Hello everyone!

After quite a few years out of the fanfiction world (although I kept reading some), I'm back to writing. As you might have noticed on my profile, English is not my native language and this story is as much an attempt at perfecting my English as it is a way to give Vladimir a proper life. Please be kind with me but don't hesitate to point out any mistake you see. I don't have any beta for this.

So, about the story itself: this is mainly the story of Camille, French girl that comes to NYC to forget about her past and who falls deep into the clutches of my favorite Russian boy ever. As I'm sure I'm not the only one who had been very frustrated with the Ranskahovs' end in Daredevil, I won't elaborate further on what inspired me to write this.

I will, however, give you a fair warning beforehand. This story is rated M for a reason. First because of Vladimir's and Camille's dirty mouths, but also because there will be violence, assaults, sex, and general darkness that I think Vladimir's character can't go without.

So, if you're still up for it, let's start this. Have a good read!

Chapter 1

The music was deafening. A sound so loud and so harsh it made her blood pulse at the same rhythm. Above it, she could barely hear the screamed demands of the patrons.

"I'll have five shots of tequila, please!" the most polite ones said.

"Give me a beer" was the most common order.

And, then, there was the ones who were so drunk, it was almost rocket science to decipher their blabbering.

But, as time went by, she became better at it.

It'd been two months since she'd started working here, in this bar in the seediest part of Hell's Kitchen, filled with bikers and drug dealers and, weirdly enough, Russian cab drivers. She wasn't an idiot. She'd even say she was smart enough not to ask. The bar itself could have been a pretty thing, in the typical Irish pub style: wooden counter, wooden stools, wooden floors and dark painted walls. Except it wasn't Irish. Not really. It must have been, at some point. Until the Russians came in and claimed that part of the Kitchen as their own.

Now, the shelves were filled with vodka, both expensive and cheap, instead of whiskey. The dimmed orange lights had stayed on, but only because they helped hiding the stains everywhere. Even now, at the beginning of her shift, her feet were already getting stuck on the floor because of some asshole who couldn't hold his glass of beer straight. And it was only eight o'clock. As Green Day's Boulevard of Broken Dreams started to play on above her head, she sighed. At least, the music was good. And on point, she reckoned.

Between two customers, she took a sip of her Coke, the only thing that helped her to go through the night, until four in the morning. Then, she'd be able to go back to her small appartement across the street and sleep the day away.

"Hey, Lady!" A bearded man with a bandana atop his long and greasy grey hair called out. "How long 'till I get that damn whiskey?!"

Ah, she stood corrected. There were still whiskey drinkers here after all.

"Comin' right up!" She replied with a smile, unbothered by the lack of politeness. She was used to it by now.

Contrary to what people might have thought if they had taken a dive into her current thoughts, she was happy here. She lwas living in a seedy part of a seedy district, in a small apartment where walls were paper thin and neighbors were unsavory. But she was happy. She'd only been here for a couple of months, but she was already part of this street. People knew her. She was the nice waitress of the Red Star to them. Andy, the drug dealer who lived downstairs and spent more time smoking his products than selling it always made sure she came home safe, every night, looking out his window. The old lady upstairs, Mrs Cherkasova, who'd been living here for as long as she remembered and lost four sons out of five to gangs' wars, liked to cook and brought her a slice of cake every now and then.

This was so different from her old life. A new country, new standards, a new language even. And maybe that's why she loved it so much. Even on nights like this one.

Today, she had been awakened by her shelf crumbling to the floor, the few books she had scattering everywhere. Surprised by the sound of it, her heart still beating fast as she got out of bed, she'd hit her toe on the bed corner. She'd sworn like a sailor, certain that this had been the sign of a Very Bad Day starting for her. So far, she'd been right.

As she'd come into the bar, limping a little still – but glad the uniform policy was black skirt, white shirt and, most importantly, white sneakers – things had already been in full swing. The bar opened at 3 pm. Usually, it was pretty quiet until nine or ten. Tonight, it was not. The bar had already been filled to the brim with a few bikers but mostly with the infamous cab drivers, when she had arrived, and she'd wasted no time wrapping an apron around her waist. It hadn't changed since then.

"What's going on?" she asked Jessica, her coworker and somewhat friend, over the noise. "I've never seen this place so full!"

Jess was a brunette beauty with long shiny hair and big brown eyes. Her skin was tanned by the sun and, consequently, a little more wrinkled than it should have been at forty years old. She looked up – the waitress was almost a head shorter than her newbie– and shrugged.

"I've never seen it like this!" she insisted.

Finally, Jessica relented. She put down the glass she'd been washing and got closer to the girl. The latter had to refrain from grinning triumphantly. She had known it! She hadn't been here for long but she could smell it in the air. Tonight, something was amiss. There were more people, and they were here earlier than usual, sure. But that wasn't the main reason why. No, she could feel it. The patrons were as loud as usual but somewhat tamer. And yet, more agitated. And Jessica was tense. The woman had taught her the job. She dared to think she knew her well enough by now to spot it.

"Alex stopped by earlier today," Jess explained.

That was weird. Alex, short for Alexei, was their boss. A burly blond guy, with some scars you didn't want to ask about on his arms and neck, and an age impossible to guess. On a normal day, he would come to his bar by 11pm, when Jessica left, to keep an eye on his new employee, make sure she didn't steal anything and that nobody was acting like an ass. Then, at 4am, he'd close shop, kicking out the last drunks, when a pretty smile from the waitress didn't work. He was a quiet man. A scary one too, if she was honest. But overall, he was okay. He paid fairly, always on time, watched over his girls – as he called them – and never had tried anything with any of them. He didn't drink too much, didn't do drugs at all. He was a fair man. His employees liked him. Feared him too. But the kind of healthy fear mixed with respect that made people come to work with a smile on their face, knowing they're not working for an asshole who'd never realize their hard work.

"He asked me to clean up the private space real good," the waitress continued. "Vladimir and Anatoly have an important meeting tonight apparently." She looked around, whispering so low that the girl almost didn't hear her. "They should be here any minute now." When she saw the incomprehension clearly written over her trainee's face, she shrugged again. "You'll see." And, just like that she went back to serve alcohol and wash glasses, the girl following suit, even if she was more perplexed than before.

Vladimir and Anatoly, she'd said, as if it was an answer all on its own. Big deal, the girl thought. Two more Russians in a bar filled with them. Important guys, she supposed, since they had booked the private space and Jessica didn't feel the need to add their last name, as if there were only one Vladimir and one Anatoly in the world.

The private space was a small room in the back of the pub. It had four black benches and a table and, even if you didn't close the door, which was often the case, you could talk freely, the music covering voices from everyone but those in the room. The lights were even dimmer than in the rest of the pub and it was impossible to see who was in it from outside, unless the ones outside concentrate really hard, which was usually a bad idea, seeing the kind of people booking it…

As time went by – the girl almost unable to think as the orders kept coming – she fell into that kind of routine she liked so much. She was so busy that her body was almost on autopilot, disconnecting with her thoughts and only focusing on what she was doing. But it didn't last long.

"Shit!" Jessica swore. The girl cocked an eyebrow. She had been about to carry a tray over to customers but Jess had put a manicured hand on her elbow to stop her. "They're here."

Both girls stopped to watch. Two men had entered, both dressed in black jackets, dark pants and black shirts. Even from behind the bar, they could see they had tattoos everywhere. One even had a scar across his right eye. If the girl had forced herself to doubt her instincts up until now, now, she was sure. Two Russian kingpins had entered. And she was scared shitless. Serving drinks to small dealers and weird cab drivers who came here to relax when they were off the clock was one thing. Having mob rulers doing their meetings in the back of the pub was another.

"Do they come here often?" she asked in a half-whisper, still staring as they made their way through the crowd, which was opening for them like the Red Sea had for Moise. "I've never seen them."

"Yeah," Jess answered in a shaky breath. "They just hadn't been here for a while." Suddenly, she seemed to shake out of her daze. "Look, I'm up to my elbows here. Grab a bottle of Zyr and two glasses and go to them."

The girl stared at her as if she had lost her mind. Her? The newbie? Did she want her dead?

Her horror must have shown on her face.

"Come on!" Jess insisted, not without a touch of kindness, aware of what she was asking as she kept filling glasses. "Don't fret. You go there, you put the glasses on the table, fill them half with vodka and wait in the corner. Eventually, they will tell you to go away. Don't ask questions, don't stare, and you'll be fine." She took the time to come closer and pressed a hand comfortingly on her forearm. "They might be scary as fuck but they are okay. Kinda. At least, if they want girls, they order from outside."

Oh great! Now that she knew she wouldn't be forced to prostitute herself, she was feeling safer already! Or not. Well, she had no choice, so, she might as well go for it. Obeying Jess, she grabbed a bottle of Zyr, their most expensive Russian vodka, and two glasses. As she got away from behind the bar, the music got more bearable, and the closer she got to the back, the less patrons there were. As if they had fled the aera to pack themselves like sheeps at the front. Great. If she got murdered, there'd be no witness. She swallowed her anxiety and kept moving, one heavy foot after the other. At least, her toe didn't hurt anymore, so she wouldn't be entering the lion's den with a limp. That was something, she guessed.

When she got to the private space, she stopped, her eyes needing some time to adjust to the dim light. Her other senses took the lead. She was assaulted by a strong smell of cologne, not unpleasant really, she was just not used to it. It smelled clean and … male? She guessed. For lack of a better, more mature, definition for it. Like leather and cedarwood intertwined. A third smell sticked underneath it.

A smell she would later come to know as gunpowder.

It was also colder in here, which wasn't surprising. The bar was always warmer because of the number of human beings stacked inside of it, drunk human beings mostly. Here, there was a cool warmth that allowed her skin to dry of its sweat without shivering. The music coming from the bar had also dimmed to a tolerable level.

It felt good. She almost sighed in appreciation. Then, she remembered where she was. Her eyes had adapted to the dimness. She could see him, seated slightly to her right, back straight and hands crossed over on the table. The man with the scarred eye. He had sandy blond hair, cut short and messy. His face was a mix of harsh lines like his mouth and his jawline – accentuated by his scars – and softer features, like his cheeks and nose. She guessed his eyes were a shade of blue or grey, it was hard to tell in here. And she had no time to stare.

Remembering Jessica's advices, she locked her eyes on the table and went to put two glasses on it. Then, as one glass and the bottle were already on the table, she realized there was actually only one man in the room.

Shit.

She stopped halfway from placing the second glass, having no idea where to put it, almost bent over the table. If she looked up, she knew she would cross his stare. And Jess had told her to be invisible. That wasn't it. Definitely. However, she couldn't stay like this. She was looking like a fool. She knew it. He knew it. Even the old man above knew it and he was laughing his ass off.

She started with the simple part: putting her back straight again. Finally, she resigned herself to look him in the eye and contrary to Jess' advices, she took a deep breath and opened her mouth, lonely glass still in her hand.

"Are you alone?" she asked.

Years of fighting shyness had gifted her something at least. Her voice didn't waver. In response, he arched an eyebrow, accentuating the hardness of it.

"New girl?" he asked back with an accent so thick she wondered for how long he had been in America. His eyes never moved from hers. It was making her squirm because she hated staring contests, especially with mob kings, but it was also a comfort. At least, he didn't look her up and down, stopping too long on her breasts, like most men did.

"Yeah." She cleared her throat. Tried again. "Yes, I've been working here for nearly two months."

Obviously, she had an accent too, because his face lit up, just a little – he was Russian after all – with curiosity and some kind of amusement.

"French girl!" he grinned. It wasn't a question. "How did Alex manage that?" Then, he laughed. It was a harsh noise, guttural and brash. But, just like his peculiar way of speaking English, it wasn't unpleasant. She even dared to smile a little. "What's your name?" he asked, after a time, while she had been fighting to stay still under his steady gaze. He hadn't answered her question and her damned glass was still in her hand.

"Camille," she answered. "People call me Cami, here." She looked down at her feet, then back at him, determined not to let herself be intimidated. After all, she hadn't always been the lonely waitress working in a shitty bar. She used to have a backbone. There had to be some of that person left. She had to be logical here. Sure, he was scary as hell, but he hadn't given her any reason to shake in her boots yet. Actually, he was even quite civil.

"Nice to meet you, Camille." He said her name in full, as if insisting on not being American, and so, not doing things their way. Then, he grabbed the bottle of vodka. She started to move toward it, she was supposed to serve him his drinks, but he waved her away. She took a step back, hands crossed in her back against the knot of her apron, watched him fill his glass and empty it just as quickly. She kept looking as his Adam's apple bobbed up and down, while the glass got, slowly but surely, emptier. Once finished, he put the glass down on the table. He made it slide a little away from him, grabbed the ashtray in the middle of the table, and took a cigarette from his pack, a Marlboro. Red. The strongest kind.

As she watched his hand move under the table and coming up empty still, she noticed the tattoos on it. He had a lot. Everywhere, it seemed. And none of them rang any bell in terms of meaning. Except for the fact that they all seemed to scream "dangerous mobster" at her.

"You've got a lighter?"

She nodded and searched the many pockets of her apron. Some cash, a can opener, a few tickets and finally, a lighter. She was about to hand it to him directly but thought better of it. He wasn't a friend she was sharing a smoke with. So, she put it on the table in front of him.

"You can keep it." Like any smoker, she had many.

"Thanks," he nodded toward her.

And then, they were back to square one again. He, sitting on his black bench, almost disappearing in it in his dark clothes, smoking peacefully. Her, standing up a respectful distance away, hands crossed behind her back, not knowing what to do. Should she tell him Alex had a very strict no-smoking-inside policy? She supposed not. Afterall, the ashtray wasn't here by chance. Should she ask her question again? She wished she could, so she could put the glass down and get away from here. All this tension, coupled with the smoke from his cigarette was making her crave for a smoke herself. Out, in the cool air of a New-York's spring night. She had never been keen on smoking inside. At last, heavens seem to smile on her, putting her out of her misery.

"Anatoly will be here soon." So, he was Vladimir. "You can put the glass on the table. Leave the bottle and go back to work. We will manage."

She nodded and, without needing to be told twice, she scampered out of the room, going back to the noise and the heat of the bar with undisguised relief. When she got there, things had calmed down. Most of the patrons had gotten their drinks and had gone to sit a little away from the mess. Jess cast a sideway glance at her, smirking a little.

"Still alive?" she asked, as she took advantage of the relative calm to clean the counter. Camille grabbed a towel and helped her. Someone had spilled something sugary on it and it was sticking to the wooden surface.

"Yeah. Kinda. I think my heart stopped once or twice in there."

Jessica stifled a laugh.

"That hard, huh?"

The new girl thought about it, which made her colleague only laugh harder.

"I guess it could have been worse." She shrugged, pretending that her heart wasn't still hammering in her chest and that her legs weren't a breeze away from crumbling under her. "There was only one of them. Don't know where the other had gone to."

Jessica stopped moving for half a second. It wasn't much. But she noticed.

"Which one was there?"

"Vladimir?" She asked. Afterall, she wasn't 100% sure. "Short hair."

Jessica stopped cleaning again. And winced.

"Yep, that's him. You lucked out. Anatoly is easier, more smiles."

Well, Cami hadn't met him, so she didn't know. But honestly, if she thought back on the moment, just based on actual facts, it could have been worse. He hadn't been rude or violent or anything one could imagine from a Russian mob leader alone in a room with a girl. It'd just been a nightmare because she was scared of him to begin with. And she had reasons to! Well, sort of. She didn't know exactly who he was, but "Russian mobster" said enough. She could guess at violence, kidnapping, killing, maiming, possibly raping… She shivered despite the stifling warmth of the place. She'd come to New-York for adventure, now she had it.

"Hey, Jess, you mind if I go and have a smoke?"

"That soon?" The woman arched an eyebrow. Usually, Camille only had one smoke during her whole shift, around midnight, when Jessica, who didn't hide her dislike for smokers, was gone and Alex, who didn't mind covering for her, had arrived. It was only 10pm now.

"Yeah…"

Jess was about to launch into a sermon. She could see it on her face, open mouth and all. But she relented.

"Oh alright, alright!" She waved her away. "Go kill yourself, young lady. But don't come crying to me when your teeth rot away!"

The girl rolled her eyes but smiled, in all of her white teeth glory. Americans and their obsession with dental care… Her grandfather had smoked for as long as she could remember. Never even had a cavity. She was still smiling when she got out on the smokers' patio. It used to be an old garden. Now, it was a smoking space, away from the street, and from the police. Camille leaned against the wall, enjoying the cool weather, before lighting her cigarette up. She knew it was disgusting and that she should stop. She had started at eighteen, just to seem cool in front of her friends. Now, at twenty-four, she couldn't stop. And, the worse thing was, she didn't have enough surviving instincts to feel bad about it. It was her pleasure. Some drowned themselves in greasy food, some drank too much, some did drugs, some never moved from their couch. She smoked. Nobody was perfect. And she wasn't even a heavy smoker! So, fuck them.

As she got back into the bar, she felt better, calmer, ready to face the end of her shift. But as the saying went: "If you want God to laugh…"

"Girl!" A voice from the private space called. Still with that goddamned Russian accent. But not Vladimir's voice. She turned on her heels and went to them, plastering her best waitress' smile on.

"Yes?" She stopped at the entrance, half blinded by darkness again, arms on her back. There were three people sitting here now. The Russian who had called her, smiling wolfishly at her. Anatoly, she reckoned. Vladimir, still watching everything like a hawk. And a third man. One she didn't know. He didn't seem very tall. Or very gangstery for that matter. He was wearing a suit. His black hair was nicely combed. But he didn't seem afraid, sitting between the two other men. He smiled politely at her. Well, as polite as an utterly disinterested smile could be. She was nothing to him, barely human. She could feel it. And she hated him for it. But she kept smiling.

"Could you bring a glass of wine for our friend here, sweetheart?" Anatoly asked.

Cami refrained a snort. Of course, the man in the fancy suit wanted some fancy ass wine. Well, at least, she knew this dance.

"White or red? It's still a bit too cold for a rosé, I'd say."

Fancypants arched an eyebrow. Yes, they actually had wine here. And yes, Alexei had taken the time to teach her the basics.

"White." Fancypants answered. Camille nodded.

"Dry or sweet?"

At this, all three men stared at her with different level of surprise. She waited patiently.

"French girls," Vladimir chuckled before smiling a little. She frowned a little at the cliché but kept her mouth shut.

"Alex has both?!" Anatoly muttered, skeptical but laughing anyway.

"Dry".

"We've got white Riesling."

Fancypants watched her, almost impressed but mostly intrigued. As if a waitress couldn't possibly know his fancy ass wine. She was almost tempted to scream "Eat your shit!" at him, just to get back on track with the image he had of her. Instead, she waited for his okay and got back to the bar, announcing to Jess she was going down to the basement.

When she came back, she put his glass of white wine in front of him. She hadn't brought the whole bottle to open it in front of him. She wasn't a sommelier and they weren't in a fancy restaurant. As he took his time tasting it, which was ridiculous in her opinion - when you are a in Russian bar filled with mobsters, you order beer, or vodka, or whiskey, anything else really, but you don't do fucking wine-testing – everyone else was silent.

She almost jumped when she felt something cold against her hand. It was her lighter. Vladimir was handing it back to her, and not through the table as she had done. The difference probably went over his head. Not over hers. As she took it from his hand, feeling his warmth and the scars on his knuckles against her soft skin, it did not go over her head at all. She fought back a blush.

Alright, alright… He. Was. Hot. She had two in-working-order eyes. She had lady parts. And she was neither naïve enough nor proud enough not to acknowledge the fact that no woman would say no to a big bad Russian gangster's handsome face –in a very mean kind of way – between their legs. At least, she sure as fuck wouldn't say no. In her fantasies. Where she could forget about the fact that he was probably used to having prostitutes and, as such, did nothing but lay there as they do everything he wanted. Yes, well, blame her. It was her fantasy, and in it, he was a king in bed. And a gangster, but not a bad guy. Because what's the fun otherwise?

"Anatoly had stollen mine. I got it back. Thanks." Camille took some time to react. Her mind really was her worst enemy sometimes. She nodded.

"You're welcome."

On that note, she went back to her place behind the bar, pouring drinks and kicking out men before they vomited on her floor. All the while, every now and then, she would spare a glance at the private space.

So, any thoughts ?