The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, the hum of machinery fading as Alejandro stepped into the high-rise penthouse. The familiar scent of imported cigars, expensive leather, and sharp cologne hung heavy in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of rain from the floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside, the city stretched far and wide—Manhattan at night, glowing like a million little lies.
Alejandro's boots made a dull thud on the dark marble floors as he walked in. The place was silent, save for the low murmur of a voice coming from the far end of the open-plan living room. He followed the sound, eyes landing on the tall, broad figure standing by the bar counter.
Nikolai.
He was holding a phone to his ear, his back straight, one hand clenching the edge of the counter so tightly the veins in his forearm bulged. His voice was a sharp whisper, tight with restraint.
"—I don't care if you can'teven find any footage that might help."
A pause. A breath that shook with pressure.
"Get eyes on every exit point in the whole of new york. Don't come back until you find something."
Alejandro stopped a few steps away, waiting silently as Nikolai exhaled through his nose, low and lethal, before ending the call.
He turned around slowly, his face carved in cold marble, eyes dark and calculating. But beneath the controlled expression was a crack—a flicker of something no oke had ever seen in Nikolai's eyes.
Fear.
"Anything?" Alejandro asked quietly, although he already knew the answer.
Nikolai's eyes flicked toward him, dead and tired. His jaw tightened as he shook his head.
"It's like she never existed," he muttered.
Alejandro let the silence settle for a second. The weight of Nikolai's words pressed down like cement. He looked around the room, took in the untouched scotch on the bar, the papers scattered across the glass table, the large digital map still glowing on the wall monitor behind the sofa. Pins. Lines. Coordinates. All leading nowhere.
"I might know something," Alejandro said slowly, voice rough with the weight of the truth he was about to speak. "Or... I might know where she could be."
Nikolai's head snapped up, his gaze sharp and piercing.
"Where?" The word left his mouth like a loaded bullet.
Alejandro hesitated. His tongue felt like lead, but there was no turning back now. He sighed, running a hand down his face.
"Salvatore said..." he paused, locking eyes with Nikolai. "...he said she's probably being auctioned off."
Time froze.
Nikolai blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Then the color drained from his face.
His legs gave a subtle, involuntary buckle, and he grabbed the back of the nearest chair to steady himself. His jaw clenched so tightly that the muscles twitched beneath his cheek. He shook his head once—slow, as if trying to reject the words that had just shattered his world.
Alejandro watched in pained silence.
"She's either being sold... or already has been," he added quietly. "Salvatore doesn't know which."
That was when the fury detonated.
Nikolai snarled, spun toward the ornate vase resting on the console table behind him. Before Alejandro could react, he grabbed it and smashed it to the marble floor. The shatter echoed like a gunshot, jagged ceramic and glittering fragments scattering across the polished tiles.
"Damn it!"
His voice was ragged, throat hoarse, soul bleeding out through his words. He turned away, pacing to the window, hands on his hips, trying to breathe—trying not to picture her. His Rose. His wild, stubborn, red-haired Rose—up on a stage somewhere, surrounded by wolves in tailored suits and blood-stained bank accounts.
He leaned his forehead against the glass, exhaling fog onto the cold surface.
"I know what kind of people go to those auctions…" he whispered. "They're not buyers. They're monsters."
Alejandro said nothing. He let the silence speak for him.
"They'll do anything," Nikolai continued, voice cracking under the weight of his thoughts. "Anything. Their money buys more than flesh. It buys pain. Fear. Control. And if they've got her…"
He didn't finish. He couldn't.
He slammed his fist into the window. It didn't break, but the skin on his knuckles split open with a red bloom. He didn't even flinch.
The city lights outside blinked like distant stars, indifferent to his rage.
"And the worst part?" he said after a moment, stepping back from the glass, his voice dead again, numb. "We don't even know which auction house it is. Could be here. Could be Dubai. Berlin. Anywhere."
His shoulders slumped slightly as he walked over to the bar and poured himself a shot of vodka with shaking hands. He didn't drink it. Just stared at it like it held answers.
"I don't have access to these places," he muttered. "Not like Sergei does. I can break bones and pull strings in New York, sure. But those auction houses? They're ghost towns. Protected. Hidden. You don't walk in unless someone lets you in."
Alejandro tilted his head. "So… what now?"
Nikolai didn't answer at first. He lifted the shot glass to his lips, stared into the clear liquid like it might burn his rage down, then knocked it back in one go. The glass clinked on the counter as he set it down.
Then he looked up.
"I have to go to Sergei."
Alejandro nodded his head.
Nikolao sighed. Sergei was still and at him for messing up the deal he had with Lorenzo. But what choice did he have?
It was either Sergei... or Rose disappeared forever. But the question was, would Sergei help Nikolai to find the girl who in his eyes caused the deal to end?
Nikolai exhaled through his nose again and loosened the top button of his black shirt. His movements were robotic now, mind clearly spiraling through every worst-case scenario.
He turned away from the bar and picked up his coat from the chair, throwing it over one shoulder. But just before he reached for the elevator button, he paused. His back still to Alejandro.
For a moment, the penthouse was painfully quiet.
His hands curled into fists.
"I'm going to find her," he said. "Even if I have to burn this whole goddamn world down to do it."
Alejandro didn't respond.
There was nothing to say.
And then Nikolai took a deep breath, straightened his coat, and walked to the elevator—each step echoing like the ticking of a fuse.
The doors opened with a whisper. He walked inside. If he had to beg Sergei, kneel or even crawl then be would do it. Because he wanted his Rose back.