When Elara stepped off the plane in Lisbon, Portugal, a strange mix of anxiety and liberation washed over her. The air was different here—warmer, saltier, and foreign in a way that both scared and comforted her. The flight had been long, her body still sore from the tension and adrenaline, but her mind was clear: she had escaped.
The cab ride from the airport was a quiet one. She kept her head low, watching the unfamiliar cityscape blur past—the terracotta rooftops, the weathered balconies bursting with flowers, the narrow cobblestone alleys that twisted through pastel buildings like secrets waiting to be told. She didn't know where she was going, not really. She just needed somewhere to hide. Somewhere to think.
She found a small studio apartment near the outskirts of the city. It wasn't anything luxurious, not even close. A single bed, a small kitchenette, and a narrow window with a view of the alley below. But it was clean, and more importantly—it was hers. Hers alone.
It was meant to be temporary. A week, maybe two at most. Just until she figured out what to do next.
Elara dropped her bag on the creaky mattress and sat beside it, her eyes scanning the room. It was small, barely enough space to breathe if you weren't used to living in tight corners. But she could make it work. She had to make it work.
She pulled out the wad of cash she had taken from Nikolai's drawer. Her fingers trembled slightly as she counted it again—just to be sure. She also had a few hundred euros left from her last ATM withdrawal, made using her card before she ditched it in a trash bin near the airport. It wouldn't last forever. Maybe not even the month. But it was something.
She'd figure out the rest. She had no choice.
Just as she exhaled and leaned back against the chipped headboard, a knock echoed through the door.
Her entire body stiffened.
Her hand instinctively went to her stomach, her breath freezing in her lungs. Her first thought was he found me. Already? No. It was impossible. She had covered her tracks too well. Hadn't she?
She moved slowly, her bare feet quiet on the wooden floor. She approached the door and pressed her eye to the peephole.
A woman.
Young. Maybe her age, maybe a few years older. Light brown skin, curly dark hair tucked into a loose bun, holding a small white box in both hands.
Elara hesitated, then opened the door slightly, her body still tense. "How may I help you?" she asked, her voice cautious.
The woman smiled. "Foreigner?" she asked, her accent thick but melodic.
Elara nodded slowly.
"I got you muffins," the woman said brightly. "I heard we got a new neighbor today. I moved here a few months ago, so I know what it's like. Thought I'd say hi."
She extended the box. Elara blinked, confused, but took it.
"Welcome," the woman added, stepping back slightly. "I'm Kiara. And you?"
"Elara," she said softly.
Kiara's smile widened. "Nice to meet you, Elara. I'm four doors down the hall, number seventeen. If you ever need anything—or just someone to talk to—don't be afraid to knock."
"Thank you," Elara said, offering the most polite smile she could muster.
"This place is small, but it's safe," Kiara added with a wink. "And the landlord's old and deaf, so it's basically a fortress. You'll be fine."
And with that, she turned and walked away, her humming trailing behind her.
Elara closed the door gently and leaned against it, exhaling for what felt like the first time in hours.
This… this was a good start.
She placed the muffin box on the rickety kitchen table and walked to the small couch beneath the window. Outside, the sky was beginning to turn orange, the sun setting over the sea of tiled rooftops and distant hills. Lisbon was beautiful. Foreign, yes—but beautiful. She could get lost here. She wanted to get lost here.
She sat down slowly, one hand subconsciously drifting to her stomach.
Still flat.
Still unfamiliar.
A child.
A life.
Elara stared out the window, her heart heavy with thoughts. She didn't know what to do. She wasn't ready for a child. She wasn't even sure she wanted one. But the thought of terminating… it left a pit in her stomach.
Maybe she could do it. Maybe she'd decide to keep it.
She didn't know.
Not yet.
She still had time.
But whatever she chose—it had to be her decision. Not Nikolai's. Not the Bratva's. Hers.
She opened the box of muffins and took one. Warm, surprisingly soft. The taste of blueberry burst on her tongue, and for the first time in days, she allowed herself a moment of simple comfort.
One bite.
Two.
And then she looked out the window again, eyes reflecting the city lights.
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The private jet touched down in Lisbon just after 10 a.m. The sun glared off the tarmac, golden and blinding, casting long shadows as the wheels screeched against the concrete. Nikolai stepped off the jet in a sharp black coat, his expression carved from cold steel. Beside him, Sergei descended the steps with a slower, more measured gait, sunglasses shielding the weariness in his eyes. Two of their men—Alexei and Ivan—were already waiting at the terminal gate, black SUVs parked not far behind.
They didn't waste time.
After driving into the heart of the city, Nikolai checked into a luxury hotel with a discreet reputation—velvet drapes, antique chandeliers, and zero questions asked. The suite was grand, the kind designed for kings, but it did little to ease the storm in his chest. He tossed his duffel bag onto the couch and sat down, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Ivan was already on his phone, flipping through his contacts and tapping at his tablet. "We've checked every mid-range hotel and motel in the area," he reported. "Nothing. Either she used a fake name or she's not in a hotel at all."
"Then she's in an apartment," Nikolai muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "She's smart. She wouldn't want to risk being seen walking in and out of somewhere busy."
"We've already started searching apartment rentals," Ivan added. "Especially the cheap ones, outskirts, low foot traffic. We've got eyes checking street cameras, rental agreements, even trash disposal for fingerprints. She made a clean getaway, boss. But we'll find her."
Nikolai looked up, his gaze sharp and merciless. "You have until sunset," he said coolly. "I want her found before the city sleeps."
"Yes, sir." Ivan gave a curt nod and motioned to Alexei before the two of them exited the suite, leaving only Nikolai and Sergei in the silence.
The tension was thick.
Sergei stood near the minibar, not touching anything, just watching his boss with that same contemplative look he always wore when he was about to say something Nikolai wouldn't like. Sergei had been with the Volkovs for decades—once Dimitri's closest enforcer, and now the man who shadowed Nikolai like a ghost, always silently judging, always a breath away from offering unsolicited advice.
"Can I say something, sir?" Sergei asked at last.
Nikolai raised an eyebrow, already exasperated. "Do I have a choice?"
Sergei's lips twitched in a half-smile. "No, you don't."
He stepped forward, resting his weathered hands on the back of one of the armchairs. "You know, I once believed you'd turn out different. That maybe, just maybe, you'd break the Volkov pattern. Your mother fought tooth and nail to raise you as a child, not a heir. She tried to carve out a piece of you untouched by this life."
"I'm still her son," Nikolai said quietly.
Sergei tilted his head. "A part of you, yes. But the rest?" He gestured to the silent room, to the suitcases, the weapons, the tension that had settled into the air like a second skin. "The rest is your father's son. You may not see it, but I do. I've watched this story before, Nikolai. Played out like a sick tragedy. Your father with your mother. The chase. The control. The rage masked as love. It all started just like this."
Nikolai ran a hand down his face, jaw tightening. "I'm not him."
Sergei's voice softened. "Aren't you?"
A heavy silence fell between them. Nikolai leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "She's pregnant, Sergei. And she was going to… get rid of it. Without telling me. She was going to kill the one thing left that connects us."
Sergei sighed, his voice dropping low. "And she ran because she knew that if you found out, you'd take that choice from her."
Nikolai's throat tightened. "I did take it from her. I won't deny it."
"That's not love, Kolya. That's fear. That's desperation."
Nikolai stood, unable to sit still. He paced across the room, the sound of his polished shoes echoing on the marble floors. "She'll adapt. She has to. She just needs time to see that I'm not her enemy."
Sergei's expression twisted into something unreadable. "You're locking her in rooms. Threatening to fake deaths. You drugged her with your own power until she cracked—and now you expect her to come back willingly? She's terrified of you."
"She'll come back because I'll find her," Nikolai snapped. "And when I do, she'll understand. She'll see I was just trying to protect what's ours."
But even as the words left his mouth, they tasted hollow. Like he was trying to convince himself more than Sergei.
"You're chasing a ghost," Sergei said. "A version of her that existed before the fear, before the cage. She may come back—but she'll never be the same again. And neither will you."
Nikolai looked away.
Outside, Lisbon glowed under the mid-afternoon sun, its cobbled streets glittering like honey. Somewhere in that sea of rooftops and hills, she was out there—his Elara. The one woman who could bring him to his knees and rip his heart from his chest without even touching him.
He just had to find her first.
And he would.
Even if it meant becoming everything she feared… and everything his mother once fought against.