Hello everyone. I just wanted to give you a fair warning. This chapter is one which deserved its M rating and not because of smut. There's violence in it and mentions of attempted rape. Please, do keep this in mind before reading.

Despite this, I hope you like the story so far and would welcome any review about it if you want to write one.

Have a good read.


Chapter 11

Days flew by for Camille after that night. Her new daily routine was starting to run smoothly. She'd still go to work as usual, but after it, she'd go to Vladimir's almost every night. Sometimes, he was there, sometimes he came home even later than she did. Some girls looked out for shoes to know if their boy was home. She searched for the Kalashnikov.

Sometimes, he came home without a hair out of place. Sometimes, he was battered and bloody.

When they say the human mind and body get used to anything as long as it became a habit, it was true.

Last time Vladimir had come home with bloody knuckles, the skin split and bones visible underneath, she'd just put her cigarette aside and gone to grab the med kit, asking how was Anatoly. He'd even taught her how to make a tourniquet and how to sew a wound shut. He said she was a butcher but, at least, she knew how to do it now.

On her free days, if he could, he'd spend the day with her. Most time he couldn't stay the whole time but he'd tell her to wait for him at his place. Suffice to say, she realized one day, while washing glasses at the Red Star, that she hadn't been inside her apartment in over a month, except to grab some clothes in passing.

At some point, Vladimir, sick and tired of her clothes lying around, had cleared a shelf for her in his wardrobe. She'd watched him do it, asking cheekily how he'd manage with ten less black tees among the hundred he had to hide her embarrassment at this new step. He'd shot daggers at her the whole time.

After that, she'd gone to her appartement only maybe once a week, still in passing.

The other novelty was that his fridge was now full of actual food, not only vodka, as she tried to cook French dishes as best as she could with what she could find at the nearest grocery store. She'd often complain about the nearest French store being too far away for her to buy anything. That led to one of her most glorious moment since she was in America. Vladimir had lent her his car. In exchange, she'd had to swear to cook him her best dish.

On the way to the store, she had put the music on full blast, singing and dancing as she drove. She'd been so happy to be behind a wheel after so long. Back in France, she'd lived in the countryside. That meant she used to drive at least an hour a day every day. She had missed the freedom of driving, this tiny temptation, once the car was started, to go as far away as you could with it.

It might seem like nothing. To her, it was a big deal. She had always loved these moments when she had a good playlist on, the clear blue sky in front of her as she sung off key and tap a rhythm on the wheel.

Plus, Vladimir's car was awesome: big and comfortable, higher than most, and easy to maneuver. The acoustic also was to die for, and she knew, because she'd made full use of it!

The day after, while she had told this to Anatoly, who'd come to taste the French art de vivre, he had laughed his ass off. The traumatized face of Vladimir had almost made him fell of his stool.

"What kind of music did you put on?" Vladimir had asked, growing paler by the second.

"One night in Bangkok by Murray Head. And Britney Spears' best-of." She'd answered while savoring her boeuf bourguignon. Yep, she loved corny music. What about it?

Anatoly had burst out laughing again, hitting the counter with his hand several time. He'd almost been crying at that point. Camille had tried very hard not to let her own laughter escape. Vladimir had been aghast.

"Everyone around here knows my car."

She'd been starting to worry that he'd faint by then.

"Relax," she'd said soothingly, "I waited till I was out of the Kitchen."

That managed to appease him. A little.

Anatoly was her number one fan since then.

Now, autumn was on them. The nights were getting colder. She'd have to buy an actual coat soon. Even if she had taken to steal Vladimir's leather jacket lately. It was a Schott and she loved it. It was big and warm and comfortable. And it smelled like him, which was mostly why she'd stolen it in the first place.

He didn't mind. Much.

It was payback for all the lighters he stole from her anyway.

Tonight, it was one of those nights where the weather was chilly. She didn't mind the cold, she thought, as she hugged herself in the Russian's jacket, waiting for the subway to arrive. The colder it got, the closest she would be to see her mother and sister. Three months left. Barely three months. She couldn't wait.

She hopped on the subway, wondering if she'd be alone in bed tonight. To her own consternation, she'd realized she was getting used to Vladimir's furnace of a body. When he wasn't there with her, she'd toss and turn, unable to find sleep. Partly because she was worried that one night, he might not get home. But she tried not to think about that. She'd go crazy if she did.

As she got out of the underground, walking past dark alleys and watching the Veles Taxi's sign's fluorescent lights shining bright into the night, thinking about what she'd do the next day before getting to work, everything suddenly went dark.

That's when the shit hit the fan.

Camille gained back consciousness with the mother of all headaches pulsing against her temples.

She couldn't see shit. Some kind of dark cotton bag had been pulled over her head. No matter how hard she tried to turn her head around, she couldn't decipher anything, not even a shadow. Her heart was pounding, her breath accelerating too while the damn tissue went in and out over her mouth and nostrils, only worsening the lack of air in her lungs. So much so that she thought she'd black out again. She felt like she couldn't breathe, like she was suffocating in the damn bag. Panic was seizing her. Fast.

What was going on?!

She tried to move her arms to remove the cursed thing and realized they were tied together to the back of a chair. It was one of those cheap chairs you could find in kitchens, made of metallic bars and wooden surfaces. The backseat hurt her right under her shoulder blades and burned the soft spot of her underarms. Thick adhesive tape was biting in her wrists' and ankles' skin.

Despite the pain, the young woman kept trying to fight her restraints in a blind panic. However, the more she struggled, the more she exhausted herself, the less she managed to get free and the less she managed to breathe properly.

She was so close to suffocating herself that she couldn't even scream when the bag was lifted off her head. She didn't have enough breathing room and – she had just realized it, testament to her own inability to think straight right now – her mouth was taped shut anyway.

Suddenly, a blinding light burned her pupils. However, she couldn't allow herself the simple reflex to shut her eyes. She had to keep them wide open. She had to try and understand what the fuck was going on.

As soon as her eyes had adjusted to the light, she casted frantic looks left and right, trying to understand, first, where she was. She could only register grey walls and floors made of concrete before her sight was obstructed by a white buttoned-up shirt. She slowly looked up from the shirt to the face off its owner, terrified of what she might find.

"Wakey, wakey!" A red-haired man with a red beard was smiling down at her. It was an evil smirk devoid of any joy. His face was too close and he stank of whiskey.

Camille scrunched up her nose at him but, in her confused state, didn't pay him any real attention. Once again, she turned her head around to try and comprehend where she had landed.

At last, her brain agreed to register some things.

She was on a construction site, probably a future mall. She supposed she was on the ground floor. As she looked up, she could see she was in the center of a room several floors high. Every corridor on every floor was open to this space. And here she was, tied to a chair in the dead center of it. She felt like a bull in the middle of an arena, the building designed to look like a gigantic one. Three men were with her. The redhead, dressed in a suit, was in front of her. On his left and right were two bulky men, armed to the teeth. All three wore bulletproof jackets around their chest, over their clothes.

"She's in shock." The stranger on the right commented in an even voice. He didn't care. None of them did.

She kept looking left and right, trying to understand what was happening. Beside her, she saw a table littered with guns and ammos and knives and… was that a drill? Suddenly, a hit to her jaw sent her head flying left and made her see stars. She whimpered and fought to stay conscious, taking breaths as deep as she could. When her vision stopped blurring, she focused back on the redhead. He was the one who had hit her. He seemed joyous about it as he swiped a handkerchief over his knuckles.

Slowly, so slowly she almost didn't realize it, fury started to simmer under her panic. How dared he touch her like that? She wasn't some punching ball, for fuck's sake!

"Ah, finally, she notices me. Hello miss!" She frowned at him, his good mood was not making any sense, expect if the point was to make him even more despicable. "I'm gonna remove the tape on your mouth now, but you'll have to keep silent. If you scream, it'll hurt." He threatened, glancing on purpose toward the table filled with torture toys.

Her breath hitched. She was in deep shit.

Think, Cami, she tried to order herself.

To no avail. She felt trapped, cornered like an animal. Her heartbeats pounded in her skull and she was panicking and furious and scared and tired and hurt and things didn't look like they'd get better anytime soon with or without her thinking straight.

When the redhead ripped the tape off, she held back a scream of pain. Tears were filling her eyes, blurring her vision. It'd felt like part of her lips' skin had gone with the tape. When she tried to move them, she realized it might have actually been just what had happened. She winced.

"Why am I here?" She asked, helpless. Some part of her brain was still working, despite what she'd thought before. So, even without his answer, she knew as soon as she'd let the words out. He confirmed it anyway.

"We don't have anything against you, darling." His hand brushed against her cheek. She tried to fight it but he slid his hand down to hold her jaw still, forcing her to face his hateful smirk. " It's your boy we have a score to settle with." The man had an accent. Irish, she realized, terrified.

Oh, fuck…

Another man came out of the shadow, his face was so mangled she whined pathetically. One side of it looked like he had fallen into a meat grinder and somehow survived it. Had Vladimir done this?

"See, Eric here has some things to say to your boy. So, yeah, you're bait!" He stated happily, letting go of her face as it rolled down right away.

She was crying like a baby now, bawling her eyes out. She let her head fall down against her chest and held back a sob. Tears were rolling down her cheeks. Her breathing was getting out of control as her chest heaved against the ropes holding her back. She was in trouble. In life-threatening trouble… And there was nothing she could do about it.

"Vladimir." She called miserably, as if he could somehow hear her and come to her rescue.

What were they going to do to her? Will she ever see the sun again? She didn't want to die. When Thomas had died, she'd thought she wouldn't ever care anymore, one way or another. It took being on Hell's doorstep to realize she did care. Very much so. She didn't want to die and her fate was out of her hands. She tried to contain her shaking. It'd only add pain on her shoulders and arms. She was hurting enough already.

"That's him!" The redhead exclaimed with enthusiasm. "See, I knew you'd get it right away. Smart girl, isn't she?" He asked his men. No one answered. "Bad taste in men thought." He noted. That got him a round of laughter.

His hand grabbed her chin again, forcing her terrified eyes to lock with the green ones of her kidnapper. They shone with a vicious glint that sent shivers down her spine.

"Now," he started again, "I'm sure they'll notice your absence soon enough, you slept for hours after all." Slept, he said. Unconscious was more like it. "But, you know, Russians scums not being the brightest cookies in the jar, it might be a while till they find you."

She saw movements on the upper corridors. Irishmen were setting a trap of their own now. The second Vladimir would set foot in here, he'd be shot by dozens of hidden snipers. She held back another wail of despair. She was going to die. And Vladimir might too. It affected her more than she'd have liked…

"Yeaaah!" The man in front of her exclaimed, as if her despair was music to his ears. "That's the spirit!" He hit her again, in the stomach this time. Hard. She fought back the nausea but had to spit some saliva between her legs. "Now, shut up." He ordered. She had no choice but to obey, the air having been punched out of her lungs. "What do we do with her in the meantime, boys? Eric, an idea?"

The man with the dreadful face smirked, his skin cracking with the movement. Camille had to swallow bile so hard she almost chocked on it.

"I could put my cock in that pretty mouth." He offered.

That got her angry again, so angry it finally burned through her fear for a time. If he dared…

"Do that and I'll bite it off your body, you son of a bitch!" She threatened through clenched teeth.

If they wanted her, they'd pay the hard price for it. Her fury granted her some clarity, surprisingly. Tears were still rolling down her face but she ignored it. She ignored her pain. She ignored her fear. Some survival instinct she hadn't known she had kicked in and her brain was finally back to being functional. She didn't fight her restrains, not matter how much she wanted to. She needed to keep her strength in case an occasion presented itself.

A fist landed in her face again. She felt something crack. Her cheekbone maybe. She could barely feel pain, adrenaline pumping in her veins. Her vision blurred however and she spit blood.

"Dirty mouth you got here, girl." Was all the redhead said as he wiped his hand in his handkerchief.

Game on, she thought. The shock was beginning to fade, enabling her to think somewhat straight despite her terror. She had only one, small, hope of survival here, with her mind intact preferably. She had to buy herself enough time for Vladimir to find her. Then, maybe – it was a big maybe – he'd be able to get them out of this mess.

Provided that he came…

"How did you know?" she asked. She didn't really care but it was a valid question. Anything that kept their hands off her was a valid question right now anyway.

"How did I know what?" Her abductor asked while she glared at him.

"About Vladimir and I." She clarified. At that, the man burst out in laughter.

"How naïve can you be, girl? I have men spying on those goulash-eating fuckers, nights and days. Oh sure, you didn't go public with him. You were very discreet." He winked at her, mocking her. She was glad for it. It only served to fuel her rage some more. "But the same girl coming in and out of his place every day for weeks? Either you're the best hooker in town or you are his girl. And you're a lot easier to catch than Anatoly so..."

The men behind him snorted. She had barely heard his answer, thinking hard about something else to say. The sun was already up outside, she could see its light through the sunroof. She'd bet she had been captured sometime between four and five hours ago. Vladimir was supposed to be home tonight.

God, she hoped he had been…

When she hadn't shown after her shift, he must have called Alexei. Admitting it took him an hour to realize she was kidnapped; it took him probably five seconds to understand who would have taken her. If she was still in Hell's Kitchen, and she'd bet she was, it meant his men must have been roaming the streets for roughly two or three hours. If he had indeed sent a search party for her.

She must hold it together a little longer. She must have faith that someone was looking for her. He couldn't be far now. She hoped...

There was still a tiny, nasty bit of doubt in her mind. Would he come for her? Would he gather his men for her? Was she worth enough to him?

Anatoly had seemed to think so, she tried to reason. However, this was a trap. A well-planned one and an obvious one at that. Was she worth the risk?

She tried, really hard, to give herself some faith. He was coming. If not for her, then at least because of his pride. He couldn't let something like that slide. Right?

In this shitstorm, she had at least one thing for her to be grateful for: the redhead, who seemed to be the leader, was a talker. She watched him pace in front of her. She just needed something to keep him on a roll. She had to try. She refused to be the girl who cries and wails and can't use her brain for shit. She was crying buckets. Her shoulders were killing her. Her hands were tied up in her back in an unnatural angle and her fingers felt numb. Her back hurt too. And the terror paralyzed her legs. She was wailing. But her brain worked. There was that, at least.

"What do you want with Vladimir? What did he do to you?" She asked, without having to fake the desperation in her voice. She knew what he had done to them. He had tracked them down like animals for months. The dozen men in this building were maybe the only Irishmen left breathing in all of Hell's Kitchen... They were backed in a corner and out for blood... She had to swallow a new sob. If Vladimir didn't come fast, they would take their anger out on her. And it wouldn't be pretty.

Don't think about it, damn it! She thought. Stay focused, Cami. You can do this.

"What did your dear Russian fucker do to us?" The redhead repeated with clenched teeth, the glint in his eyes turning furious.

She had gotten him mad... Shit...

He grabbed her by the hair, pulling so hard she was sure some of it would stay in his hand. She winced, her back and neck bent in an unnatural angle to follow his pull.

"You want to know?!" He screamed in her face while she clenched her teeth to endure the pain. "He came from nowhere one day with his shithead of a brother and claimed our territory as his own. Our homes! Without asking questions, he set his men on us, gunning down as much of us as he could!"

He was spitting in her face now, her skull shaking with every movement of his hand. She tried to keep her eyes open. She really tried. It hurt though. He was pulling so hard on her hair she was now precariously balanced on the chair's back feet.

"He forced us to hide! Like animals tracked down on hunting season! Us! We were the kings of Hell's Kitchen!"

He let go of her hair with a sharp move, setting her chair back on all four with a resounding crack, her body shaking with the impact. She watched him pace again in front of her. This time he wasn't so composed. He seemed almost rabid.

"No matter." He had calmed down just as fast as he got angry. The man was clearly unhinged... And most certainly high… Not good. He stopped his pacing to look at her, an evil glint in his eyes. "After today, we'll be Kings again. But before..." He went behind her back. It stiffened with nerves while she tried to pull on her restrains to keep an eye on him.

He was undoing the tape around her wrists.

What the fuck?

Before she could process it, he had removed all the tape, around her ankles too, and the rope around her chest. He caught her hair back in his fist and soon, he was dragging her by it in the middle of the room. She tried to resist, to claw at his hand, but hers were numb because of the damn tape she'd kept for so long around it and the terror was making her clumsy. She tried to kick too. He just kicked back, with twice her strength. Her legs gave out.

She just sat there, on the cold concrete, as he held her by her hair, trying to gain back some stamina.

"Who wants her first, boys?"

Fuck!

"No!" She protested, using all the strength she had left to try to break free. It was no use; the man had an iron grip on her. "No, no, no!" She tried to kick, to punch. It was no use. It only made him laugh.

"You are a pretty piece, aren't you? You can't fault the Russian motherfucker for his bad taste at least. You know what, I want you first. 'S okay with you, boys?"

A round a laughter echoed in the building.

"Guess they agree." He whispered in her ear while she kept trying to break free.

He started to drag her into her dark corner, under the first-floor corridor. When he'd pulled, he'd forced her into a lying position on the ground. Her back was scratching against the concrete floor. Her feet didn't manage to find enough support on it to stop him. Still, she fought with everything she had. She wouldn't get raped. She refused.

"You fucking son of a bitch!" She screamed. She was starting to lose it. He kicked her in the stomach to stop her fighting. She barely felt it, just spat some more blood-laced saliva before she resumed fighting him tooth and nail. "I'm so gonna make you pay for this, you asshole!" She tried to punch him. He caught her fist and pressed. Hard. Something cracked. This time, she felt it. She screamed in pain. But not for long. He was dragging her in a corner and they were almost there.

She kicked and screamed and cried. Nothing changed the fact that they were in the dark corner now. He threw her against the wall. Her head hit it. Hard. She almost blacked out again but adrenaline was coursing through her veins. She even managed to stay up. However, her hopes of making a run for it were crushed. He was already on her, his legs and chest pining her to the wall, his hands holding hers against it, as he licked her neck and smelt her hair. She shivered in disgust.

Now, she was losing it. The only thing in her brain was begging.

"No," she cried, helpless and broken. She could feel his body against hers, his disgusting erection against her thigh. "No, please no... No!" She screamed in despair at the top of her lungs. She was rewarded with another punch in the face. She was crying, her head down where she had landed after the punch, her tears wetting the concrete at her feet. "Please no..." She kept begging, her voice broken and terrorized, as she kept trying to fight. It was useless. She was out of strength and he wasn't budging an inch. "Vladimir, please... Help me..." The redhead held both her hands with one of his. Even like this, she couldn't move. White hot pain shot from her right hand straight through her arm. His other hand was touching her breast, one finger sliding inside the cup of her bra. She felt like throwing up. "Vladimir!" She screamed one last time, with the last of her strength.

A loud, metallic bang echoed in the room. Her attacker jumped against her and his finger retracted. He turned around, taking her with him. In one sharp movement, she was stumbling in front of him like a shield. She felt the cold metal of a gun on her temple, a hand grasping the back of her neck, and she froze. Staying up was getting almost impossible but the gun against her skull told her she'd have to endure it anyway. She tried to ignore her body's complaint to focus once again on what was happening around her.

What now?

She was exhausted. Looking up cost her a tremendous amount of energy. She did it anyway. Something was happening, her brain insisted.

Once her body finally complied, she almost fell down on the ground in relief with the sight in front of her.

Here he was.

Vladimir.

She let out a relieved whimper.

She was the only one. Everyone else had tensed – her kidnapper was almost cracking the bones of her neck with the pressure he was putting on it – and she understood why. Vladimir stood in the middle of the entrance door. He was dressed as usual, his bulletproof jacket covering his chest, his belt's buckle shining under it. But he was covered in blood. There was not on inch of his skin that wasn't red. In the middle of his face, his blue eyes were alight with a feral hunger for murder. His black shirt seemed so wet it stuck to his skin and shone on his arms. She knew it wasn't water or sweat that made it so. In his right hand, he held a riffle with a silencer installed on it. In his left one, he held a hunting knife. Both were dripping with blood.

He was the most terrifying sight she'd ever seen. Yet, she had never been so relieved to see someone.

"Let her go." He ordered as he kept walking toward her. His steps rang in the giant room, as they left a trail of blood behind them. The four Irishmen were pointing guns at him. He didn't seem to care.

"Vladimir." She called, prayed, warned. She was a little confused at the moment. The only thing she knew was that she wanted to be in his arms and never leave. He had come. He had found her.

Of course, he had, a voice whispered in her head. Of course, he had. It sounded relieved too.

Their eyes locked, a silent conversation going on between them.

"Ah! Right!" The redhead mocked, in reply to his order. "Sure, now that you're here looking like fucking Dracula, we all cower in fear." His men snorted, but there were uneasy now. The bloody apparition may not scare their boss but they were shitting their pants, probably wondering where all that blood came from. Camille was wondering too. "Freeze now, boy! Or I'll blow her brain sky-high!"

Vladimir stopped, waiting. His eyes never left hers. She tried to gain back control over herself, drawing strength from his own. He was so calm. She needed to be too. Or at least to try her best. He was about to need her to do something. She could see it in his eyes. Despite the gun against her temple and the madman behind her, she forced herself to take deep, calming breaths. Vladimir was here. And he was as calm and composed as he usually was. Everything was going to be alright. She could do this.

"You wanted me." Vladimir announced, his voice leveled, his accent thick. "I am here now. Let her go."

The redhead snorted behind her. He pressed the gun harder against her skull. She winced a little but never closed her eyes. She refused to break the contact with her soon-to-be savior's.

Calm down, Cami, she ordered herself. If he shoots you, he's dead too.

"Right!" The redhead exclaimed. He must have made some kind of sign. His men were circling back on Vladimir. Who was alone, she realized. Why was he alone? There was no way Anatoly hadn't come. Where was he? "Let go of your gun and knife. Then, we'll see."

Vladimir dropped the knife and the riffle on the concrete floor in a loud metallic clang that echoed all across the room. He didn't seem fazed. His eyes were still locked on Camille's. She held onto it for dear life, her last strand of sanity depending on it.

"Good boy." The redhead commented. "Now... Shoot him!" He yelled.

"No!" Camille screamed, fighting back the bastard's hold on her neck. Several loud bangs rang around the room, coming from the upper corridors. Camille's eyes were fixed on Vladimir, not understanding. Her ears were ringing but she didn't care. Time seemed to have slowed. He was still up. Unmoving. Unhurt.

What the fuck had happened?

The redhead jumped at the same time as her when things started to fall from above them. They landed all around the room in loud and disgusting crunching sounds. It reminded her of the sound watermelons made when they were dropped from a rooftop. Only, it wasn't watermelons, she realized. It was bodies, dozens of them strewed across the concrete floor. The ones closest to her line of sight had big, gushing wounds behind their skull. Brains matter had splashed all over the floor. Once again, she had to swallow back nausea. The three Irishmen had fallen too. Before their face had disappeared against the ground, she'd seen the carnage there too. Even their own mother couldn't recognize them now.

"Camille, duck!" Vladimir suddenly shouted as he dropped down to pick up his gun. His voice got her out of her morbid analysis.

She'd known he would ask her to do something eventually. She was ready. In his surprise, the redhead had loosened his grip on her neck. Not caring about the gun on her temple, she threw herself on the ground. Her elbows hit the concrete in a punishing crack but she barely noticed the pain, choosing instead to cover her head with her hands. A deafening bang resounded above her head. An agonized scream followed behind her.

She looked up in front of her. And let the breath she had been holding back finally out. Vladimir was still crouched, still whole, his eyes focused on something behind her. Still too scared to rise up, she cast a look over her shoulder. The redhead had lost a hand. More accurately, the hand which had been holding his gun had been blown to bits by one of Vladimir's bullets.

As if it had been some kind of planned signal, Russian men were suddenly gathering around them from every backdoor. Still kind of dazed, Camille rose up from the floor to sit on it and watched them, only vaguely noticing the crude stench of dead bodies and gunpowder in her nose. Among the crowd flowing into the room was Anatoly, just as bloody as his brother. He was grinning like a madman.

"That was fucking epic!" He exclaimed, as he headed for the surrounded last Irishman. The latter was on his knees, cradling what was left of his hand, while several guns were pointed at him.

Camille tried to turn her head back to see Vladimir's expression. She didn't get the chance. So fast that she just went with the flow, she had been picked up by the shoulders to face him. She fell in the blue of Vladimir's eyes as they scanned her with something close to hysteria.

"Are you hurt?" He asked, his voice almost frantic.

She shook her head in a negative movement. She was hurt. But not badly.

Once again, so fast that couldn't register it right away, she was lifted off the ground and straight into Vladimir's embrace. She had a leg on each side of his hips, an arm on each side of his neck. He was holding her like a child. She stared in his eyes for a few seconds. And then, she lost it.

She hid her face in his neck, hugging him as hard as she could, and cried. She cried hard. All the tears left in her body were flowing out now. Loud, hurtful sobs came out of her throat. Her whole body was shaking with it. He held her with one arm underneath her, the other behind her hair, balancing her on his hip. She didn't care that he was dripping blood all other her. She didn't care his bulletproof jacket was hurting her chest. She didn't care that the whole Russian mob was watching. She let it all out, hidden in the safe haven of his arms.

"Vladimir." She whispered when the violent sobs racking her eventually allowed her. "I was so scared. So fucking scared." She wailed again, not caring that she was so close to his ear. He held her harder. Pain was coursing along her side like flames; she didn't care about it either.

"It's over." He whispered back in her ear in his deep voice that she loved so much. "It's all over. I'm sorry. You're safe. It won't happen again. I swear. It won't ever happen again. I'm sorry. You're safe."

He kept his quiet litany going until her sobs had finally abated. She vaguely heard the redhead's voice say "Isn't it cute?" in an acidic tone. Something hit him right after, silencing him.

When he felt she had somewhat calmed down enough, Vladimir put her back on her feet, still hugging her. She held on, as hard as she could, his even breath on her hair a calming rhythm to hold onto. Eventually, when he thought she could handle it, he unhooked her fingers from his back, one by one.

"Piotr," he called. She heard footsteps behind her. "Take a few men and bring her back to my place." He ordered. She didn't hear the boy's answer as she looked up to her savior.

"What?" She asked, her voice cracking yet again with fear. She didn't want to be anywhere but in his arms for now. He bent toward her. His forehead against hers, his eyes in hers.

"I need to finish this." He explained, his voice tinged back with the feral anger from before. Despite the fog in her mind, she understood what he wasn't saying. The Irish had crossed a line he needed to make sure no one would ever cross again. He had to do it himself. She got it and yet...

"Don't leave me, Vladimir. Please!" She was so terrorized. She felt safe only in his arms. The rest of the world was a terrifying place right now. She thought she might have won him over when his expression softened. Yet it grew harder once more.

"Piotr, take care of her." He simply muttered between clenched teeth. His fury was ablaze and only revenge would quench it. He had to do it. And he yearned to do it. "Don't let her out of your sight."

"Yes, sir." Piotr's voice was right behind her now. A hand landed on her shoulder, gentle and comforting. She couldn't get her eyes off Vladimir, thought. "Come on, Cami. I'll protect you. I swear."

Vladimir nodded at her and, feeding once more on his strength, she relented. She kissed him for the first time that night in goodbye, her hands on his bloody skin, tasting the iron on his lips. Then, she let Piotr escort her outside.

"Can you walk?" he had asked, his face full of compassion. She couldn't, not without some help at least. Bracing herself for what would feel like the longest walk of her life, she slid an arm around his shoulders as he did the same around her waist.

Vladimir had chosen wisely. Piotr was one of the few she could tolerate by her side right now. She saw him as a boy, a boy she liked, not a potential rapist. She shivered, remnants of her terror still present in her mind. Piotr, God bless him, pressed a little harder on her side in comfort. Just like with Vladimir's embrace, it hurt. She didn't mind though. She'd take pain if it meant feeling safe right now.

After one last glance at the room, where she could now see Vladimir's back hovering over their Irish captive, she nodded to her escort. She was ready.

They walked slowly and it was torture. She hurt everywhere. She just clenched her teeth and bear it. Once at Vladimir's, everything would be fine.

They didn't say anything when a few men followed suit through the building's door. They didn't either when they reached the car as a bloodcurdling scream tore through the night.

One man she didn't knew sat behind the wheel, another on the passenger's seat. She and Piotr sat in the back.

"You're safe now, Cami." The boy whispered. He, too, had splotches of blood on his skin. He was armed to the teeth. One of his fingers was darker than the others, he must have broken it. She nodded at him, touched by his attention. She believed it. She had to or she would lose it again.

"For how long have you been there?" She asked.

Piotr looked down.

"Since you asked him why you were here…" That long! She thought to ask why they waited so long. Piotr saw it in her face. "Vladimir almost ran there straight away, ready to lay waste on them. Anatoly had to stop him. We had to take down the snipers first. You gave us enough time to do so." He stopped, hesitating, before closing a gentle hand around her wrist, the unhurt one thankfully. "You were very brave back there, Cami."

She sniffled. When she realized they all heard her beg the man, calling after Vladimir like a helpless idiot, she felt humiliation. Deep searing humiliation at so many strangers seeing her at her worst. Piotr's words weren't a comfort on that front.

She tried to reason with herself. She had nothing to be ashamed of. She had been a victim here. And she had bought them the time they needed.

"Thanks." She eventually muttered. The grip on her wrist tightened for a second in understanding.

When the car stopped in front of Vladimir's and she got out, she found herself face to face with Alexei. They stared at each other in the dawning light of morning. His face was marked by anxiousness. She tried to smile at him. Tears came instead. He hesitated. Then, two strong arms wrapped slowly around her.

Her brain couldn't help to be amazed despite the shock. She was surrounded by mobsters. She was home. She was safe. There was no contradiction in those facts. She took a deep breath against his chest.

"I need a smoke." She grumbled once the tears had gotten under control. It was a wonder she'd still had some to shed. A laugh rocked the bartender's thick chest as they moved away from each other.

"I'm sure Vladimir won't mind if you steal his. Let's get you upstairs, okay?"