With depth / Vitalina Serdtseedova

The heavy door of the tinted SUV slammed shut with a dull, solid thud. Vitalina exhaled in irritation, adjusting the collar of her luxurious, oversized leopard-print coat with white fur lining. The day had been absolutely awful. If that idiot debtor thought he could hide a percentage from her, he clearly didn't expect the head of the clan to show up in person to explain the rules of mathematics to him.

"Vitalina Viktorovna," Nikita's calm but incredibly exhausted voice came from behind. Her assistant was scrolling through work emails on his tablet, blinking heavily from sleep deprivation. "Maybe I should get your espresso myself? There are blood drops left on your coat. And on the sleeve of your silk shirt too. It will attract unnecessary attention."

She measured him with a heavy, amber-brown glare from beneath perfectly drawn winged eyeliner. A look that usually made her competitors start writing their wills.

"Shut up, Nikita. If I don't drink a hot black coffee right this second, I'll order this entire block rolled in concrete. I'm going myself."

She pushed open the door of a small, random coffee shop. Overhead, a bell jingled with nauseating cheerfulness. Inside, it smelled of sweet pastries and vanilla syrups, which she despised. Towering almost two meters over the counter thanks to her blood-red stilettos, Vitalina prepared to bark out her order. The click-clack of her heels sounded like a countdown to an explosion. She approached the register, piercing the space with her signature predator gaze, and lifted her eyes to the barista behind the counter.

Boom.

The threat and profit calculator built into her head threw a critical error and short-circuited. The noise of cars outside the window, Nikita's presence behind her—everything vanished. Her brain, perfectly honed for blackmail and running a shadow empire, completely shut down.

Vitalina froze. Her cold, arrogant smirk faltered and slipped from her face. She stared unblinking, as if hypnotized. Her sharp, impeccably manicured nails, adorned with heavy gold rings, tapped nervously and out of rhythm against the wooden countertop.

She parted her lips, intending to imperiously demand her sugar-free coffee.

"I..." her deep, velvety voice suddenly cracked pathetically. She blinked, trying to return the familiar hardness to her face, but the words tangled. "Coffee. I mean... Hello. You work here. Behind the register. That is very commendable. Labor. Yes. I respect... small businesses."

Nikita, standing slightly behind her, slowly lowered his tablet. He let out an even, doomed sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose and mentally saying goodbye to his long-awaited day off. His ruthless boss, who made hardened men beg for mercy, was currently glitching out and trying to pass herself off as a normal human being.

Vitalina swallowed hard. She stubbornly refused to break eye contact first, out of habit perceiving it as a turf war, and continued to loom motionless over the counter, waiting for some kind of reaction.

The spacious office of the mafia clan leader was immersed in silence. Vitalina paced along the panoramic window in her signature burgundy silk shirt and strict pencil skirt, gripping her phone as if she were about to snap its neck. Finally, she stopped abruptly and stared intently at the screen.

"Nikita," she said grimly, without taking her eyes off the message. "They wrote that they like cats."

Nikita, sitting at the side table, slowly took a sip of coffee from his mug. His gaze was glued to his work tablet. He tiredly adjusted the glasses on the bridge of his nose.

"Get a cat," the assistant suggested in a calm, almost mechanical voice, without even looking up. "It's a good excuse to get closer, plus they will help you with the pet."

A long, heavy pause hung in the office. The strategy calculator built into Vitalina's head went into overdrive. A cat. A small, fluffy ball. Too fragile. What if someone steps on it? No, Serdtseedova couldn't get a regular street mouser. She needed something that would reflect her status and command respect.

The office door cracked open. Nikita walked in with a new stack of documents to sign. The words caught in his throat. Right in the middle of the expensive rug sat a thick-pawed, big-eared, and suspiciously orange furball with black stripes. It was a real, actual Amur tiger cub. The little one yawned, letting out a funny but already predatory growl, and started gnawing on the leg of an antique table.

Vitalina stood nearby, proudly pointing her elegant hand at the animal. A rare, absolutely genuine, and smug smile beamed on her face.

"Look! What do you think?" she asked triumphantly. "I figured regular cats are pathetic and lack prestige. Look at his little teeth, they can already be used to intimidate Mark."

Nikita slowly took off his glasses. The documents slipped from his weakened hands onto the floor with a quiet rustle. He covered his face with his palm in a gesture of absolute, concentrated despair.

"Vitalina Viktorovna..." Nikita groaned hollowly through his fingers. "They are a barista. Not a predator tamer. We're all either going to get arrested or eaten."

"Nonsense! It's just a big cat. Get your tablet, write a message, I'll dictate: 'Hello. I spontaneously acquired a kitten. I need your expert help, come to my penthouse immediately.'"

Surprisingly, the plan worked. A couple of hours later, the elevator of the elite complex dinged, letting the guest out on the top floor. They hesitantly approached the massive oak door and pressed the doorbell.

The door swung open almost instantly, as if Vitalina had been standing guard on the other side, nervously hypnotizing the peephole. The mafia clan leader stood on the threshold, towering on her stilettos. In her arms, grumbling in annoyance, wriggling, and trying to gnaw off a gold button on her silk shirt, hung a very chubby, heavy tiger cub the size of a good bulldog.

Vitalina maintained her signature, murderously dominant eye contact. "Hello," her deep, velvety voice tried to sound commanding, but trembled slightly when the tiger cub dug a powerful paw into her collar. "Come in. This is... my new kitten. I think he wants to bite my finger off. Will you help?"

The bell above the coffee shop door chimed, announcing the arrival of the head of the Serdtseedov clan. Vitalina crossed the threshold, taking off her dark glasses as she walked. She anticipated how she would gracefully approach the counter, say the phrase she had rehearsed in front of the mirror (Nikita had spent three hours writing and approving it), and perhaps even "accidentally" brush against their fingers while taking her cup.

But her perfect plan crumbled the very next second.

Right at the register, lazily leaning on the counter, stood Mark. That same Mark "The Raven," the head of a competing syndicate. In his favorite leather jacket, with the tattoos on his neck on full display, he flashed his signature cocky smirk and was openly flirting.

"...which is why I'm saying, why stand behind a register? I can buy this place right now and make you the manager. Or we could just fly away to my vineyards in Tuscany," Mark purred, lazily playing with the keys to his sports car.

Vitalina’s vision darkened. The air around her instantly turned ice-cold. She crossed the distance to the counter in three wide strides, the click of her stilettos sounding like nails being driven into a coffin.

"If you don't take your elbows off this counter right now, Raven, I will have them chopped off and fed to my tigers," Vitalina hissed, coming to a stop next to him. Her amber eyes shot lightning.

Mark turned his head and broke into an even wider smile. He wasn't afraid of her in the slightest, and it was obvious he had started this solely to piss her off.

"Vitulia! What a meeting. And here I was wondering why the room temperature suddenly dropped," he chuckled. "Relax, we were just discussing the art of the perfect cappuccino. And my modest investments."

"Your 'investments' are cheap flexing," Vitalina curled her lips in disdain, crossing her arms over her chest so that the fabric of her burgundy silk shirt stretched dangerously tight. "Vineyards? Seriously? Just last week, I secretly bought the building across from this coffee shop solely to demolish it because it was blocking the natural light in the seating area!"

"Oh, really? How sweet," Mark laughed, openly mocking her. "But I have a personal fleet of yachts. I can arrange for fresh beans to be delivered straight from the plantations on a private helicopter. And what can you do? Offer free chips in your smoke-filled casino? Your assistant's eye twitches every time you sneeze; he's going to die of a heart attack soon."

"Nikita is in perfect shape!" Vitalina barked, slamming her palm hard against the wooden counter, making a couple of syrup bottles on the shelf clink pitifully. "And unlike you, you clown in a leather jacket, I keep the entire shadow sector in fear! And my cars cost more than your entire life!"

The argument completely escalated into an absurd measuring contest of status and wallets. Vitalina was breathing heavily, her sharp, impeccably manicured nails digging into the edge of the counter, while her cheeks burned betrayingly with rage and indignation.

Suddenly, Mark sighed theatrically and turned right to the register, resting his chin on his hand.

"Listen, we could stand here measuring our guns until evening," he squinted slyly and winked. "Why don't you settle this for us. Who's cooler? The guy with the yachts, the stylish syndicate, and the vineyards... or this incredibly severe woman who buys real estate for the sake of a little sunshine in the window, and whose tigers eat better than her employees? Be honest."

Vitalina sharply shifted her heavy, jealous gaze straight ahead, freezing in anticipation of the answer. "Yes! Tell him!" she demanded imperiously, though her voice cracked slightly as she nervously adjusted the collar of her leopard-print coat. "Whose... whose business methods do you like better?!"

Hundreds of candles burned in the luxurious hall of the Michelin-starred restaurant, reflecting in the crystal chandeliers and polished silverware. Vitalina had bought out the establishment for the entire evening. In the far corner, a petrified string quartet played a quiet romantic melody, terrified of hitting a wrong note.

Vitalina herself sat at the center table in a tight black evening dress with a plunging neckline that revealed her Amur tiger tattoos. She nervously twirled the stem of a glass holding expensive Bordeaux, while her flawless manicure tapped softly against the snow-white tablecloth. In her head, she was running through the scenario of the perfect greeting.

The double oak doors of the restaurant burst open with a crash.

Two massive, hulking thugs in strict suits tumbled into the hall. Between them stood the guest. One of the thugs carefully but firmly pulled a thick canvas sack off the guest's head.

"Delivered in top condition, Vitalina Viktorovna!" the senior thug reported joyfully in a deep bass, crumpling the sack in his huge hands. "Clean job, no noise. Loaded into the tinted SUV, confiscated the phones, put the bag on so no one would memorize the route. Just as you requested—total security!"

Vitalina's smile froze. The glass in her hand cracked dangerously. The musicians in the corner lost their rhythm, and the cellist let out a pitiful, squeaky sound. From behind Vitalina, Nikita, clutching his tablet, let out a deep, tired sigh, watching the unfolding scene in horror.

"A sack..." Vitalina whispered, slowly rising from the table. The air in the restaurant instantly became heavy and ice-cold. "I asked... to send a limousine. I said: 'Bring my guest politely and safely.' Where in the word 'limousine' did you hear 'sack'?!"

"Well, it's... for security purposes! And it's a good sack, made of eco-cotton, so it's easy to breathe..." the thug tried to justify himself, but instantly shut up, catching her murderous, amber glare.

"I will make you eat this eco-cotton," Vitalina hissed through her teeth. Her voice was quiet, but it made the glasses on the tables tremble. "I will feed you to the fishes. I will roll you into the foundation of my new casino. Get out of here before I skin you alive!"

The thugs vanished faster than she could blink. The doors closed quietly, leaving only the frozen mafia boss, Nikita graying from stress, and the kidnapped guest in the hall.

Vitalina took a deep, shaky breath. She sharply fixed her hair, trying to wipe the grimace of rage from her face, and looked straight ahead. She needed to save the date. She stubbornly refused to look away, digging into the guest with her signature intimidating eye contact.

"So..." her deep voice trembled, she cleared her throat and tried to portray a languid, seductive smirk on her face, which looked more like the bared teeth of a panicking predator. "Good evening. Surprise. I thought we should... have dinner. In a casual setting." With an elegant but slightly jerky gesture, she pointed to the chair across from her. "Please, sit down. Apologies for the... logistical hiccups. My employees sometimes show a bit too much initiative. I will fire them by morning. No, I will bury them. I mean... I will strip them of their bonuses. Yes."

Vitalina swallowed nervously, resting her chin on her hands and leaning forward slightly.

"Did that sack... chafe your face too much? They serve excellent oysters and white truffles here. Nikita, pour our guest some wine! Quickly! And tell the musicians to play something more cheerful before I shoot off their bows!"

The door of the modest apartment swung open, and a heavily breathing Nikita appeared on the threshold. In both hands, he was struggling to hold huge bags from the most expensive deli in the city, stuffed to the brim with jars of premium black caviar, white truffles, marbled beef, and some incredibly rare fruits.

"Why did it take so long?!" Vitalina hissed threateningly, pacing nervously in the hallway and snatching a bag from his hands. "It's only a couple of kilometers from the store to here! What if every minute counts?! What if a person in there is dying of a fever right now?!"

The elite private doctor that Vitalina had dragged along with her had already hastily retreated by this point, having assured her that it was a common cold, not a deadly virus requiring emergency hospitalization. The doctor had also timidly hinted that oysters and foie gras would not help the sick patient right now a simple, light homemade chicken broth was needed.

Vitalina could have summoned the capital's best chef here with a snap of her fingers. But her inner possessive instinct absolutely rebelled. Only she would take care of her partner. It was a matter of honor, care, and absolute territorial control. No foreign hands would dare cook food for someone who belonged to her.

The tiny kitchen in the apartment seemed even smaller with the presence of the mafia clan leader. Vitalina took off her luxurious leopard-print coat, casually tossing it over the back of a chair, and methodically rolled up the sleeves of her burgundy silk shirt.

"Nikita, read the instructions," she commanded, picking up a heavy kitchen knife.

Her assistant, standing in the corner with a tablet, cleared his throat, reading out the chicken broth recipe as if it were a secret criminal intelligence report.

Vitalina didn't panic or fuss. After all, she was excellent at handling any bladed weapon. The blade flashed in her hands with frightening, deadly grace. Carrots, onions, and celery were diced into perfectly even cubes in a matter of seconds. She butchered the bird with such cold, calculated, and precise efficiency that Nikita felt briefly uneasy. She acted confidently, like a professional on a mission, only this time her goal was to cook the perfect soup for the person who made her heart beat faster.

An hour later, the bedroom door quietly cracked open.

Vitalina walked inside, carrying a tray with a steaming bowl, a glass of water, and a couple of bottles of medicine. She moved on her stilettos surprisingly smoothly and silently so as not to disturb the peace. Approaching the bed, she placed the tray on the nightstand and looked at the sick patient wrapped in a blanket. Her signature dominant predator gaze softened, replaced by something anxious and desperately possessive.

She leaned closer. Her cool fingers, adorned with heavy gold rings, touched the other's hot forehead with unexpected tenderness and care, brushing away sticky strands of hair.

"You still have a fever," her low, velvety voice sounded almost like a purr, but commanding notes still vibrated in it. "I called your manager. I told him that if he tries to pull you in for a shift before you're fully recovered, his coffee shop will accidentally burn to the ground due to faulty wiring. So you have a paid vacation."

She straightened up and pushed the tray closer, never breaking eye contact.

"I made this myself. And I am not leaving this room until the bowl is empty. Do you need help sitting up, or... can you manage?" she tilted her head slightly to the side. In her amber eyes, there was genuine, deep care mixed with patient anticipation of an answer.

The huge hall of the premium movie theater was plunged into darkness, cut only by the light from the giant screen. The climax of some nauseatingly vanilla romantic comedy was unfolding on it. In the hall, designed for three hundred people, exactly two VIP seats right in the center were occupied.

Vitalina had decided they needed to go on a date "like normal people." But since "normal people" annoyed her with their noise, she simply bought out all the tickets for this screening, and simultaneously ordered her security to cordon off the perimeter of the building.

She sat with her back absolutely straight, gripping the leather armrests of the chair with such force that they squeaked pitifully. She was wearing her best "casual" outfit—a designer black jacket over a silk top that cost as much as a decent apartment on the outskirts of town.

A giant bucket of popcorn sat in the wide cupholder between their seats. This was her main strategic objective.

"Vitalina Viktorovna," Nikita's trembling voice sounded in her hidden micro-earpiece; he was currently sitting locked in the projectionist's booth with binoculars and a stack of printouts. "The psychology article says this is the perfect moment. The main characters on screen are kissing. You need to put your hand into the bucket at the same time as the target... I mean, your guest. And sort of accidentally brush their fingers. It's called kinesthetic contact."

Vitalina swallowed nervously. Her heart was pounding as if she were walking into a shootout with a cartel.

"Shut up, Nikita," she hissed barely audibly into the microphone hidden in her collar, without parting her lips. "I know how human limbs work. If I miss and break a finger, I will throw you off the roof."

She slowly turned her head. On the huge screen, the characters were confessing their eternal love to each other in the pouring rain, but Vitalina didn't care about that at all. Her amber eyes, normally capable of making tough men weep with fear, were now unblinkingly and intensely tracking her companion's hands.

Vitalina exhaled heavily, as if preparing to jump into an abyss. She slowly raised her elegant, impeccably manicured hand and, trying to look as relaxed as possible (which made her look like a stalking leopard), reached for the popcorn.

Her fingers froze a millimeter away from the other person's hand over the edge of the bucket. She sharply looked up and froze, refusing to break eye contact first out of habit. The tips of her ears beneath her dark hair betrayed her, burning red.

"I..." her deep velvety voice cracked; she cleared her throat, trying to return the usual cold confidence to her face. "I was also going to take... that specific piece of popcorn. It looked... strategically attractive. But you can have it. I... yield. As a gesture of goodwill." She held her breath, waiting for a reaction.

The cold, damp air of the abandoned warehouse smelled of rust and fuel oil. The head of the hostile gang swaggered around the metal chair holding the hostage, playing with an army knife.

"And Serdtseedova started a war for this?" the bandit snorted contemptuously, stopping a few steps away. "Naivety. You're just a pawn. She won't even show up..."

He didn't get to finish.

The outer metal doors of the warehouse shuddered from a deafening blow and crashed inward with a horrifying screech, knocked out by a heavy armored SUV. Ice-cold wind, the blinding light of headlights, and chaos burst into the room.

"Take her out!" the leader screamed frantically, throwing himself behind the nearest iron container.

A dozen armed thugs opened heavy fire on the vehicle. Bullets ricocheted off the armor with a ringing sound, striking sparks. The door of the SUV swung open, and Vitalina stepped right into this lead rain. She wasn't wearing her luxurious fur coat—only a burgundy silk shirt and strict trousers. In both hands, she gripped a heavy pistol.

Her face looked like a mask of Death carved from marble. Vitalina didn't hide behind cover. She walked forward with the steady, ruthless stride of a predator, firing with terrifying, calculated precision. Two short pops—two hulking thugs on the metal catwalk plummeted down. Another shot—the sniper behind the crates went silent forever. She moved through the flying bullets like a vengeful spirit, leaving behind only groans and the suffocating smell of gunpowder.

Suddenly, a deafening shot rang out from the side. A large-caliber bullet pierced Vitalina's left shoulder. Her body jerked sharply from the terrible impact. On the dark burgundy silk, an almost black, wet stain of blood instantly began to spread, quickly trickling down to her elbow.

The gang leader bared his teeth predatorily, thinking this was the end. But Vitalina didn't even slow her pace. Not a single muscle twitched on her face. She just slowly, almost reluctantly, turned her head toward the shooter, raised her right hand, and without the slightest hesitation put a bullet between his eyes. She absolutely didn't care about the shot-through shoulder, the blood flooding her sleeve, or the throbbing pain. Her amber eyes burned with concentrated, primal fury, locked dead onto one target—the chair in the center of the room.

The leader tried to back away in horror, but Vitalina was already standing right in front of him.

Pop.

The bandit collapsed onto the concrete floor with a frantic shriek, agonizingly clutching his shot-through knee.

"Weapons on the floor. Face to the concrete. Anyone who twitches dies," her voice was quiet, ice-cold, but it echoed throughout the warehouse, forcing the miraculously surviving thugs to drop their guns instantly.

She relaxed her fingers, and the empty pistols fell with a clatter right into a puddle. In that same second, her entire terrifying, unwavering aura of a ruthless mafia boss crumbled to dust.

Vitalina rushed to the metal chair. She fell to her knees right into the dirty water mixed with engine oil, absolutely ignoring the blood gushing from her shoulder, her torn-to-shreds tights, and the broken nails of her flawless manicure. With feverish, trembling hands, she tore at the thick knots of the ropes. Her chest heaved heavily from her ragged breathing, and her strict bun unraveled, dropping wet dark strands onto her pale face.

Having freed the captive, she leaned forward sharply. Her cold palms, stained with gunpowder and her own blood, gently cupped the other's cheeks. She desperately felt the cheekbones, neck, and shoulders, as if struck blind, frantically checking if the world was crumbling before her eyes.

"I'm here... I'm here, do you hear me?" her voice broke into a pained, pathetic whisper. From those terrifying, unblinking amber eyes rolled hot tears that no one in the criminal world had ever seen. "Tell me... I'm begging you, tell me they didn't do anything to you. Where does it hurt? Look at me... Just look at me."

The pouring rain hit the city completely unexpectedly, brazenly disrupting the carefully planned date schedule. Vitalina was furious. She had planned the perfect walk, but instead they had to escape the downpour by ducking into the first open door they could find.

They found themselves in a small, cozy antique bookstore. The air smelled of old paper, dust, and black tea.

"Damned weather," Vitalina growled grimly, shaking the water drops off her luxurious cashmere coat. "I will find the meteorologist who promised clear skies and make him eat his diploma. And then I will buy this street and build a bulletproof glass dome over it."

"Could that be my little Vitalina?" a soft, elderly voice suddenly came from behind the tall wooden bookshelves.

Vitalina froze as if she had been shot. Her commanding posture suffered a pathetic glitch for a second.

An elderly man in a flawless tweed suit stepped out to meet them. A vintage watch chain peeked out of his breast pocket, and round glasses sat snugly on his nose. It was Leo—her own uncle, a pacifist, an outcast of the criminal family, and the only person with whom she secretly drank tea after heavy shootouts.

Leo smiled warmly, immediately shifting his gaze from his niece to her partner. His eyes sparkled joyfully.

"Ah, so that's what it is! So this is the very reason why the terror of the entire shadow sector was drinking chamomile tea at my place last week, spending two hours panicking over choosing the color of the gift ribbon for your anniversary?" Leo chuckled good-naturedly, leaning against the counter.

"Uncle Leo! Shut up immediately!" Vitalina's voice broke into a panicked rasp. The tips of her ears flared up so brightly they could have illuminated the room instead of the lamps. "I was not panicking! It was... risk analysis! Strategic budget planning!"

"Of course, of course, dear," Leo laughed softly, adjusting his glasses. "Just like your 'strategic planning' at the age of seven, when you were going to take over the ice cream factory, but were terrified of thunder and slept hugging a plush revolver."

The terrifying head of the Serdtseedov mafia clan, before whom cartels trembled, currently looked as if she desperately wanted the ground to swallow her whole. She shot her uncle a murderous glare that literally screamed "I will burn this store to the ground, I swear," but Leo merely shrugged innocently, taking out two teacups. He waved invitingly toward the back of the store, from where a pleasant aroma was wafting.

"Come into the back room, it's warm there. I just brewed some fresh thyme tea. I'll also show you Vitulia's childhood photo albums. There's a wonderful picture of her in a strawberry costume," Leo turned around and slowly walked between the bookshelves.

"We are not going anywhere! The rain has almost stopped, and we have... important business negotiations!" Vitalina objected sharply, her voice sounding threatening and panicked all at once.

She was about to turn toward the exit, but stopped short when she saw her partner heading straight after Uncle Leo with obvious curiosity.

Vitalina froze with her mouth slightly open, realizing her complete defeat. Her ironclad authority had been ruthlessly trampled by her partner's desire to look at her childhood photos. She let out a heavy, doomed exhale, theatrically rolled her amber eyes to the ceiling, praying to all the mafia gods for patience, and submissively clicked her stilettos following after them.