The cafe buzzed with the vibrant hum of midday life in Bucharest's central square, a sprawling open space paved with ancient cobblestones worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, surrounded by ornate historic buildings with baroque facades and wrought-iron balconies overflowing with flower boxes in bursts of red and pink. The air was thick with the rich, aromatic scent of freshly brewed espresso mingling with the sweet, buttery allure of pastries from nearby vendors—croissants flaking golden in baskets, strudels dusted with powdered sugar. Tourists chattered in a babel of languages, snapping photos with their phones, while locals sipped lattes at outdoor tables under striped awnings, newspapers rustling or laptops clicking away. Children laughed as they chased skittish pigeons across the stones, their feathers fluttering in brief escapes, and street performers strummed guitars nearby, the melodic notes weaving through the crowd like threads in a tapestry. Akira and I sat tensely at our corner table, the wrought-iron chairs cold and unyielding beneath us, the large red umbrella overhead casting dappled shadows that danced across the scarred wooden surface. My coffee had long gone cold, the ceramic mug untouched and steaming no more, as I scanned every face in the throng, the hidden Glock a heavy, reassuring weight in my jacket pocket, pressing against my side like a promise of violence. Akira's tail twitched subtly under the table, her golden eyes darting with predatory sharpness, claws retracted but poised, her body coiled like a spring ready to unleash.
The square was too public, too exposed—eyes everywhere, from waiters bustling with trays of clinking cups and saucers to passersby weaving through with shopping bags. It was a smart play by Dimitar: keep us in the open, vulnerable to witnesses, hard to pull off anything shady without igniting chaos. That was probably his intent—to control the board, force our hand in a place where one wrong move could end in handcuffs or worse.
Then I spotted him weaving through the crowd—Dimitar, tall and imposing with dark, tousled hair and that same sharp, angular jaw as Trent, but his eyes colder, more calculating, like chips of ice under heavy brows. He strode in with a few rough-looking guys in tow, their builds bulky and intimidating under casual jackets that did little to conceal the telltale bulges of concealed weapons at their hips or underarms. They fanned out with practiced subtlety: two peeling off to claim separate tables nearby, one burying his face in a newspaper with feigned interest, the other scrolling a phone while sipping a coffee, blending seamlessly into the cafe's patrons like chameleons in a garden. Dimitar—dressed in a nondescript black coat, his posture exuding arrogant confidence—locked onto me immediately, a twisted smirk curling his lips as if savoring the moment. Flanked by one burly accomplice with a shaved head and a scar across his cheek, he sauntered over, pulling out the chair across from me with a deliberate scrape of metal on stone that grated like nails on a chalkboard. The accomplice sat beside him, arms crossed over his broad chest, his eyes scanning the square with vigilant sweeps, muscles tensed under his sleeve tattoos.
"Where's Miko?" I demanded, my voice low and edged with barely contained steel, leaning forward across the table, every muscle in my body coiled like a spring ready to snap, my hand inching subtly toward my jacket pocket.
Dimitar leaned back casually in his chair, folding his hands on the table with interlaced fingers, his accent thick and mocking, rolling off his tongue like gravel. "She's safe. For now," he replied, his smirk widening to reveal uneven teeth, eyes glinting with malice. "Tied up nice and tight in a van nearby. No harm—yet. But that depends on you, doesn't it? How cooperative you feel like being."
Akira's ears flattened against her head, a low, rumbling growl escaping her throat, her claws extending just enough to scratch the table's edge. I shot her a warning glance—*not yet*—and turned back. "Let me see her," I said, fighting to keep my tone even, though fury boiled beneath the surface like magma. "Prove she's okay, or this conversation ends right here. No deals, no nothing."
Dimitar chuckled, a cold, mirthless sound that grated through the cafe's ambient noise like a blade on bone, sending chills down my spine despite the warm sun. He signaled the guy next to him with a subtle nod, a flick of his chin that spoke of long-practiced coordination. The accomplice pulled out a battered phone from his pocket, dialing with thick fingers, muttering in rapid Romanian into the receiver. Minutes ticked by—agonizingly slow, each second stretching like taffy, the cafe's laughter and clinking cups a cruel, mocking backdrop to the tension knotting my stomach. My eyes darted to the square's edges, scanning for threats, the weight of the Glock a constant reminder in my pocket.
Finally, a nondescript van pulled up at the square's perimeter, its tinted windows reflecting the crowd like dark mirrors, engine idling with a low purr. The side door slid open with a metallic groan, and there she was: Miko, hands bound behind her back but concealed under a loose jacket draped over her shoulders, her bump visible under her rumpled shirt, her face pale but unmarked, eyes wide with terror and relief as they met mine across the distance. She looked fine—scared out of her mind, tears glistening on her cheeks, but no visible bruises, no blood, her tail tucked low in fear and humiliation. The goon escorting her—a lanky guy with a hooded sweatshirt—sat her at a nearby table, close enough for us to watch but far enough to keep her isolated and under control, her posture rigid, the ties hidden but evident in her stiff movements.
Thank God—she wasn't dead, and the kid, still unborn and protected within her, seemed unharmed from what I could see. Relief flooded me like a tidal wave, sharp and brief, crashing against the rage that followed. "What do you want?" I snarled at Dimitar, my voice a low growl, fists clenching under the table.
He leaned in closer, his breath sour with coffee and cigarettes, eyes narrowing to slits. "Justice for my brother. Trent. You killed him—you and that cat bitch over there. Eye for an eye." His gaze slid to Akira, the smirk returning like a venomous snake. "Kill someone close to you. Like her—your new sister-in-law. Do it now, or Miko pays first. Slow and painful."
Akira's face drained of color, her tail freezing mid-lash, shock rippling through her features like a stone in still water. But she stood slowly, her chair scraping back with a harsh grind, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "It's... alright," she said, meeting Dimitar's gaze with defiance, though her ears pinned back. "If it saves Miko... do it."
"No," I snapped, standing too, the table wobbling as I rose. "I'm not killing anyone. Especially not her. Find another way."
Dimitar shrugged indifferently, rising as well with casual menace. "Then watch Miko suffer first—starting now." But Akira was already moving, her steps deliberate as she headed toward a narrow alleyway off the square, shadowed and tucked between two historic buildings, away from the prying eyes of the crowd. Dimitar followed, signaling his men to stay put with a flick of his wrist, and I trailed close behind, heart pounding like a war drum, the square's noise fading to a distant hum as we entered the dim passage.
In the alley—dark and confined, trash-strewn with overflowing dumpsters reeking of decay and urine, graffiti scrawled across the brick walls in faded colors, the ground slick with puddles from recent rain—Akira turned to face us, her back against the cold stone. She hugged me tight suddenly, her body trembling against mine, her breasts pressing soft through her shirt, tail wrapping my leg in a final embrace. "I'm ready to die," she whispered into my ear, her breath hot and ragged. "For Miko. For family. Just... make it quick."
Before I could respond—before the horror of it could fully sink in—a gunshot cracked through the alley, sharp and deafening, echoing off the bricks like thunder in a canyon. I looked down in frozen terror, expecting blood on her chest, but it wasn't her—Akira had a hidden gun in her hand, pressed firmly against Dimitar's gut. She'd shot him point-blank, the muzzle flash brief and bright in the dimness. He staggered back, clutching his stomach with wide-eyed shock, blood blooming dark and rapid through his shirt, soaking the fabric in a spreading crimson stain. He collapsed to the ground with a guttural choke, knees buckling, body hitting the pavement in a heap, eyes glazing over as life ebbed away in gurgling breaths.
Chaos erupted like a dam bursting. Dimitar's guys burst from the cafe, guns drawn from under jackets, the square's peace shattering in an instant as screams pierced the air—high-pitched and panicked, people scattering like leaves in a gale, tables overturning with crashes of breaking glass and clattering silverware. "Police! Someone call the police!" a voice yelled, phones flashing out as calls were made, sirens already wailing faintly in the distance.
Bullets whizzed through the air—cracks splitting the atmosphere like whips as the goons fired at us, rounds pinging off alley walls in sparks and ricochets, shattering a nearby window in a cascade of tinkling glass that rained down like deadly confetti. Akira and I shot back instinctively, the Glocks barking in our hands—mine steady from old gun range days in the US, muscle memory kicking in as I aimed true, dropping one thug with a precise chest shot, blood spraying in a mist as he crumpled mid-stride, gun clattering to the ground. Akira nailed another in the leg, her shot echoing as he screamed, clutching his thigh, blood pooling dark on the cobblestones.
We advanced through the hail, guns blazing—the acrid smell of gunpowder thick and choking, hearts pounding like war drums in our chests. Back into the cafe's edge, weaving through overturned chairs and panicked patrons, we reached Miko's table. She was still there, tied subtly with zip ties under her jacket, her eyes wide with terror but alive, the bump unharmed. I cut the ties with a pocket knife, the plastic snapping, and pulled her up. "Go!" I yelled, covering them as we sprinted to the van they'd used—parked at the curb, keys still dangling in the ignition, engine idling with a low purr.
Bullets flew around us—grazing my arm in a hot, searing sting, blood trickling warm and sticky down my sleeve, soaking into the fabric. Police sirens wailed louder now, blue and red lights flashing at the square's perimeter, officers shouting orders as they advanced. We piled into the van—Miko diving into the back, curling protectively over her bump; Akira shotgun, gun out the window firing covering shots—I slammed the door and floored it, tires screeching in protest as we tore through the streets, weaving through honking traffic, sideswiping a parked car with a crunch of metal.
Police cars gave chase, lights flashing in the rearview like pursuing demons, sirens blaring in deafening wails. I pushed the van hard—cutting through narrow alleys where trash bins toppled in our wake, dodging pedestrians who leaped aside with screams, the city blurring by in a frenzy of historic facades and modern chaos. Horns blared as we ran red lights, the van shuddering over potholes, until we hit the highway out—speeding through the outskirts, the pursuit falling back as we crossed borders in the dead of night, evading checkpoints with dark backroads.
Back across into Bulgaria hours later, the van's engine straining from the abuse, adrenaline crashing like a wave as exhaustion set in, I glanced at Miko in the mirror. She looked shaken, pale as moonlight, hand cradling her bump, tears drying on her cheeks in salty tracks. "You okay?" I asked, voice rough. "The baby? Did he hurt you?"
She nodded weakly, managing a small, trembling smile. "We're fine. Don't worry—just get us home. It's over."
Relief washed over me like a tidal wave, sharp and overwhelming, but the road ahead felt longer than ever, shadows of the square lingering in the rearview.