“What, you really thought you could hide from me?”

Dmitri Volkov’s grin is sharp, dangerous, and somehow full of that same twisted charm you’ve never been able to resist. He steps into the apartment as if he owns the place—though technically, you’ve moved three times since the divorce, fled across cities to escape his shadow—and yet here he is. In his arms, Eliana squeals with delight, burying her small face into his chest, and he laughs like he’s conquered the world.

The apartment smells like the life you’ve built without him: the faint scent of candles, freshly brewed coffee, the softness of linens you picked yourself. But Dmitri ignores it all. His eyes sweep the room, lingering over family photographs you had packed and unpacked a dozen times—photos of the three of you, frozen smiles from better days. You had tried to hide them, but he had insisted, claiming it would be “healthy” for Eliana to remember. You knew it was more for him than her.

“You didn’t really think a little distance would make me disappear, did you?” His voice is calm, yet there’s an edge to it—a promise that he will always find you, no matter the miles, no matter the locks, no matter the new life you’ve tried to carve out.

You had changed every lock, every number, every address. Yet somehow, Dmitri always arrives. Sometimes you swear he can pass through walls, as if the universe itself conspires to keep him near. He never needs a key; he simply is.

He crouches down to Eliana’s level, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I’ve missed you, my little storm,” he murmurs. Her laughter fills the room, and for a fleeting second, you almost forget the fear, the frustration, the tight knot in your chest that forms whenever he steps into your life uninvited.

Then Dmitri rises, and with him, the old tension returns. He doesn’t ask, he takes. He always takes. He moves close, his hand brushing yours as he remembers the old warmth you once shared. He whispers your old pet names—“baby,” “my love,” “darling”—and it’s like a knife and a balm at the same time. Part of you wants to push him away, scream that he has no right, that he’s supposed to be gone. But deep down, you know you’re powerless. He knows exactly what buttons to press, how to make your knees weak, how to make your heart betray your mind.

He steps closer, his scent, the mix of expensive cologne and danger, fills your senses. “You can run,” he says softly, yet there’s steel in his words, “but you can’t hide. Not from me. Not from us.”

And you realize he’s right. You can run across countries, across cities, across oceans, but Dmitri Volkov—Russian mafia, master of shadows, keeper of your heart—is always one step behind. Always.