CHAPTER 2

As I dialed 9-1-1, his warm hands suddenly reached for mine. 

"Don't… don't call…” he struggled to speak. 

“But you are hurt,” I said shakenly. 

“Ambulance is trouble. " His chest heaved. “I remember you have a box for wounds,” he managed to say with his broken English.

This was the worst possible time to not be fluent in English. What did he mean by box of treatment?

“I…I don't get it.”

His teeth pressed together, Argh…the thing…for treating wounds…the box…”

“Do you mean a first aid box?” 

“Yes, that," he confirmed. "I can do it myself; get me to it.”

I grabbed his arm and helped him stand; putting his arms around my shoulders, I led him back to the liquor shop. 

When we got in, I placed him on the ground, his back against the wall, and I quickly rushed to grab the box and put it in front of him. 

His breath was ragged, his face contorted in pain. He slid off his jacket and reached for his button-up shirt. I knelt beside him, watching as he undid the buttons. His chest was hard, my eyes strolled down to his bloody stomach, and my lips parted in awe as I gazed down at his well-defined six-pack. 

He reached into the box and poured a bottle of antiseptic on the wound; a loud guttural growl came out from him. I couldn't imagine how much it hurt. 

“I think you should call the police and report this.” As I spoke, my gaze suddenly caught something in the pocket of his coat, the handle of a gun. 

I stumbled backwards. "Gun? Y…you have a gun?”

He panted, his black hair sticking to his forehead due to the sweat. “I thought you said you didn't think I was a bad guy?” His accent seemed to deepen; I didn't hear most of the things he said. “Why are you scared?”

"I…I…” I stuttered. 

Was he one of the gang members we heard about who started fights? 

He reached for a tweezer. "Relax, girl, I'm not going to hurt you..." His gaze lingered on mine. “If you are scared, then you can run out now and call the police; I'm too weak to catch you.”

He quickly dug his hand into the first aid box and brought out a tweezer. His gaze moved up to me. “Are you leaving?”

I knew there was something about him, something dangerous, but for some reason I didn't feel like leaving?

Maybe I felt safe?

Around a man with a gun?

Why did I believe it when he said he wouldn't hurt me?

He would have hurt me already if he wanted to, right?

I shook my head. “No…I'm not leaving.”

“Look away, you don't want to see this,” he warned. As if pain meant nothing to him, he dug it into his bullet wound, picked it with it, and dragged it out.

My eyes widened at the scene.

Blood seeped out of the hole, worse than before; he quickly grabbed a bandage and began to wrap it around himself. After a few seconds he was done; it wasn't neat but was good enough to keep him alive until he saw a doctor.

He grunted as he stood from the ground. I quickly stood up as well. “You shouldn't be moving too much when you just got shot."

He looked at me; his eyes flashed with confusion. 

Didn't he understand my words? 

“I'm not a doctor, but I'm sure it's not advisable,” I said, this time slowly, hoping he would take my word. 

He staggered back and grabbed the wall behind him to stabilize himself. I quickly rushed to him, placing my hand on his arm. “You should call somebody to take you home if you won't go to a doctor.” 

A small frown tugged at the corner of his mouth, his brows pulling together. “You are a strange American girl,” he commented. 

"Strange?”

“People usually run the other way when they see a man get shot, but you…you stayed.”

My lips parted. “Why would I run?”

He grabbed the hand I had placed on his arm and spun me around until my back touched the wall behind him. His hand  gripped my neck, and he pulled me in close, his breath hot against my neck. “Because you are afraid…that I would hurt you.”

My chest heaved; his grip was a little too tight. 

“If you wanted to kill me, you would have done it by now.” I swallowed.

“Hmm,” he pulled away.

I rubbed my back. “Is your home far away? You should call somebody to come get you.”

He exhaled but said nothing, his gaze fixed on the ground. 

“Can you…call somebody?”

“What is your name, kid?,” he asked, his lips parted for air. 

“Jenifer, people call me Jennifer,” I said calmly, my fingers clutching onto the sides of my dress. 

“Thank you for help, Jennifer.” He pronounced the last syllable of my name with a hard R.

As he picked up his coat from the ground, the gun slid out of it and fell to the ground, a loud thud echoing. 

He leaned to pick it up and stood to face me.

“Where are you going?”

"You have helped enough, kid. Stay and stop asking questions." His tone was low and serious.

“I told you, I'm not a kid; I'm twenty-two.”

I noticed a smirk at the cover of his lips; he turned and twisted the doorknob, and his body seemed to lean downward before the pain. The cold night air blew harsh against my skin as the door opened. 

“What is your name?”

“You do not need it,” he stopped out. 

I rushed to the door and grabbed it before it closed. “I want to know.”

He stopped, but he didn't turn back. He hesitated before he finally spoke. “Ivan…Ivan Volkov,” he said. I watched him walk off into the distance until he faded. 

Ivan Volkov. 

The name sounded familiar. 

I shut the door and locked it with a click. 

There was a bed in the store I could sleep on; Dad put it there when the store used to be packed and had many customers. I didn't clearly remember it as I was little, but Dad said we would sleep here overnight to avoid going home late. 

I set the bed behind the counter, and I turned off the lights and curled up in it with a blanket.

It had begun to rain again; I wondered if he was okay in the car. All the blood in his hands made my body curl. I had never seen so much before. 

He wouldn't tell me who he was.

Mafia?

No, why would any one of them be in this part of town?

The name Ivan Volkov replayed in my head. 

I slid out my phone; I thought it was crazy to want to look him up. Why was I sure his name would appear?

I placed the phone back on the bed and adjusted my blanket. I fidgeted, uneasy. I sighed and grabbed my phone and typed his name in the search bar. 

My hands trembled against the screen of my phone. 

Ivan Volkov.

Head of the Russian Mafia boss. I had heard news about him; how could I forget his name?

He had come to New Orleans months ago to settle a score with an enemy in New York City. It was a bloodbath as the war went on.

He didn't go back after; no one knows why; no one knows what he's planning. All people knew was that he was dangerous, and I just had him in the coffee shop?

What if he came back here?