The plane doors opened slowly, and cold air slipped into the cabin.
Nikolai stayed seated longer than he needed to.
Passengers stood quickly, stretching, reaching for overhead luggage, murmuring about connections and weather. He remained still, staring at the back of the seat in front of him.
Toronto, Canada.
His arm throbbed beneath the bandage wrapped tightly under his sleeve. The bullet had gone through clean, they'd said.
Lucky.
He didn't feel lucky.
When he finally stood, the ache flared.
He stepped into the aisle and moved with the crowd.
Every step felt like crossing a line he couldn't uncross.
The airport was brighter than he expected.
Fluorescent lights reflected off polished floors. Announcements echoed in English and French. People moved quickly, confidently, like they belonged.
He did not.
He walked until he reached a quieter stretch near the windows overlooking the runway. Dawn was just beginning to stretch across the sky, pale pink breaking through gray.
He reached into his pocket.
His phone felt colder than his hand.
For a moment, he just stared at Misha's name on the screen.
He pressed call.
The line didn't ring.
It didn't even attempt to connect.
Instead, a mechanical voice responded almost immediately.
"The number you are trying to reach is unavailable."
He frowned.
He tried again.
Nothing.
Not even a dial tone.
His jaw tightened.
He switched to messaging.
I landed.
He hit send.
The message didn't go through.
A small red symbol appeared beside it.
Not delivered.
His stomach dropped.
No.
He checked the number carefully. Even if he knew that it was correct. He knew it by heart.
He tried calling again.
Same response.
Unreachable.
As if the number no longer existed.
Or as if-
He had been blocked.
The thought hit harder than the cold outside.
Blocked?
Why would Mikhail block him?
Unless-
Unless something happened.
Unless Viktor happened.
Unless-
His pulse quickened, but his face remained calm. Controlled.
He lowered the phone slowly.
He should have talked to Mikhail. Really talked to him. Not the sharp words. Not the slammed door. Not the pride wrapped around anger like armor.
The last look they shared replayed in his mind on a cruel loop, Misha standing there, jaw tight but eyes soft, as if he wanted to say something and didn't.
And Nikolai had walked away.
Out of anger, hurt and maybe even fear.
Now the call wouldn't go through.
No ringing. No voicemail. Nothing.
Just silence.
A silence that felt intentional.
His grip tightened around his phone.
Did he hate him?
The idea dug deeper than the bullet ever had.
Maybe he had gone too far that night. Maybe the accusations. Maybe the way his actions said "I don't need you."
He hadn't meant it.
Not at all.
Misha had always been the steady one. The reason he survived more than once.
And Nikolai had left like it meant nothing.
The regret settled heavy in his chest.
What if that was the last conversation they would ever have?
What if pride was the final thing Mikhail remembered about him?
He swallowed hard and looked out at the unfamiliar sky beyond the airport glass.
He would give anything to go back ten minutes. Ten seconds.
To stay.
To say something softer.
To not leave in anger.
But the plane had landed.
And silence was all that answered him now.
A small crowd waited just beyond the sliding glass doors, drivers in heavy coats, holding cardboard signs with names written in thick black marker.
He almost walked past them.
Until he saw it.
SAM REID.
The letters were bold, uneven, slightly smudged at the edges. Impersonal. Temporary. Like it had been written quickly and without care.
He stopped.
For a second, he didn't move.
That wasn't his name.
Not the one Mikhail used. Not the one that meant something.
But it was the name printed in his passport. The name that got him through immigration. The name that let him exist here.
The man holding the sign looked to be in his late forties, bundled in a dark jacket, chewing gum lazily as he scanned the crowd.
Nikolai adjusted the sling on his arm and stepped forward.
"Sam Reid?" The driver said evenly.
The driver lowered the sign and gave him a brief once-over.
"Yes."
The driver nodded. "Welcome to Canada."
As he followed the man toward the exit, the cold morning air rushed at him the moment the doors slid open. It hit his face sharply, biting at his lungs.
He welcomed that too.
It was easier to focus on the cold than on the hollow space inside his chest.
Behind him, the airport buzzed with reunions and laughter.
Ahead of him waited a car, a hotel room, and a name that wasn't quite his.
And somewhere thousands of miles away, a phone that would not ring.
The hotel lobby smelled faintly of disinfectant and stale coffee.
Nikolai stepped inside carefully, dragging his bag behind him, his injured arm aching. The clock on the wall glowed 6:30 a.m. in harsh red digits. The streets outside still seemed empty, the city waiting to wake.
The receptionist looked up with a bright smile as he approached. "Good morning! Welcome," she said, handing him the sign-in sheet. Her eyes flicked to him, and she added cheerfully, "By the way… you're really handsome. Didn't expect that this early!"
Nikolai's lips twitched into a faint, awkward smile. "Uh… thank you," he murmured, taking the pen.
"Just sign here, and I'll give you your key. Your room's ready," she said, her tone still upbeat. "Hope you enjoy your stay!"
He nodded and turned toward the elevator, the compliment lingering in his mind, though he had no energy to respond further..
He took the elevator slowly, each ding of the floors echoing in the narrow shaft. The weight of the day, the flight, the long hours, the strange, silent city pressed down on him.
Every step made the bandaged arm throb, a dull reminder of the bullet he'd survived.
The hotel room was spacious, far bigger than he'd expected. A king-sized bed with crisp white sheets dominated one corner, a large desk and chair set up near the window, a sofa and coffee table sat against the opposite wall, and a small kitchenette occupied another. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over streets dusted with frost, empty save for a lone early jogger.
Everything was clean. Everything was sterile. Nothing felt like home. Nothing carried warmth or history.
He set his bag down carefully and unwrapped the bandage from his arm. The skin beneath was pink, tender, already forming a faint scar. He pressed lightly, pain shot up his shoulder, sharp and immediate.
"You survived," he whispered to himself, staring at the reflection in the mirror above the desk. "Now what?"
His first instinct was the phone. He reached for it immediately.
Mikhail.
His thumb hovered over the number for a long, almost desperate second before he pressed call.
And again, nothing.
Only the automated voice: "The number you are trying to reach is unavailable."
Blocked.
Or unreachable.
The thought twisted in his chest, heavy and cold.
He had left out of anger.
He had walked away before things could be fixed. Before a proper apology. Before a goodbye that mattered.
The weight of regret settled on him like frost on the streets below. It just kept bugging him.
He went to the bathroom and let the hot water wash over his shoulders. The ache in his arm eased slightly, but the heaviness in his chest remained.
Then a thought struck him, desperate and reckless. Viktor.
Maybe Viktor could reach Mikhail. Maybe he could tell him he was here, alive.
He dialed the number carefully.
"Hello, sir," Nikolai said, voice tight.
"What is it?" Viktor's tone was clipped, dismissive.
"I… I was trying to reach Misha, but I can't. I thought maybe you could tell him I'm here," Nikolai said.
A pause. Viktor's voice came back, flat, almost casual: "Okay… and thanks to Mikhail, you have a month at the hotel."
The line went dead.
A month? That was longer than he expected. Longer than he felt he deserved. But it was enough. Enough time to get his bearings, to find work, to survive.
He couldn't cling to Viktor's words for comfort - they were cold, detached, just like everything else in this place - but they gave him something tangible: space to breathe.
He dressed quickly, ignoring the ache in his arm, and stepped outside. The city was waking slowly; the streets still quiet, but the air sharp and crisp. He let it bite at his lungs, focusing on the physical sensation rather than the emptiness in his chest.
He wandered down a few streets, unsure where to go, but making sure he doesn't get lost, Then by chance, his gaze fell on a small sign in a restaurant window: "Waiter Needed".
He paused, reading it twice. A spark of focus lit inside him for the first time since stepping off the plane.
Maples Restaurant.
It would have to do.
Around him, people reunited. A child ran into his mother's arms. A couple kissed. Someone laughed loudly near baggage claim.
The world continued.
His felt like it didn't.
He walked closer, letting the sunlight glint off the glass windows. Inside, he could see the staff moving quickly, cleaning tables, setting up chairs, arranging cutlery. The place looked busy but understaffed
Taking a deep breath, he pushed the door open. A small bell jingled overhead.
"Good morning," he said, his voice steady despite the nervous flutter in his chest.
A young hostess glanced up and gave him a quick, professional smile. "Good morning! Can I help you?"
"I… I saw your sign. 'Waiter Needed.' I'd like to apply," Nikolai said, keeping his gaze firm. "I can start immediately."
The hostess raised an eyebrow, then nodded toward the back. "The manager's office is just down the hall. He'll see you."
Nikolai nodded and walked down the narrow corridor. He didn't have a resume. He didn't have references. The only thing he had was a fake high school diploma and, perhaps, his looks and height, which he wasn't about to advertise.
The manager's office door was slightly ajar. Nikolai knocked softly.
"Come in!" a gruff voice called.
He stepped inside. The manager was a middle-aged man, tall, broad-shouldered, with a sharp gaze that seemed to measure him from head to toe. A clipboard rested on his desk, but he didn't glance at it as Nikolai entered.
"You're here about the job?" the man asked, his voice even but carrying authority.
"Yes, sir. I saw the sign," Nikolai said, keeping his posture straight. "I can start immediately. I… I can learn fast."
The manager leaned back in his chair, arms crossed "What's your name?".
"I'm Sam Reid sir," He studied Nikolai silently for a long moment. The quiet made Nikolai's pulse quicken.
"Do you have experience?" the manager asked finally.
"I… I've done some work in customer service," Nikolai replied. He didn't lie, but he also didn't elaborate. "I'm quick, observant, and… I adapt fast."
The manager's eyes flicked to his arm, noticing the stiffness in his arm. "Injured?"
"Nothing that will stop me from working, sir," Nikolai said firmly.
The manager leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. "You're tall" he observed. "Handsome. Quick on your feet. Good presence in front of customers… you know how to use it?"
Nikolai blinked, unsure if he should nod or remain silent. "I… I will, sir."
A faint smirk appeared on the manager's face. "Alright. You start today. Show up in the back at eleven. Uniform's over there." He pointed to a small stack of folded shirts and aprons by the wall.
"Work… granted?" Nikolai asked, barely daring to breathe.
"Work granted," the manager said firmly. "I don't tolerate lateness."
Nikolai exhaled, a smile tugging at his lips despite the tightness in his chest. "Thank you, sir."
He turned and walked toward the uniform, feeling a mix of relief and nervous energy. The adrenaline from being accepted into a place, from having a purpose for the day, made his arm ache a little less.
Nikolai didn't waste a single second. After the manager granted him the job, he left the restaurant and walked a few blocks back toward the hotel, careful to note every landmark so he could return without hesitation. The uniform was folded neatly in his bag, ready for the official start.
By 10:50 a.m., he was back at Maples. He lingered outside, observing the bustle through the glass windows. Tables were being wiped, chairs straightened, and waiters moved briskly between the kitchen and the dining area. He glanced at his watch. Ten minutes early. Always early. Punctuality had been hammered into him over years of punishments for being late.
At 11:00 a.m. sharp, he pushed open the door. The bell jingled overhead, and he stepped into the warm, slightly crowded air of the restaurant.
"Morning!" Elena called cheerfully from the counter, her dark hair bouncing with every movement. She had a perpetual sparkle in her eyes and a smile that could disarm anyone. "You must be the new guy! Come on, I'll show you the ropes!"
Nikolai gave a polite nod. "Morning. Yes, I'm Sam." His voice was calm, controlled, every syllable measured.
Elena practically bounced over to him, talking faster than he could process. "I'm Elena! You'll love it here. Don't worry, I'll make sure you survive your first day. Oh! And meet our team while we're at it." She gestured toward two other coworkers nearby.
William looked up briefly, expression flat, as if anyone had asked him to walk on hot coals. Dark circles under his eyes and a scowl that seemed permanently etched onto his face made it clear he wanted anything but this job. He didn't bother introducing himself; his only acknowledgment was a barely perceptible nod.
On the other hand, Andrew slouched slightly, appearing almost swallowed by his own uniform. His eyes were distant, melancholy in a way that suggested he carried something heavy beyond the restaurant's daily grind. He murmured a soft, "Hey," without much enthusiasm.
Elena, undeterred, waved her hand dramatically. "And that's William and Andrew! Don't mind their moods, everyone's a little weird first thing in the morning. Anyway, you and I will be working the front section together. I'll show you where everything goes."
Nikolai followed her to a small cluster of tables near the windows. He noted the layout carefully: menus stacked neatly at the end of each table, condiments aligned perfectly, and a clear path from the kitchen to the dining area.
"You're handsome," Elena said casually, her tone light but observant. "I like that. I rarely see people this good-looking."
Nikolai shrugged. "Thank you Elena"
Elena's eyes sparkled. " You'll fit in just fine." She gave him a playful nudge, almost teasing, before bouncing off to help another waiter carry trays.
He turned slightly, glancing at William and Andrew again. William was fiddling with a pen behind the counter, clearly uninterested. Andrew was staring at the floor, absently arranging a stack of plates. They weren't welcoming, but Nikolai didn't let it bother him. He had faced worse indifference before.
The first customer arrived shortly after, and Nikolai's attention snapped fully to his job. He carried menus, smiled politely, and took the order with careful precision. Elena hovered nearby, offering tips in a rapid-fire stream, but never hovering too long.
"You've got good instincts," she said with a grin. "Just… don't drop anything, okay?"
"I won't," Nikolai said quietly, adjusting the tray in his hands.
By midday, he was moving smoothly through the restaurant. He had memorized table numbers, pathways, and the staff's quirks. Elena continued to chatter, William remained aloof, and Andrew kept to himself. Nikolai didn't need anyone to like him, he just needed to survive and prove he could handle this.
And as the sun climbed higher, spilling golden light through the windows, Nikolai felt something he hadn't in days: control. Small, precise, and entirely in his hands.
"Hey, do you want to hang out with my friends and me after work?" Elena asked, flashing him a grin.
Truth was, he hadn't made any plans for the rest of the day. A Saturday. Why not?
"Sure," he said, a small smile tugging at his lips.
"I'm a student, in my last year," she continued, bouncing on her heels. "I study interior decoration."
Nikolai raised an eyebrow. People actually go to school for that? he thought, intrigued.
"Are you also a student?" she asked, tilting her head slightly.
"No. I don't go to college," he admitted, keeping his tone casual.
"That's cool," she said, nodding, unbothered.
"Alright, I'll meet you back here at 8 p.m.?" she asked, checking the time.
"Sure," he replied.
The rest of the day passed quickly. From 11 a.m. to 6 p.m., Nikolai moved through the restaurant with careful precision carrying trays, taking orders, cleaning tables. Elena flitted around, offering tips and encouraging him with her constant, bubbly chatter. William remained distant, barely acknowledging anyone, and Andrew kept to himself, quietly working in the background.
By the end of the shift, Nikolai felt a sense of accomplishment he hadn't expected. The exhaustion was real, but it was good exhaustion the kind that comes from having done something productive.
Out back in his hotel room, Nikolai sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the faint city lights through the window. He knew he wouldn't reach Misha through Viktor - the man was unpredictable, dismissive, and unlikely to pass on his call.
He picked up his phone, fingers tight around the device, and dialed Markov's number.
"Hey, Markov… please, can I speak with Misha?" he asked, voice low but urgent.
"You left Misha without a word," Markov said immediately, sharp and cutting, as if the silence in the line itself carried judgment. "Why should I waste my time helping you now?"
"I… I didn't mean to," Nikolai admitted, swallowing hard. "I left out of anger."
There was a pause. A long one. Then Markov's voice softened, almost imperceptibly. "It's fine, kid. But I'm not allowed to help you speak wit him"
Relief hit Nikolai like a small wave. "Can I… ask a question?"
"Go ahead," Markov said, calm but with that unmistakable edge of authority.
"Did Misha block me? Is he… still mad at me?"
"I can't say much," Markov answered cautiously. "But it's not what it seems. And no… Misha isn't mad at you. He misses you -just as much, if not more."
Nikolai's chest tightened. "Can I… just hear his voice? He doesn't have to know I'm on the phone with you."
There was a long pause. Then Markov's voice returned, firm but not unkind: "Maybe next time. He's training right now."
"Promise?" Nikolai asked, desperation creeping in.
"I promise. Just hang in there, and don't die, okay?"
"Okay," Nikolai whispered.
"How's life in Canada?" Markov asked, his tone casual but probing.
"Honestly… not as bad," Nikolai admitted. "Misha paid for the hotel for a month, so that's… something."
"I'm glad," Markov said briefly.
Nikolai hesitated, then asked the question that had been gnawing at him. "How's Misha doing?"
"He's just training," Markov replied. "To get the underboss position. He has to prove he's ready."
Nikolai frowned. "Is he… eating and resting?"
"Yes, he is," Markov said, his voice softer. "I'll call you back, Koyla, okay?" And just like that, the line went dead.
Nikolai set his phone down, exhaling slowly. At least he knew Misha didn't hate him. Viktor probably didn't want them talking anymore, that much was obvious.
Still… a part of him felt hollow. Misha wasn't doing anything about their distance, wasn't reaching out. The thought left a dull ache in Nikolai's chest. But for now, at least, he had some reassurance.
Nikolai stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the collar of his shirt. He had never had a friend outside of Misha or the people in the mafia, so the idea of meeting Elena and her friends was strangely exciting.
He wanted to make a good impression without overthinking it. He decided on a baggy dark blue jean that complemented his frame, snug at the waist, tapering just enough at the ankle to give a clean, modern look. He paired it with a simple, well-cut black t-shirt that made his amber eyes stand out, and a casual jacket in case the evening got chilly. His white-tipped hair caught the light in the mirror, giving him a sharp, almost untouchable edge.
A small smile tugged at his lips. This will be… interesting, he thought. For the first time in a long while, he felt anticipation, not dread. The evening stretched out before him like a blank page one he could write however he wanted.
Nikolai arrived at Maples a few minutes early, the evening air crisp and carrying the faint scent of food and city life. He stepped inside, immediately greeted by the warm buzz of the restaurant laughter, clinking glasses, and the soft hum of music in the background.
"Sam!" he turned, spotting her near the counter, eyes lighting up when she saw him.
"There you are!" she exclaimed, rushing over. "Ready for tonight?"
"Yeah," Nikolai said, a small smile tugging at his lips. He followed her past the tables toward a quiet corner where a small group of her friends had gathered.
"This is Jason, Lucia, Lior, Harry, and Bethany," Elena said brightly, gesturing to each of them in turn. "And this is the guy I told you about -Sam."
Nikolai nodded politely as they all turned toward him. They returned his greeting with varying degrees of curiosity and smiles, making him feel surprisingly at ease.
Jason, tall and easygoing, offered a friendly handshake. Lior had a mischievous glint in his eyes, while Harry seemed quietly observant, taking in everything. Bethany's bright energy reminded him of Elena's, and Nikolai found himself smiling before he could stop.
Then, as he shifted slightly, he caught sight of someone else.
She was sitting at the far end of the group, partially turned away but impossible to miss. Her black, curly hair framed a face that glowed with a beautiful shade of brown, and her eyes just visible from where he stood held a spark of intensity that drew him in instantly.
Nikolai's pulse quickened. Who is she? he thought, unable to look away. There was something magnetic about her, quiet yet impossible to ignore.
Elena, noticing his lingering gaze, nudged him lightly with a playful grin. "That's Lucia," she said casually, as if the name alone would explain everything.
Lucia.
The word echoed in Nikolai's mind as he tried to steady his breathing. He had no idea why, but in that moment, something about her felt…like a story waiting to be told, and somehow, he was meant to be part of it.