The wooden door creaks as he eases it open, his eyes scanning the surroundings with predatory vigilance. Security meant survival now. The last thing they needed was to draw attention, to have their sanctuary discovered. His boss's temper already simmered at a dangerous threshold. Time pressed against them like a blade—they needed solutions, and they needed them fast. Every passing minute only compounded their predicament, pushing them closer to an edge neither man wanted to approach.
He slips inside and closes the door with practiced stealth, each movement calculated and minimal. The safehouse felt like a prison cell shared with a caged tiger—just him and his volatile boss. Nikolai had learned years ago that Pavel's moods were as unpredictable as Russian winter storms. As one of the most trusted lieutenants in the Russian mafia king's empire—second only to the underboss himself—Nikolai knew better than most when to tread lightly.
