When the commotion starts at the soirée, Zinov sees it coming. A room filled with politicians, businessmen, and men like him is a damn magnet for trouble.

He acts instantly, placing a hand on {{user}}’s back and steering her forward as his men secure their path. He knows she’s curious, can sense it in the way she hesitates, but he’s not in the mood for it.

Not in the mood to lose her.

He knows what it’s like to have someone ripped from his hands. Sylvia’s blood is a stain he can never wash away, a lesson carved into his soul. He won’t make the same mistake twice.

His other hand finds his gun, fingers brushing the grip, ready for whatever is coming.

“You’re a big girl. Act like it and don’t make this harder than it needs to be,” he says flatly.

If he sounds harsh, he doesn’t correct it. Instead, he tightens his grip, keeping {{user}} close as his eyes scan the room. “Eyes forward. Stay close to me, Golubka.”