"Where can I find the ladies' room?" Rose asked, her voice level but laced with quiet irritation because her bladder was now becoming her enemy.
"Down that hallway—you'll see the sign," the bartender answered casually, not looking up from the drink he was mixing.
Rose pushed her barstool back, the legs scraping lightly against the wooden floor. She turned to face the bartender again, one hand on her hip.
"I never got your name," she said.
He shrugged, a hint of a smirk playing at his lips. "You never asked."
She rolled her eyes, folding her arms across her chest in exasperation. "So I have to ask?"
"Pretty much," he said, effortlessly sliding a martini across the counter to a woman clinging to a man three times her age.
Rose huffed. "Okay, what's your name then?"
"Thomas," he replied.
She wrinkled her nose. "Thomas. It doesn't suit you."
Before he could respond, she turned and strode off toward the hallway. The narrow corridor was dimly lit, casting long shadows across the walls. She walked into the ladies' room, relieved to find it almost empty. The scent of vanilla-scented soap and floor cleaner hit her as she walked over to the nearest stall.
She did her business quickly and approached the mirror. Her reflection stared back at her—sharp cheekbones, a crimson pout, and eyes that betrayed nothing. She looked far too composed for someone surrounded by wolves. Her fingers twitched as she reached into her purse, pulling out her phone.
She scrolled through her contacts and found Alejandro's name. Her fingers hovered for a moment before typing:
ROSE: Your dad has a new whore.
Without waiting for a reply, she slipped the phone back into her purse. She washed and dried her hands, then walked out, her heels clicking sharply against the tiled floor.
As she returned to the bar, she glanced around. Still no sign of Nikolai.
She plopped onto the stool and crossed her legs. Thomas was back behind the bar, juggling bottles and bantering with customers.
"Welcome back," he said as he caught sight of her.
"Okay, I think I'm ready for a cocktail," she said, the corners of her lips quirking upward. "Give me your best. Impress me."
"Coming right up," he said, sliding a shaker off the shelf. He moved with smooth, practiced precision—flipping the bottle, measuring with care, shaking it until frost clung to the metal. When he poured the amber liquid into a chilled glass, he garnished it with a twisted orange peel.
"Enjoy," he said with a wink.
Rose took a sip.
God. It was good.
Like really, really good. Smooth, citrusy with a smoky undertone, just the right burn.
But of course, she wasn't going to admit that.
Thomas drifted off to serve a pair of loud men at the end of the bar. Rose was enjoying the faint buzz of alcohol on her tongue when a voice broke her peace.
"Hello, beautiful."
She was already annoyed by the aound of his voice.
A man slid into the stool next to her. He wore too much cologne and had a sleazy grin that stretched across his face like a crack in porcelain.
"Drinking alone?" he asked, leaning in.
"No. I'm drinking with my ancestors," she replied flatly.
He chuckled, clearly not getting the hint. "Feisty. You're fire—I like that."
Rose stared into her glass.
"You know, it's heartbreaking to see a lovely lady like yourself drinking alone. Where's your date?" he pressed.
"Can you fuck off?"
He laughed again. "I just want to keep you company."
That's when she made her mistake. She looked away—just for a second.
It was all he needed.
His hand moved subtly, his fingers quick and practiced. A small pill dropped into her drink.
Thomas was still busy. No one saw.
Rose turned back to glare at the man.
"Go fuck yourself."
He stood up, hands raised in mock surrender.
"Okay. But just in case you change your mind, I'll be waiting."
He slinked off, disappearing into the crowd.
Rose rolled her eyes and took another sip.
It was just too good.
She finished the cocktail in a few more gulps and pushed the empty glass across the counter.
"I will marry your cocktail," she said, the alcohol loosening her tongue.
Thomas raised a brow. "Is that your way of telling me you liked it?"
She rolled her eyes again, but something felt off.
The dizziness hit her hard.
It was like someone had shoved her off a cliff. Her vision blurred, her stomach turned. She stumbled off the stool, clutching her purse.
"Is your alcohol tolerance that low?" Thomas asked, frowning slightly.
But she couldn't answer.
One drink. One damn drink. she had a high alcohol tolerance. This wasn't normal. Her heart stuttered in panic.
Her mind scrambled to make sense of it.
That guy. That fucking guy.
The one with the horror-movie smile.
He must have—
She stumbled toward the hallway, almost crashing into a waitress carrying a tray.
Her vision swam.
She fumbled with her purse, trying to get her phone. She needed to call someone—anyone.
Alejandro was all the way in Brooklyn.
She didn't have Nikolai's number.
And there was no way in hell she was texting Salvatore.
She slammed the purse shut and reached for the door to the ladies' room.
But someone caught her.
Strong hands gripped her waist.
"Hey, beautiful. We meet again."
It was him.
Her blood turned to ice.
She tried to struggle, but her limbs felt like lead. He walked her further down the hallway—past the restroom, past the noise.
Into a private room.
It reeked of cheap cologne and bad decisions. There was a bed in the center, the sheets rumpled and stained. It was the kind of room people stumbled into after too many drinks.
He shut the door behind them and let go of her. She staggered, catching herself on the edge of the bed.
"N-Nikolai will kill you if you touch me," she slurred, her words sluggish.
The man laughed. "Oh? I wanna find that out for myself."
He shrugged off his jacket, revealing toned arms and tattoos that crawled down his skin like vines. She stumbled toward the nightstand, spotting a ceramic vase. With every ounce of willpower, she lifted it.
He caught her wrist.
She was too slow. Too weak.
"You bite?" he asked, amused.
He shoved her onto the bed and climbed on top of her, pinning her wrists above her head.
Her head lolled to the side. Her heart thrashed wildly in her chest. She tried to scream but her throat betrayed her.
"I wanna show you a little fun," he sneered.
But before he could lean in—
Bang.
Blood splattered across her face. Warm. Metallic. Sickening.
The man collapsed on top of her, lifeless.
A second later, he was shoved off her.
Nikolai stood at the foot of the bed, his eyes dark, stormy. He still held the gun, a silencer fixed on the end.
Scar Face was right behind him.
Nikolai stared down at the body, then turned to his companion. "Clean this up."
Scar Face nodded.
Nikolai pulled a white handkerchief from his coat and gently wiped the blood off her face. His hands moved with surprising tenderness, his jaw clenched tight.
She stared at him, dazed.
He didn't say a word. Just lifted her into his arms—bridal style—and carried her out of the room.
The hallway blurred around her. People moved out of the way. No one dared to speak.
She buried her face against his chest.
And for the first time in a long time, she felt safe.
As absurd as it sounded…
Nikolai had just saved her life.