Chapter 13 Nikolaj
Nikolaj
My phone buzzes in my pocket as I’m cutting across the south courtyard, boots slapping damp against the stone where last night’s rain hasn’t dried. I know who it is before I even check the screen. No one else would dare call at this hour, not when classes are about to start.
I answer without slowing down.
“Da.”
Silence. Then the faintest crackle of static before the low rumble of a voice I was born to obey fills my ear.
“Kolya.”
It’s not affection when he says it, never has been. My father doesn’t do warmth. He doesn’t soften his tone for anyone, not even his blood.
“I heard about the Vieri cousin,” he says after a beat. “Put him in a coma with no blood spilled, and no witnesses willing to snitch. I’m impressed.”
Praise from the Pakhan himself is a rare thing, and still, it sits in my gut like frost.
“He touched me first,” I say, adjusting the strap of the bag on my shoulder. “Five on one. I just answered the question they didn’t have the balls to ask out loud.”
My father laughs softly, but it’s a hollow sound. “That’s my son,” he says, then another pause before, “You know what’s at stake.”
I nod to no one, tightening my jaw. “Yes.”
“Then say it.”
I stop walking and glance around. The quad is mostly empty aside from a few Bratva hangers-on who loiter by the stone benches, pretending not to listen.
A handful of upperclassmen cross the path near the library, their suits clean, their eyes trained forward.
No one hears this conversation but me. Still, I lower my voice.
“Vincenzo Vieri dies by my hand.”
“Good,” my father murmurs. “I don’t care how beautiful he is, or how many times he leaves you breathing heavily and thinking with the wrong head. You don’t come home without his name in the ground.”
He’s not wrong. I was never sent here to play nice, to blend, to make friends or enemies or lovers.
I was sent to dismantle the crown from the inside.
To make sure that when Vieri graduates from this ancient cathedral of violence, there’s nothing waiting for him on the other side. No name, no seat, no empire. Just ruin.
And I’m already halfway there.
“I haven’t been dicking around, Papa,” I say flatly.
“I’ve started the whispers already. I’ve got smaller families lining up behind closed doors—ones the Five Families ignore, the ones who feel like second-class royalty.
I give them promises. Respect. Blood ties. And in return, they pledge loyalty.”
“And the Vieri allies?”
I smile to myself. It’s not a kind expression.
“Some of them are easier than others. I’ve seduced their sons, blackmailed their fathers, found the rot behind their silk ties, and filed it away.
I have pictures, videos, paper trails. I’ve got leverage stacked in folders, dated and ready.
If he thinks I’m just another mouth trying to suck the crown off his cock, he’s mistaken. ”
My father chuckles again. “No. You’re my Kolya. I raised you better.”
“He’s distracted,” I continue. “You should see him pretending to be calm, pretending I don’t exist even while he watches me bleed in the gym like it’s art. He wants me, but he won’t touch me. Because touching me means breaking the rules, and he lives for rules. Without them, he’s nothing.”
“And that’s exactly where we want him,” my father says.
“By the time we graduate,” I mutter, starting to walk again, “he won’t have a name or a legacy. He’ll have shame and regret. He’ll have me in his mouth and nothing in his hands.”
Silence stretches on the line. Then a soft inhale. “I’m proud of you,” the Pakhan says. “But don’t let the softness take root. Fuck him. Break him. Destroy him.”
The line goes dead, so I tuck the phone away and keep moving.
There’s a class waiting for me, but it doesn’t matter.
I already know what I need to know. I’ve studied every movement Vieri makes, memorized every alliance he hasn’t yet seen slipping out from beneath his feet.
He thinks because he walks in silence, or because he fucks in the dark and stares like marble, no one sees him unraveling.
But I see him. He’s not just unraveling; he’s falling. And when he crashes, I’ll be the only one left standing.
The classroom’s already filling when I push the door open, cool air brushing over sweat still drying on my neck from the walk over. There’s a subtle hum of tension in the room, the kind that lingers when too many apex predators are confined to a single space.
Future killers lounging like royalty in ergonomic chairs, tapping pens against folders they’ll never really use. The walls are concrete—no windows, one entrance, and one exit. Like a bunker dressed up in academia.
I don’t bother scanning the room for Vincenzo—I already know where he is.
He’s in his usual seat near the middle, posture perfect, shirt unwrinkled, jaw tight.
Always watching without looking, always aware without reacting.
But I see the way his gaze catches on me the second I step inside.
He thinks I don’t feel it, but it hits like static and sinks under my skin.
He should be watching today because I’m going to give him something to remember.
I make a point not to look at him as I cross the room and slide into the seat beside Kiril Atanasov, the Bulgarian mercenary heir who looks like he eats bullets for breakfast and fucks with a machete under his pillow.
Built like a weapon. Scar above his lip.
Neck tattoo peeking out from under a black compression shirt.
He’s got that mean exterior, that stiff military posture that tells you he was raised under barking orders and cold hands.
But I know the truth.
He wants to fold.
I saw it last week when I sparred in front of him. The way his breath stuttered every time I dropped to the mat. The way his eyes dragged down my spine like he was trying to imagine what it would take for me to put him on his knees. He doesn’t know how to ask for it, but I know how to answer.
He doesn’t look directly at me. Just shifts in his seat, subtle, uncomfortable, like the heat of my presence does something he doesn’t want to admit.
I smirk and lean over slightly, just enough that my breath brushes the side of his neck when I speak. “You always this tense, soldier?”
He blinks and stares ahead. He swallows hard, his knuckles tightening around the pen in his hand. “I’m not tense,” he mutters.
“Right,” I say, keeping my tone soft, intimate. “And I’m not hard right now thinking about what you’d sound like begging.”
He doesn’t respond. But the way his thigh twitches just a fraction closer to mine? That’s enough.
Professor Malenkov enters, tall and severe, dragging a file cart that probably contains half the student body’s psychological evaluations and blackmail folders. His voice cuts through the murmurs.
“Today,” he announces, “we’re talking about leverage. Weak points. Psychological pressure. You can’t just break a man’s bones; you need to break his mind. His patterns. His pride.”
Malenkov starts writing case studies on the board—old wars, betrayals, the kind of textbook horror stories they water down into syllabi here. I only half-listen. Most of this, I already live. I keep my gaze low, let my fingers drift under the desk, and press the tips of them to Kiril’s thigh.
He stiffens, but doesn’t move my hand.
Good little soldier.
I slowly trail my fingers higher, my touch light. I don’t look at him. Just keep my attention on the board like I’m trying to memorize the weight of historical bloodshed, not what Kiril’s pulse feels like against my palm. He squirms again, this time biting his lip. I catch it in my peripheral.
“You okay?” I murmur, barely audible.
“I—” His voice cracks, and he swallows it.
I lean over and whisper, “You want to come in your fucking chair or do you want to wait until class ends and I give you what you need?”
His breath catches audibly, and it draws the faintest attention from the row ahead.
I pull my hand back, and across the room, Vincenzo Vieri is frozen. He doesn’t look at me, but his pen hasn’t moved in five full minutes.
Class drags on. I keep my hands to myself, but Kiril is mentally gone, his foot tapping, leg bouncing, and he doesn’t take a single note. When Malenkov dismisses us, he bolts upright, and I catch him glancing at me like he’s not sure what to say.
I make it easy. “Closet behind the archives wing,” I say without looking at him. “Two minutes.”
I take my time getting there to let the anticipation stretch.
Let him squirm. When I slip inside the small, dimly-lit room lined with shelves and backup campus servers, Kiril’s standing stiff near the back, jaw tight, arms pinned to his sides like he’s reporting for duty.
As if he hasn’t just spent the last hour leaking through his briefs and trying not to moan in front of the class.
I shut the door behind me and don’t speak.
The lights are low—flickering fluorescent strips above rows of obsolete tech and brittle file boxes—but I don’t need light to do what I came here for.
“I told you two minutes,” I say quietly as I walk toward him. “Took you sixty seconds to run.”
His throat bobs. “I—”
“Shut the fuck up,” I cut in. “You came here to be used; let’s not lie about it.”
I press him back into the wall so hard the metal shelving rattles, my forearm across his chest, my mouth just a breath from his. He moans under his breath, short and choked.
I grip his belt, rip it open. “You think I didn’t see you twitching every time my fingers brushed your thigh? Think I didn’t smell the desperation on you? You were soaked halfway through the lecture.”
“I—I didn’t mean—”
“Didn’t mean?” I echo, venomous now. “This—” I grip his cock through the fabric of his briefs. “This says otherwise.”
“Fuck,” he gasps.
I slap him open-palmed across the face. “You get hard from humiliation, don’t you? Being touched where anyone could’ve seen? You like knowing I could’ve made you come in your fucking seat, and no one would’ve stopped me?”
His eyes are glazed now, pupils blown, lip trembling.
“I asked you a question.”
“Yes,” he whispers.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, sir.”
I spin him fast, shove his chest against the server tower, kick his feet apart until he’s bent and spread and shaking. I yank his boxers down. He’s dripping—pathetic and hard, cock leaking. I trail a finger down his spine, press it between his cheeks, and feel it.
“Fuck me, what a good little soldier,” I breathe. “You came here plugged, waiting for a cock that can bring you to your knees. You that eager to be a toy for a Dragovich?”
“Please,” he breathes, wrecked.
I grip the plug and pull it out slowly, twisting it just enough to watch his hips stutter, his moan catching in his throat like it hurts to hold it in.
I toss it to the floor and spit on his hole before shoving two fingers inside. He jerks, crying out. “You like being used?” I murmur. “You want everyone to know what I made of you?”
“Yes,” he sobs.
“You’ll fucking get it, but you’re not here to feel good,” I growl into his ear. “You’re here to remind anyone listening that you’re nothing but a hole”
He doesn’t hesitate when I spin him around and push him to his knees. He drops as if his body was designed to follow my commands, even if his mouth trembles around the words.
Good. I don’t need obedience that comes easy. I want the kind that costs something.
Kiril kneels between my legs, still shaking, hands gripping his thighs so he doesn’t trust reach for me without permission. I lean back against the wall, unzip my slacks, and pull my cock free.
“Open your mouth.”
He obeys instantly. Lips parted, tongue out, eyes wide as if he’s hoping I’ll be merciful.
I won’t be.
I slap his cheek again. “You want mercy, ask your daddy. I’m here to remind you what your mouth was made for.”
I grab the back of his head and feed him the tip of my cock, watching the way his lips stretch, the way his tongue curls instinctively. He moans as I slide deeper; throat flexing around me, trying to accommodate the invasion.
He’s not a novice, I can feel it. He knows how to take cock, but I’m not interested in pretty.
I fuck into his mouth hard—shallow thrusts at first to test how well he can breathe through his nose. He gags, but I don’t let up. I slap the side of his face again with the flat of my palm. “Take it. Breathe around it. Show me you can be useful.”
He chokes, but he tries. God, does he try. Tears burn at the corners of his eyes, and I can see the war on his face; humiliation clashing with the sick pleasure of being used like this.
“That’s it,” I murmur, hips rocking forward again. “You’re not choking because you’re weak. You’re choking because this is what you fucking needed.”
I thrust deep and hold. He gags, panics, and tries to pull back, but I hold his head down until his face turns red and his hands fly up to claw at my thighs. Then I release him. He pulls off with a wet gasp, spit coating his chin, eyes glassy and wild.
I grab him by the jaw and force his face back up. “You done?”
He shakes his head. “No, sir.”
I smear the head of my cock across his lips, watching as he opens again, desperate and obedient. This time, I let him take control. Let him show me what he wants to be.
His mouth moves like worship. Sloppy, hungry, spit trailing down his chin as he bobs his head, hand wrapped around the base, sucking like he needs it.
He moans with every inhale, every drag of my cock across his tongue, and I can feel the tension coil in my spine when he takes my balls into his mouth.
I rest a hand on his head, carding through his hair. “Good fucking toy,” I praise, and he whimpers around me. “You ready to swallow Bratva cum, soldier?”
His moan is all the answer I need. I fuck his throat and bury myself deep, pulse snapping through me as I come hard, teeth clenched, eyes shut as I shoot my load. He gags once but swallows every fucking drop without flinching.
When I finally pull back, he gasps for breath, face flushed, lips bruised, chin dripping with cum and spit. I press two fingers to his cheek and smear the mess. “You gonna clean this mess you made?”
He hesitates, then leans forward and licks the head of my cock obediently. I grab his jaw and tilt his face up. “Good boy.”
I tuck myself back in, zip up, and leave him there. When I step out of the archive hallway, I catch Vincenzo’s eye down the corridor. He’s staring at me with a blank expression, but his grip on the railing is white-knuckled.
I can’t help but fucking smirk at that. He probably heard what I just did to a mercenary everyone fears. He probably heard the begging and the way I took a hardened killer to his knees.
Good.
Next time, I’m going to do it to him.