Chapter 18 Nikolaj
Nikolaj
I know the game. I built the damn board.
Seduction, chaos, and control—those are my tools.
I don’t wield knives for the thrill. I don’t seduce men for warmth.
I do it because it’s a weapon. I do, because pulling someone apart at the seams with nothing but a grin and a whispered lie is cleaner than a bullet and twice as lasting. I’ve made it my art. My armor.
And it worked on everyone. Everyone except him.
Vincenzo fucking Vieri.
The spoiled prince of the East Wing with his perfect smirk and eyes that freeze over like he was born in a castle instead of a bloodstained Italian estate.
He should’ve cracked by now. Should’ve snarled, snapped, kissed me, killed me, or done anything that proved I still had his attention. But for the last two weeks?
Nothing.
No lingering stares. No tension. No fury. Not even hate.
He walks past me like I don’t exist. Like he’s forgotten that I licked his blood off my knuckles and left him hard and humiliated. It’s maddening. He won’t even look at me now. It’s as if he’s cut me out of his world entirely, and that pisses me off more than anything else ever has.
I don’t like being forgotten. I don’t like being ignored.
I don’t like the way my chest aches at the idea that he might actually succeed in this little silent war he’s waging against me.
He thinks distance will save him, that control is stronger than obsession. It’s not. I’ve burned cities for less.
“Are you alright?” Maksim asks, nudging me with his boot from the bench across mine. “You look like you’re two seconds from snapping someone’s neck.”
I don’t answer, and he knows better than to push.
Kai’s not around—he took two of our guys to the city for surveillance training, which left me with too much space, too much quiet. And in that silence, all I’ve been able to think about is the way Vincenzo hasn’t looked at me once. Like I’m a ghost. A non-threat. A fucking nobody.
So, I spiral.
Not obviously. Not in a way the others can read.
I’m not careless, just louder. I bait fights that don’t matter.
I gamble in the basement level until I owe favors that I never plan to repay.
I start talking too openly to allies who we’ve only started swaying.
I taunt Lucien Vieri during tactics drills, knowing full well he’s one of Vincenzo’s oldest confidants.
Then I push him during the second war game until he snaps and tries to stab me in front of the instructors.
I don’t flinch, instead I laugh because part of me wants the pain, wants the blood, wants someone to remind me what the fuck I’m doing here.
It comes in the form of a phone call.
I don’t check the screen. I know that ringtone. It’s the custom one used for only two people, and either one means blood.
I answer it with a grunt. “Da.”
“You’re slipping.”
It’s not my father’s voice. It’s deeper, rougher, and belongs to the last man I would ever want on this campus.
Arseniy Dragovich. My older brother, and protector of the Dragovich name.
“I’m fine,” I snap, already rounding the corner toward my room. “Handle your shit in Russia. I don’t need—”
“You don’t need?” Arseniy laughs, the sound low and guttural. “Kolya, you need more than you know. Papa says the Italian heir is still breathing.”
I grit my teeth. “He will not be for long.”
“No?” Arseniy hums. “Then why are you pacing like a jealous ex instead of putting a bullet between his eyes?”
I stop walking, and a shiver runs up my spine as I look around. Was he watching me right now? “Because I want him to suffer.”
“Then make him suffer.”
The line goes dead, and I know what that means.
Arseniy isn’t coming. He’s already here.
It’s only an hour later, while I’m heading towards my room—trying and failing to pretend I’m not spiraling—that I hear the boots before I see the face.
That heavy tread. Measured. Unhurried. Like whoever’s wearing them never had to run a day in his life because the world always waited for him to arrive.
Six-foot-four of cold-blooded violence wrapped in Bratva black. Dark blond hair buzzed short, broad shoulders squared, expression cold. He’s dressed the same way he always is—brutal and clean.
A floor-length charcoal trench, heavy and custom-fitted, half-silk-lined, with slits for hidden blades. Underneath it, the faint glint of body armor, snug over a black button-up and slacks pressed crisp despite the travel.
I stop walking, but he doesn’t. He stalks right up to me, doesn’t say a word, doesn’t announce his arrival. Just slaps a thick envelope into my chest and waits until I grab it.
“You’re spiraling,” he says flatly.
“I’m adapting.”
“You’re fucking up.”
I look up sharply, grip tightening on the envelope. “Who sent you?”
His mouth twitches. “Who do you think?”
Of course. The Pakhan always sends Arseniy when words stop working. And words stopped working with me weeks ago.
I exhale, jaw tight, eyes darting to the envelope. I can tell by the weight that it’s full of intel: dossiers, photos, names circled in red. Targets. Threats. My next orders.
“Want to hit me now, or wait until I open it?” I mutter.
Arseniy doesn’t smile. He hasn’t smiled in five years, not since the day he snapped a Chechen heir’s wrist backward for disrespecting our sister. He tilts his head. “You think this is about the orders?”
“No. I think this is about him.”
His eyes narrow… and there it is—the flicker. Not anger or even disappointment, but recognition.
He knows.
Of course he knows.
“You weren’t sent here to fall in lust with your target,” Arseniy says, his voice sharp. “You weren’t sent here to fantasize about the kill. You were sent to deliver it.”
“I’m aware,” I grit out, stepping past him toward my door.
He grabs my shoulder before I can get far. I don’t move at first, I just breathe, shallow and controlled, before I shove him off and turn to face him full-on.
“He’s ignoring me,” I snap.
Arseniy lifts a brow. “Good. Makes him easier to kill.”
“No,” I say, louder now. “You don’t get it. He’s not just ignoring me, he’s erasing me. Pretending I was never even a threat. Like I didn’t get under his skin. Like I didn’t mean anything.”
“Did you want to mean something?” he asks quietly.
“I wanted to destroy him,” I say. “Not fucking miss him.”
Arseniy sighs through his nose, then he steps forward. One second of warning, one flash of movement—and then his fist crashes into my mouth, then my ribs.
I stumble, curse, then catch myself on the stone wall as the breath’s knocked clean from my lungs. I lurch up, gasping, fury bubbling into my throat, but before I can strike back, he lands a knee into my gut and shoves me hard into the corridor wall, pinning me with an elbow across my neck.
“You are my brother,” he growls. “But if you keep going down this path—if you keep letting your dick rewrite your loyalty—our father will put you in the ground beside your target. You think I want to watch that happen?”
I snarl, try to throw him off. “Then get your fucking arm off my throat—”
“Say it,” Arseniy hisses. “Say you forgot who you are.”
“I didn’t.”
“Say you forgot what you were born to do.”
“I didn’t!”
He presses harder against my throat. “Then prove it.”
The rage burns clean through me so sharp I see stars. But beneath the pain, there’s something else. Something bitter and familiar.
Relief.
Because this? This is what I needed. Not pity or confusion. Not lust clouding the blade, just blood.
My brother lets go of me, and I hit the floor on one knee, spitting blood onto the floor. He crouches beside me and slaps the envelope against my chest again.
“This is your path, Kolya,” he says. “Not him. This.”
I nod once. “I know.”
“Then make it mean something,” he says, then he rises and walks off without looking back.
I sit on the floor for another minute. Let the pain settle in my ribs while the memory of Vincenzo’s mouth blur and dissolve into the ache.
Then I open the envelope and remember who I was raised to be.
We walk without speaking at first.
The silence between us isn’t uncomfortable; it never is.
Arseniy was never the type to fill space with wasted breath.
He walks like the ground knows him. Like every brick and shadow of Vintermoor was warned ahead of time that he was coming and stepped the fuck aside.
Even the wind seems to move differently around him.
It doesn’t dare ruffle his coat. Doesn’t dare touch the cold, calculated scowl he wears like a second skin.
“You’ve gone soft, Kolya,” he says without looking at me. “That pretty little mafia heir got under your skin, and now you’re off rhythm. You’re smarter than this. Better.”
I shrug one shoulder, wiping the blood from my split lip with the back of my hand. “I’m still ahead.”
“You’re still shaky,” he corrects, cold as glass. “You’re two moves from slipping. Don’t give him the satisfaction, and don’t give Pappa a reason to replace you.”
The words sting, even if I don’t show it.
Replace me? No. I wasn’t bred for substitution; I was raised for succession.
I was the plan.
I am the plan.
And if that means stepping back into the shadows to sharpen my edge again, I will.
“What do you have for me?” I ask as we round the old south-facing corridor of the academy.
The walls are cracked here, the older stones dark with age, iron lamps hanging low in crooked brackets.
Vintermoor never bothers to fix this part—it’s where the ghosts live.
The dead heirs, the forgotten alliances.
You can hear them if you listen too long.
Arseniy’s eyes flick sideways toward me. “Two Bratva cells in Berlin just folded under our banner after I removed Piotr and Firenze Dragna. Konstantin got them to sign over complete loyalty. You’ll use them when the time comes to make the Vieri name bleed.”
I nod slowly, letting that sink in.
Berlin. That makes five families in three months.
“Anything else?”
He smirks. “Luca Bastone’s daughter just turned eighteen. She hasn’t been officially claimed yet, and she’s on campus now. You want leverage on the Bastones, that’s your in.”
I scoff at that. “I’m not going to marry some desperate heiress just to gain ground.”
“You don’t need to marry her. You need to ruin her. Slowly and publicly, then offer a way out.”
I laugh under my breath, shaking my head. “You’re a fucking savage.”
“I’m efficient. You should be, too. No one survives the Families by playing soft, Nikolaj.”
I cringe whenever he uses my full name.
My attention drifts as we cross the old stone bridge near the chapel garden. Across the lawn, I see movement. A flicker of fabric—dark hair and bright, fake laughter.
The bane of my fucking existence.
He’s walking with a woman. One of the heirs—I don’t know her name, but I’ve seen her before in etiquette drills. The kind who always walks like she’s afraid her shoes will shatter beneath her. Rich girl delicate. Legacy deep.
He’s talking, and she’s hanging onto every word like she’s auditioning for a ring. My stomach tightens, but I say nothing. Arseniy notices my silence and follows my line of sight.
The girl looks up, and her smile falters when she sees him.
She goes pale, her lips part, breath catching, eyes wide like a memory just slapped her across the face.
Then she turns and runs. Not a casual exit.
Not a polite walk. She bolts, heels clicking on the marble, coat fluttering behind her like panic in fabric form.
Vincenzo looks stunned, glancing from her retreating figure to us, then back again. His eyes narrow. He doesn’t move, but his stance tightens and his hand twitches near his side.
Arseniy watches it all without a change in expression. Just lifts his cigarette to his mouth, exhales slowly, and mutters, “Dramatic little thing.”
“What the fuck did you do to her?” I ask, turning to him, more intrigued than disturbed.
His smirk is pure cruelty. “I showed her father what happens when you pull weapons in Dragovich territory and forget to aim them first.”
I blink. “You killed her father?”
“I flayed him,” he answers matter-of-factly. “Started with the knees.”
“You’re not subtle, are you?”
“Subtlety is for politicians. We’re soldiers.
Never confuse the two,” he says, taking a drag of his cigarette.
“Vieri’s crumbling already. He doesn’t look like it, doesn’t act like it.
But he’s slipping. You’re not the only one with a target on your back.
You just need to make sure you get to him before his own people do. ”
“You think they’ll turn on him?”
“I think they’re waiting to.”
I file that away. Maybe they are. Maybe all I have to do is open the crack wide enough to let the rot spill out.
“You remember what Father said when he sent you here?” Arseniy asks.
I remember every syllable.
“Make him fall in love with his end, Kolya. Be so beautiful he doesn’t see the blade until it’s in his throat.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “I remember.”
Arseniy claps me on the shoulder, fingers firm, and we keep walking. I don’t miss the way Vincenzo turns to watch us go. The weight of his stare between my shoulder blades, burning colder than ice. He’s trying to assess, trying to decode. But he won’t figure Arseniy out; no one does.
That’s why I’m dangerous with him here. Arseniy is the one person in this world who knows exactly how to put my head back on straight—by reminding me what my hands are for. By reminding me what Dragovich blood demands.
And right now, it demands a crown.
And a corpse.