Lukas POV"You asked about my scar…"
Was it because of you?
No. And no again.
But you… you were the one who saved me.
And you don't even remember.
Let me tell you a story — mine.
I was fifteen.
I wasn't a mafia prince or a devil in a tailored suit back then. I was just Luka.The boy who snuck cookies from the kitchen.The boy who put his head on his mother's lap after school and asked her to hum him a lullaby.The boy who left notes under his dad's office door, begging him to come home early for dinner.And the boy who had just found out… he was going to be a big brother.
I remember the day she told me.
Mama was glowing. Her hand rested gently on her belly. "You're going to be a big brother," she whispered with a smile that crinkled her eyes.
I laughed. I cried. I hugged her so tight she gasped.
"I'll protect them, Mama," I told her. "I'll be the best brother in the world."
And she kissed my forehead and said, "I know you will."
But fate had different plans.
It always does.
That night is etched in my soul like a curse I can't escape.
I remember the smell of honey and cinnamon. She was making my favorite cake — medovik — because I got good grades that week.
I was setting the table when the first crack tore through the house.
Gunshot.
Then another. Closer.
The windows shattered. I heard screams — the guards outside falling one by one.
And then… Mama grabbed my wrist.
Her face had gone pale.
She didn't scream. She didn't cry. She just pushed me toward the pantry.
"Hide, Luka. Hide and don't come out until everything is quiet."
I didn't want to go.
I clung to her. "Mama, please."
But she forced me in and shut the door. Locked it.
And then I heard her whisper through the wood:"No matter what happens… don't open this door."
I watched everything through a thin crack between the boards.
My father burst into the room, gun blazing. He looked like a warrior — fierce, roaring with rage.
He took two of them down before they even touched the floor.
But there were too many.
I saw one sneak behind him. I tried to shout. My voice wouldn't come out.
Bang.
My father dropped to his knees.
I remember the sound his body made when it hit the ground — soft. Too soft for a man so strong.
And then he looked straight at me.
As if he knew I was there.
His lips moved… he said my name.
And then another shot.
And he fell forward.
Dead.
I think something inside me broke right then.
But the nightmare wasn't over.
Mama ran to him, screaming his name — her hands bloody, shaking him. And they didn't hesitate.
They raised the gun and shot her.
Once in the chest. Again. And again.
She fell over him like she was trying to shield him… even in death.
I couldn't scream. I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe.
Their blood seeped across the tiles.
It crawled toward the pantry.
Toward me.
They found me.
One of them yanked the door open.
"There he is," he sneered.
They dragged me out, kicking, crying, calling for my mother. For my father. For anyone.
One laughed and said, "He's just a kid."
Another spat, "Let's make sure he stays broken."
And then they shot me.
Not once.
Twice.
In the back and shoulder. I collapsed on the floor, bleeding, half-conscious.
They left me there — to bleed out in that kitchen where my whole life had been burned to ash.
I don't remember how long I crawled.
But I dragged my broken body out of the back door. Through the garden. Into the alley.
It was dark. Cold. My vision blurred.
I was dying. I knew I was.
And then… like a miracle…
She appeared.
You.
A little girl in a pink coat. Barely five.Holding a teddy bear too big for her tiny arms.Your parents must have been nearby — I still don't know how you ended up there.
But you saw me.
You didn't scream.
You didn't run.
You looked at me like I was a person — not a monster, not a bleeding boy, just someone who was hurting.
And you said the softest words I've ever heard in my life.
"Are you okay… mister?"
You sat beside me.
I remember your tiny hands trying to wipe the blood from my cheek.
You were crying too — not because you were scared of me, but because I was hurt.
Your innocence… your kindness… it stitched something broken in me for a moment.
I think I passed out right after.
But not before I saw your face.
Not before I memorized those big hazel-brown eyes.
You don't remember.
You were too young.
But I do.
Every goddamn day.
And now you're here — in my life again.
The little girl who saved a dying boy in an alley… has grown up into the woman I'm falling for.
But you don't know the truth.
You don't know I became a monster after that night.
That I learned to kill. To hurt. That my hands… they've spilled more blood than I can wash off in ten lifetimes.
And I'm scared.
Because if you ever remember…If you ever look at me the way people do when they hear my name — Lukas Volkoff —I'll lose you.
And this time, I won't survive it.
She looked at me.
Those same innocent eyes that once belonged to the little girl in the alley — wide, trembling, glassy with unshed tears. But they weren't filled with fear.
They were filled with sorrow.
For me.
Not for what I'd done.Not for what I had become.But for the boy who once hid in a pantry, clutching his mother's lullaby and his father's final breath.
Tears slowly spilled down her cheeks, and I couldn't bear it.
"Don't cry over me," I said, my voice low, gravelly. "I'm not worth it. I'm a monster… not a human."
My words were meant to push her away.
To protect her.
But her next words sliced straight through me.
She leaned in, and with the softest whisper — one that cracked like glass — she said,
"But that boy… was a human."
My breath caught.
Her fingers trembled as they reached for my face, touching the scar just above my eyebrow.
"You were a boy who lost everything. A boy who bled alone in the dark. A boy who needed saving," she whispered again. "You didn't ask for this life, Lukas."
And suddenly, I couldn't look at her anymore.
Because if I did, I would shatter.
No one — no one — had ever looked at me like that before. Not with pity. Not with judgement. But with… grief. For the child I used to be.
For the humanity I thought I had buried under guns and vengeance.
And maybe, just maybe, for the man I still could be — in her eyes.
But how do you let someone like that love you…
Her hand still lingered against my face — soft, unsure, trembling with compassion I didn't deserve.
"Doll…" I whispered, swallowing the lump rising in my throat.
She blinked slowly, the tears still resting in the corners of her eyes, waiting to fall.
"Doll, I know you're kind… painfully kind. The kind of kind that makes people believe again. But I—" I hesitated, eyes locked with hers, heart pounding louder than ever, "I don't want to be the reason your kindness gets tainted."
I pulled away slightly, just enough so I could breathe, but not enough to escape her warmth. I didn't want to. God, I couldn't.
"You're gentle," I continued, my voice breaking just a little. "You wave to strangers, pray for ambulances passing by, feed stray animals, donate without telling anyone… You still believe the world has softness left in it."
I looked down at my hands.
"These hands," I muttered, flexing my fingers slowly, "they've taken lives. Protected the wrong people. Chosen blood when I could've walked away."
Then my eyes met hers again.
"But you… you're a cathedral of light, and I…" I gave a humorless laugh, bitter and hollow, "I'm the shadow that creeps in when the doors close."
Her brows furrowed — not in fear. But in ache.
I stepped even closer now, brushing my forehead to hers.
"I don't deserve the way you look at me," I whispered. "And I sure as hell don't deserve you."
I paused, then said one last thing — softly, like a plea:
"Don't disturb your kindness for a man like me, doll. Please. Let me burn alone."