Matteo slowly pushed himself up from the cold floor, palms pressing against the concrete as his muscles protested. His legs felt like jelly, trembling beneath his weight, but he forced himself upright anyway. He sucked in a shaky breath and let it out through his nose.
Silence.
No engines.
No footsteps.
No looming black sedan idling outside his window.
For the first time since the chase, his shoulders dropped.
"…I think I lost him," Matteo muttered to himself.
The relief was short-lived.
He leaned against one of the tattoo chairs, rubbing his face with both hands. His pulse still hammered violently in his ears, adrenaline refusing to let go. He knew better than to relax completely—not when the man hunting him was AleksanderNinkovic, the most feared crime boss in Russia.
I need to be careful now, he thought grimly.
One wrong move and I'm dead.
Matteo exhaled sharply.
He was only twenty-four.
Too young to die in a foreign country, hunted like an animal. Too young to have his name erased from the world without ever getting the chance to live the quiet life he'd imagined—settling down, maybe marrying a nice girl, opening another shop somewhere warm. Hell, maybe even building a small, dysfunctional family of his own.
Something normal.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut in frustration.
"Fuck my life," he muttered.
Then he sniffed.
Once.
Twice.
He froze.
Slowly, Matteo lifted one arm and sniffed under it.
His face twisted instantly.
"Oh my— Jesus Christ," he groaned, turning his head away in disgust. "I fucking reek."
He dragged a hand through his black hair and flung it back roughly, as if shaking off the stress clinging to him.
"All that running," he snapped to no one, "I smell like a goddamn raccoon that lost a fight with a dumpster."
His teeth clenched as he paced the shop, boots echoing faintly off the walls. The familiar scent of ink and metal usually grounded him—but tonight, everything felt wrong. The graffiti-stained door suddenly looked flimsy. The locks felt inadequate.
Then—
Knock.
Matteo stopped dead.
The sound echoed too loudly in the quiet shop.
A bead of sweat slid slowly down his cheek.
His eyes snapped to the door.
No.
He didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Knock. Knock.
His fists clenched instinctively at his sides as dread washed over him in a cold, suffocating wave. His heart slammed so hard it felt like it might crack a rib.
No way. No fucking way.
Matteo wasn't stupid.
He lunged for the nearest metal tray, fingers closing around a heavy-duty electric drill. The moment he flicked it on, the sharp whir of the motor filled the room—loud, aggressive, desperate.
The knocking stopped.
Silence.
Thick.
Heavy.
Deafening.
Matteo swallowed hard, feet shifting as he lowered his stance. His grip tightened on the drill until his knuckles went white.
Then—
BOOM.
The door exploded inward with a violent crash, wood splintering as it slammed against the wall. Dust and debris burst into the air.
"SH—!"
Matteo squinted instinctively, coughing as smoke and dust filled his lungs. He waved a hand in front of his face, eyes burning, drill still whining loudly in his grip.
As the haze cleared, his vision sharpened.
And his blood ran cold.
Aleksander stood in the doorway.
Perfectly composed.
Dressed in a dark tailored coat over a pristine suit, gloves still on his hands, not a speck of dust touching him. His blond hair was immaculate, his expression calm—almost amused.
Four men flanked him.
All dressed in black.
All solid, broad-shouldered, armed.
All watching Matteo like prey that had finally stopped running.
Aleksander's lips curved into a slow, deadly smile.
Matteo raised the drill higher, forcing his legs to steady.
"Come at me, bitches—" he snarled.
ZAP.
White-hot electricity tore through his body.
Matteo's muscles locked instantly, jaw clenching as a strangled sound ripped from his throat. The drill slipped from his fingers and clattered uselessly to the floor.
He collapsed.
Hard.
Everything went black.
Aleksander blinked.
Then he looked down at the taser in one of his men's hands with genuine interest.
"…Interesting," he murmured.
He took the taser, turning it over thoughtfully, testing its weight.
"We should invest in these more," Aleksander said casually. "Very efficient."
One of the men nodded. "Yes, Tsar."
Aleksander handed it back, adjusting his gloves as he stepped over Matteo's unconscious form. He didn't spare him another glance.
"Take him," he said simply.
The men obeyed immediately, lifting Matteo's limp body with ease. His head lolled to the side as they dragged him out of the ruined shop and toward the waiting car.
Aleksander paused at the doorway and glanced back once—eyes sharp, smile faint.
"So much trouble," he murmured.
"And yet…"
He turned away.
"…worth every second."