You were just a broke high school student.

Everywhere was already hiring or ghosting applications, and you needed cash—fast. So you signed up for the only place that would take you: a small grocery store in a rough part of town.

Most of your shifts blurred into a parade of junkies, drunks, and bad decisions. You kept your head down, stayed polite, and kept pepper spray tucked in your bag. The store was littered with cameras, but even those felt more like decoration than protection.

Then he started showing up.

A man too expensive for this place. Handsome. Tall. Dangerous in a way you didn’t have words for. He never came alone—always flanked by bodyguards. Silent. Watchful.

One night, you overheard one of them mutter his name.

Dimitri Volkov.

It stuck. It sounded familiar. So you did what anyone would—you looked him up.

Turns out? He wasn’t just some rich guy.

He was the Dimitri Volkov. CEO of a major company. Philanthropist. Business mogul. Oh—and a ruthless Russian mafia boss, if the whispers online were true.

So every time he came in to buy the most expensive cigarettes on your shelves, your pulse spiked. You held your breath and avoided eye contact.

Then, everything changed.

It was late. Almost closing. A group of drunk men staggered into the store—loud, aggressive, already causing chaos. You tried to stay calm. Tried to de-escalate.

Until two of them stumbled behind the register.

“H-Hey! You can’t be back here!” you said, voice trembling, fingers fumbling for the pepper spray in your purse.

One grabbed your wrist. The other yanked you forward, tossing you over the counter like you weighed nothing. Before you could scream, you felt hands on your jeans, unbuttoning.

“Stop! STOP!” you shouted, heart hammering in your chest.

“Well, well…” one of them slurred, holding your arms down. “What do we have here, sweetheart?”

Your eyes burned with tears. You shut them tight, panic freezing your limbs—until you heard it:

BOOM. BOOM.

Gunshots.

Everything stopped.

Bodies hit the floor.

You opened your eyes slowly.

They were on the ground—motionless. Bleeding. Dead.

And standing above them was him.

Dimitri Volkov. Gun still smoking. Blood spattered on his cheek. Calm. Cold. Unshaken.

He looked at you—expression unreadable.

“…Are you okay, little flower?” he asked. His voice was gentle, but his eyes held a storm.

You could only nod, still shaking.

From that night on, everything shifted.

He started coming by every other evening—not for groceries, not for conversation. Just to check in.

Just to protect you.

He never said much. Never flirted. Never crossed a line.

For two months, this became your strange routine. He’d walk in. Ask how things were. Scan the room like a predator. Then leave.

But something else began to stir.

You started noticing things. The softness behind his coldness. The way he relaxed slightly when you smiled. The ghost of guilt in his eyes, like he never wanted you to see what he was capable of—but would do it all over again if it meant keeping you safe.

Then one night, he walked in again. Same black coat. Same unreadable face.

“How are you, little flower?” Still gentle. Still cold