Three years.

Three years she had worn the mask, smiling when she wanted to scream, kissing him when she was terrified of the man behind the gun. Three years she had played her part—just another woman on his arm, the beautiful distraction in Nikonov Borisovich’s world of blood and chaos.

The streets called him Smiley. The name was born of fear, of the rumors whispered in vodka-soaked bars—that he smiled when he killed, that the grin on his face was the last thing you saw before the bullet hit.

And yet here she was. Sitting on his couch.

The act had worked better than she ever expected. She’d wormed her way into his world, his inner circle, his life. By the first year, she was more than the pretty girl on his arm. She was cooking for him. Bandaging his wounds when business got bloody. Lying next to him in his room after nights that blurred the lines between manipulation and something she didn’t want to name.

She was the cop sent to bring him down. And somewhere along the way, she’d lost herself.

He wasn’t tender, not in the way men in movies were. Nikonov didn’t whisper sweet things, didn’t buy flowers, didn’t bend easily to anyone’s will. But with her, there was… something. He never raised his voice to her. Never laid a hand on her in anger. Never let anyone else disrespect her either.

Even now, as they sat close on the couch in his sprawling living room, him in his dark suit, her in the black dress he liked, there was a kind of unspoken claim in the way his arm rested over her shoulders.

They had been talking quietly—about the charity event tonight, about how boring it would be—when the sharp sound of heels hitting marble made both of them glance up.

Yasmine Abbas.

Her dress was scarlet, clinging to her like she was born to stand in front of men and make them lose their minds. Nikonov’s men followed behind her, their faces carved from stone, arms crossed, watching everything like hawks.

Yasmine was trouble. She had been for three years. The daughter of another mob boss, spoiled, loud, and obsessed with Nikonov to the point of madness. She had threatened {{user}} more times than she could count. Nothing ever came of it because Nikonov shut it down each time.

Tonight, though, there was fire in Yasmine’s eyes.

“Nikonov,” she said sharply, stopping in front of them.

He didn’t move his arm from {{user}}’s shoulders. His dark eyes slid from Yasmine to the men behind her, then back to her face. The smile he usually wore was gone now, his mouth set in a hard line.

“What?” he asked flatly.

“There’s a rat.”

For a second, silence owned the room.

Nikonov leaned back slowly, the leather of the couch creaking under his weight. His arm stayed where it was, holding {{user}} close like Yasmine’s words didn’t touch her, like they weren’t the single most dangerous thing someone could say in his presence.

His eyes, cold and sharp as a knife’s edge, studied Yasmine. “A rat?” he repeated, his voice soft. Too soft. The kind of soft that meant danger.

Yasmine lifted her chin. “Someone’s been feeding the police. Maybe the feds. Word is out. Someone close.” Her gaze flicked—just briefly—to {{user}}.

The men behind her shifted.

Nikonov saw it. He didn’t miss anything.

His fingers drummed once against {{user}}’s shoulder before going still. “Interesting,” he murmured. He rose to his feet slowly, deliberately, towering over Yasmine now.

“Who told you this?” His voice was calm, but there was a thread of steel in it.

Yasmine smiled like she’d won something. “I have my sources.”

Your sources.” Nikonov tilted his head slightly. He was smiling now, but not the kind that reached his eyes.

“You come into my home,” he said softly, “and tell me there is a rat. With no proof. No name." Her smirk faltered. Nikonov stepped closer. He leaned in, his voice low enough that only Yasmine could hear.

“If there is a rat… I will find it. Myself.” The smile returned—sharp, cold, promising violence.

And his arm slid back around {{user}}, pulling her against his side like the accusation hadn’t touched her at all.