Rose leaned back against the plush velvet couch, sighing in deep satisfaction. The golden pancakes were gone, but the bliss still lingered on her tongue. The faint trace of chocolate syrup coated the corner of her mouth, and she wiped it away lazily with the back of her hand. If there was an award for comfort food, these pancakes deserved a crown, a throne, and a shrine. Scar Face, for all his sarcasm and sighs, had delivered heaven in a box.
She stood, slowly stretching her limbs, then gathered the empty takeaway containers and the now-lukewarm cappuccino cup, tossing them into the nearby trash bin with an arched brow of pride—like a queen dismissing servants from court. The apartment was unusually silent. Too silent. Nikolai's door was still closed, locked in its haunting stillness like a portal to another world.
Her stomach fluttered—not from hunger this time, but guilt. A thread of it, thin but stubborn, tugged at her. She hadn't seen him since their argumemt earlier, not a single word exchanged. Part of her told herself he deserved the cold shoulder. But another part whispered something else: What if he was hurting, and just didn't know how to show it?
Don't you dare pity him, she told herself. He's the villain in this story… isn't he?
Shaking her head, she turned toward her bedroom and strolled down the dim hallway. The yellow walls still glared at her like a passive-aggressive smile. It felt like she was trapped inside a banana smoothie. She narrowed her eyes at them. Note to self: cause some kind of accident. Maybe spill red wine, or just burn it all down. Anything to get a remodel.
She collapsed onto her bed and unlocked her phone, the screen lighting up her face in the afternoon gloom. One notification caught her eye—Alejandro.
ALEJANDRO:
I just drove back to Brooklyn. I found my neighbour's cat in my house. Apparently, I left one of the windows in my living room open.
Attached was a picture. She tapped on it and let out a loud chuckle. The fluffy feline sat in regal defiance next to what used to be an antique vase, now shattered into a graveyard of expensive porcelain shards.
She remembered that vase—sleek, iridescent blue with hand-painted dragons curling around its neck. It had cost him thousands. Auctioned in Milan. He wouldn't shut up about it for a week.
She grinned.
ROSE:
Maybe just adopt it. It's cute. Sorry about your vase though.
She hit send.
A moment later, her screen lit up again.
ALEJANDRO:
It's cute but dangerous. You should've seen the way it hissed at me. Like it was possessed.
She smirked.
ROSE:
But still. It's cute. Dangerous things are always the most fun.
She hit send again, then placed the phone on the nightstand. Her smile faded slowly, her fingers lingering near the phone, almost waiting for it to buzz again. The silence returned, thick and constant like a storm cloud.
She lay back on the bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling. The fan above spun in slow circles, whispering secrets only it could understand.
---
Meanwhile, in the opposite end of the penthouse, Nikolai sat in his study—his sanctuary of shadows. Books lined the tall shelves, untouched and immaculate. His heavy mahogany desk was covered in files, notepads, a black Montblanc pen, and a crystal glass half-filled with untouched bourbon. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, Manhattan pulsed below him, a city that never stopped breathing.
But he wasn't looking at it.
He was staring at the document in front of him, his jaw clenched, his knuckles white as he gripped the edges of the folder. It was a shipment manifest—rows and rows of firearm model numbers, weight classes, routes, and bribes. The usual rot. Mikhail had sent it for review.
And Sergei… Sergei had made himself clear. Don't mess this up.
His phone buzzed against the desk. He didn't flinch, didn't blink. Only after the second buzz did he check the message.
MIKHAIL:
The boss says to remind you about the gathering tomorrow night. Lorenzo will be there. Don't mess it up.
Nikolai stared at the screen for a moment, then tossed the phone aside with a dull thud. He leaned back, rubbing the bridge of his nose. The "gathering" was nothing more than a glorified vulture feast—expensive suits, blood-thirsty smiles, men pretending to be civil while planning to stab each other in the back. Desperate women in glittering gowns trying to out-smile one another, all praying for a slice of power. It was a pit of snakes dressed in Dior.
And Sergei wanted him to make a deal with Lorenzo. Of course.
His eyes drifted toward the hallway, the one that led to Rose's room.
He couldn't take his mind off her. Not since earlier. Her voice rang in his head like a curse.
"Did you sell yourself on the streets, Nikolai? Because clearly it looks like you did, considering you strangled me for saying those words."
She had said it like a slap, but the words had carved something open inside him. Something dark, something broken.
He rose from his seat and walked to the window, staring down at the city. The skyline shimmered under the sun, heatwaves rising from rooftops like ghosts. His reflection stared back at him in the glass—hard eyes, emotionless face. But even that mask was starting to crack.
He reached for his phone again and opened a text.
NIKOLAI:
Bring a dress for tomorrow night's event. Heels. Jewelry.
He hit send and stared at the message for a second.
He didn't add "for Rose."
He didn't need to.
Scar Face would understand. And Rose… well, he wanted to see how she would carry herself in that den of wolves. Would she break? Keep her head high as always and hide behind her sharp tongue or would she crumble under all that weight.
He would wait and see. And if she got herself into trouble. She would pull herself out.