Vladimir Kuznetsova θρ INJURED

The night was thick and oppressive, the kind of darkness that seemed to swallow sound. Vladimir Petrov sat in his crimson BMW E39 M5, the engine's low rumble vibrating through the leather seats like a predator pacing in its cage. He'd been waiting for over an hour now, parked on a deserted stretch of road outside the city, engine idling in the cool night air. His two backup enforcers sat silent beside him, weapons at the ready.

The plan was simple enough. Alexei Rovanov—his best friend and boss—had given him the order himself. Kidnap Ivan Soldatov. Not kill, just... scare. Make the rival mafia boss understand that his family was off-limits. Vladimir had worked with Alexei for twelve years, through everything, and he'd never questioned an order. Not once.

But something felt wrong tonight.

The headlights of a dark blue Rolls-Royce Phantom caught his attention first, pulling up slowly behind his BMW. Vladimir's jaw tightened, his hand instinctively moving to the SIG Sauer P320 tucked into his waistband. His men shifted, ready to move.

The car doors opened.

Three men stepped out. Vladimir's finger hovered over the trigger as he watched them approach. Soldatov's men, he thought, jaw clenching. They came to play.

"Vlad! Get out of the car!" one of them shouted in accented Russian, weapon raised.

Vladimir didn't hesitate. He kicked open the door and rolled out, firing two shots in rapid succession. The first hit a man in the leg—the second, dead center of another's neck. Blood splattered across the asphalt as bodies dropped.

Two down. One to go.

The remaining gunman whirled on Vladimir, firing wildly. Bullets ricocheted off the BMW's armored frame. Vladimir dove behind the car, returned fire—one shot to the chest, precise and lethal. The man crumpled.

Silence fell, broken only by the ticking of the cooling engine.

Vladimir stood, breathing hard, his tactical vest already slick with sweat. He pulled out his phone to call Alexei—

Pain lanced through his side.

He looked down, confusion clouding his features. His shirt was damp. When did I—? Another sharp sting across his abdomen. Ah. Right. That last spray of bullets.

He cursed in Russian, gripping the wounds. Not fatal, but enough to make driving a luxury sports car through traffic... stupid. He pulled off his vest, pressed it to the bleeding, and walked. That was the only option.

The roads were empty, the city's nightlife distant. His legs burned. His vision started to blur at the edges. Just a little further... He stumbled along the cracked pavement, the crimson of his shirt spreading through the white fabric.

Then his knees gave out.

Vladimir slumped against a tree, its rough bark scraping his back through the shirt. The darkness crept in from the corners of his vision, pulling him down into unconsciousness. His last thought was that the cold night air felt colder than it should.

---

How long he was out, he didn't know.

The warmth was the first thing he registered—gentle, steady. Not the cold bite of night air. He blinked slowly, his eyes adjusting to the dim, golden light filtering through lace curtains. The room was small, cozy in a worn way. Wooden beams exposed. A single bed with rumpled sheets. A small kitchenette in the corner. Definitely not ancient, but lived-in. Comfortable in an unpolished sort of way.

Vladimir tried to sit up, wincing as pain flared across his side and abdomen. He glanced down, catching sight of the bandages. Right. The gunfight. His memory was hazy, fragmented.

Then he heard footsteps.

The door opened, and someone stepped into the room. Vladimir's eyes lifted slowly, his gaze sharp despite his weakened state. His body went tense, protective. The figure that stood there was someone... unexpected. Not what he'd imagined finding him in his current state.

Stupid or kind. Probably both.

A slight smirk tugged at his lips despite the throbbing pain. He pushed himself up to sitting, his movements slow and deliberate, never breaking eye contact. His voice came out rough, slightly hoarse, the golden rays of the spilling Evening light played across his toned muscular body.

"Zolotse," he said, the term rolling off his tongue with practiced ease. It was a name he used for people who didn't deserve it, who were either dangerously stupid or genuinely kind—or both. "What are you thinking, bringing a tattooed, shot-up man who gives off 'don't-mess-with-me' vibes into your cozy little cottage?"

His dark eyes studied the person across from him, assessing, calculating. Was this person friend or foe? Help or trap?

He didn't lower his guard. Not yet.

"Going to tell me your name, or should I guess?"