way his body stiffens every time I touch him.

"You think I can get used to this?" I ask quietly, my voice breaking the silence. "Seeing you hurt like this? Thinking every time you walk out that door might be the last?”

His brow furrows, and his gaze flickers to mine, but he doesn’t speak.

"I was nine the first time someone pointed a gun at me," I say, the words spilling out before I can stop them. "It was a foster dad. A.J. and I had stolen a couple of bucks from his wallet to buy food. He found out and decided we needed to learn a lesson.”

Nik’s body stiffens, but he doesn’t speak.

"He didn’t shoot," I add, staring at my hands. "But he made us think he would. He sat us down on the floor, pointed the gun at our heads, and told us exactly what it’d feel like to die. Exactly what it’d look like." My voice shakes, and I swallow hard. "A.J. cried for hours after that. Me? I just… felt numb."

When I finally look up, Nik’s staring at me, his expression unreadable. I don’t know what I expect him to say, but his silence unnerves me. Scares me.

"That wasn’t the end of it," I continue, my voice trembling. "When I was eleven, we had another foster dad. He drank a lot. One night, A.J. broke a lamp. Not on purpose—she tripped. But it didn’t matter. Our foster dad grabbed her, threw her down, and hit her with the broken base of the lamp until her face was covered in blood.”

Nik’s body goes still, his gaze sharp and focused entirely on me. His hand twitches like he wants to reach for me, but he doesn’t.

"You never told me any of this," he growls, fury like I've never seen before vibrating through him. "His name. Now. Please, Kat." His eyes blaze as he leans forward slightly, ignoring the pain it causes. “He won't live to see tomorrow.”

I shake my head, tears blurring my vision. "I tried to stop him. I jumped on his back, screaming for him to let A.J. go. He threw me into the wall so hard I blacked out. When I woke up, A.J. was sitting there, bleeding, smiling at me like everything was fine. Like it was okay because we were still alive.”

His face hardens, but his eyes soften, filled with something that looks too much like grief. "What happened?”

I swallow hard, blinking back tears. "We ran away the next day. I swore no one would ever hurt us again. And no one did. I made sure of it. But the violence, the blood—it stayed with me. I can’t live like that, Nik. I can’t see you like this and pretend it’s normal. I just… I can’t.”

His shoulders slump, the anger in his face giving way to exhaustion. He exhales slowly, his eyes searching mine. "You think I want this life for you?" he murmurs, his voice rough and uneven. "Knowing it makes you miserable… you think I wouldn’t leave if I could?" He pauses, his jaw tightening as he swallows hard. "I’ve told you before." His voice drops, raw and trembling with emotion. "I live—and die—to make you happy.”

I press fresh gauze against his wound, my chest aching. "I don’t know," I whisper. "I don’t know what you want. But I know what I want. I want you alive. I want you here. With me.”

For a long moment, he doesn’t respond. Then his hand reaches for me, stopping just short of touching. His fingers curl into a fist. "There’s no leaving this, Kat. No quitting. You don’t just walk away from the bratva . There’s no retirement plan for men like me. The only way out is a coffin. There’s no such thing as an ex- pakhan , only a dead one.”

"I became a thief because it was clean. No one had to bleed for me to get what I wanted." I throw away a bloody gauze, tears running down my face. "I hate this. I hate knowing this is your life. And mine.”

For a long moment, neither of us speaks. Then, finally, slowly, his hand covers mine, warm and steady. "I can’t lose you," he murmurs. "Even if you hate me for making you stay. I can’t lose you.”

A sob bursts out, and I nod, squeezing his hand. "I’m not leaving you," I whisper. "But we can’t keep doing this. We can’t keep hurting each other like this, Nik.”

His thumb brushes my knuckles, a rare softness in his gaze. his voice trembling with rare softness. "I know. We’ll figure it out. I promise. Just… stay. Don’t leave me. Stay with me, and I'll find a way to make this work.”

I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "You make it sound so simple…”

"It might not be simple, but Kat, you... You just don’t get it, do you?" His voice trembles, his eyes locked on mine with an intensity that steals the air from the room. "You’re everything to me. And by some miracle, you seem to care about me, though God knows I don’t deserve it." His jaw tightens, and he leans forward slightly, the movement making him wince. "I don’t think you understand the lengths I’d go to make you happy. I’d do unspeakable things to keep you with me forever. To make you feel even a fraction of what I feel for you. To make you..." He pauses, swallowing hard, his gaze searching mine. "...to make you love me.”

The air between us thickens, and I can’t breathe, can’t blink, can’t move a muscle as his words hang there, raw and exposed. I stare at him, speechless, my chest so tight it feels like it might break.

He exhales sharply, a flicker of something vulnerable crossing his face. "I’m going to be honest with you," he says, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. "If you don’t kiss me right now, I think I might die. And it won’t be the bullet or the blood loss that does me in—it’ll be you. You, you merciless, heartless woman." His lips twitch in the faintest trace of a smile, but his eyes glisten, unguarded and sincere. "You hold my heart in your hands, and I don’t think you even know it. So put me out of my misery—come here and kiss me. After yesterday, after today..." His voice breaks, and he swallows hard. "I need to know. I need you . Let me know we’re fine.”

Something half sob, half gasp tears its way out of my chest, and before I can think, I’m on his lap, throwing my arms around his neck, and kissing him hard, with everything I have. The world blurs, every fear and doubt swept away by the sheer relief of him, of us.

He grunts in pain against my lips, his body tensing beneath me. "Easy, kiska . My shoulder?—“

"Oh, shit," I gasp, pulling back instantly, my hands hovering near his chest. "Nik, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to?—“

"I didn’t say stop," he cuts me off, his voice firm despite the rasp of pain. His eyes lock onto mine, fierce and unyielding. "Don’t you dare stop.”

Tears prick my eyes, and despite everything, I smile. A shaky, watery smile, but a real one. I nod, leaning in to kiss him again, this time softer, slower, every touch a silent promise of more. "Bossy," I murmur against his lips, my smile pressing into his.

"You love it," he whispers back, his voice low and hoarse, a hint of a smirk playing against my mouth.

God help me, I do.