3. Nikolai
3
Nikolai
Las Vegas, Nevada
The first time I tried to kill my father, I was eleven years old. I went for him in a flurry of fists and feet and teeth, tears of grief and rage and hate stinging my eyes. He backhanded me, sending me sprawling to the floor, blood filling my mouth. Then he strode from the room without a backward glance, leaving me to clean up the corpse lying in a puddle of blood.
I thought he had done his worst to me that day. I was wrong. The worst was yet to come.
I quickly learned not to let myself care about anything or anyone.
And that was working out for me, until it wasn’t.
Until Sabina Russo got engaged, and a roar of possessive rage started burning in my gut.
When the former heads of our two families—my uncle Vlasta and Leo’s father Salvatore—had been alive, there had been an understanding, a truce that divided Las Vegas cleanly, keeping bloodshed at bay.
But now both men are dead, and the truce is ashes. My father made sure of that when he hired a hitman to kill Salvatore Russo. The fallout was as inevitable as it was catastrophic. The Russos know who gave the order. And now the city is on the brink of war.
My father thrives on chaos, on power plays and bloodied battlefields. But I see the costs. I see how it weakens us. Because that is what my uncle Vlasta taught me to see. My father is going to tear down everything my uncle spent decades building, and his father decades before that. I can’t let that happen.
I am going to take my father down. But I’m not foolish enough to make my move without a careful plan. Without allies.
Approaching Leo about Sabina was part of that plan. An offer of alliance wrapped up in a proposal. A strategic plan.
One he turned down.
But that was before Halloween. Before I stopped seeing her as a pawn and started seeing her as a goddess wrapped in gold, a woman who understands masks and deception as only someone born into our world can.
She is fire and steel. She is a queen who deserves more than the sniveling boy she is engaged to. She pulls me in like no one else ever has.
In our handful of exchanges since my denied request, I’ve told Leo none of this. At least, not yet.
I haven’t told him that the thought of her in any union that doesn’t include me elicits a dangerous cocktail of possessive rage.
I haven’t told him that I fucking jack off to the memory of her in my arms, the taste of her lips, the sexy little sounds she made, to the memory of a single kiss. To the images I conjure of pinning her beneath me, fucking her until she screams.
Yeah… definitely didn’t tell him that.
I hadn’t pushed the matter after Leo’s refusal. Not then.
There’s still time. She hasn’t even set a wedding date yet.
Now, I stride past the guards at the front doors, down the corridor, and past a second set of guards into my father’s vast office on the top floor of a high-rise in the heart of the Las Vegas Strip. The floor-to-ceiling windows offer a panoramic view of the brightly lit city and the nightly show of the Bellagio Fountains. Positioned to enjoy the view is a massive black-lacquer desk, sleek and polished, with intricate gold inlays. Behind the desk is a custom-made black leather chair, hand-stitched and accented with dark wood. And in the chair sits my father, Mikhail, his deep-set eyes fixed on me.
“You’re late,” he snaps, his lips twisting in a sneer as he glares at me. He picks up the vintage Montblanc pen atop the desk and twirls it across his fingers before setting it down once more, his gaze never leaving my face.
“Traffic,” I lie, enjoying the way his jaw tightens. We both know I took my time arriving because I enjoy watching him simmer.
My father is the embodiment of authority and menace, his presence alone capable of commanding a room. He stands just shy of six feet, his frame lean but powerful, like a wolf that has learned to thrive on survival and instinct. His eyes are a stormy gray, sharp and unrelenting, framed by heavy brows that seem permanently etched into a scowl. The lines on his face tell the story of a man who has lived hard, ruled harder, and trusts no one—not even his own blood. His angular jaw is clean-shaven, though a hint of shadow often lingers, giving him an edge of perpetual ruthlessness.
His dark hair, streaked liberally with silver, is combed back meticulously, every strand in place. It’s a calculated look—polished but not soft. His sharp cheekbones and aquiline nose give his face an aristocratic quality, one that’s betrayed by the coldness in his expression. When he smiles, it never reaches his eyes; instead, it’s a weapon, used to disarm or intimidate.
Tonight, he wears a tailored charcoal-gray suit that hugs his frame like armor. The fabric is understated but expensive, woven with subtle patterns that shimmer faintly under the golden light of his office. His black silk shirt is buttoned at the throat, with no tie, giving him an air of controlled rebellion. The only adornment he allows is a sleek platinum watch on his wrist, the face inlaid with onyx, a gift from my long-dead mother.
Even seated behind his massive desk, my father exudes a sense of coiled tension, like a predator waiting to pounce. Every movement is deliberate, every glance calculated to assert dominance. His voice, when he speaks, is low and smooth, but there’s always an undercurrent of steel—a warning that the man behind the words is as ruthless as they come.
The lights embedded in the ceiling and walls touch his features with a golden glow, leaving the periphery in shadow. He is the king on the throne, the focus of the spotlight, and the design of the room is meant to accentuate that fact, to remind all those who dare venture here that he is the power and the authority.
Without invitation, I sink into one of the oversized black leather chairs across from the desk, letting my posture exude indifference.
His eyes narrow and a muscle in his jaw twitches. He’d prefer me quaking and sweating.
It’s been a long time since I cowered before him. And I never will again.
“What have you done about the problem with the latest weapons shipment from Belarus?” he asks, his tone dripping ice and disdain.
He expects me to flounder. He expects me to flail. But I’ve already fixed the issue—quietly, efficiently, without bloodshed—before he even knew it existed.
“There is no problem, Otets .” I’ve never called him Dad or Papa. Always Otets , the formal word for father. Respectful but devoid of warmth.
I meet his gaze head-on. “The DHS will raid an empty airstrip. I had the shipment moved.”
A flicker of surprise crosses his face, quickly masked by his usual scowl. He dismisses my success with a wave of his hand, but I see the tension in his shoulders.
His looks over my shoulder, then back to my face. I don’t turn. I already know the identity of the person who’s just joined us.
Maxim Volkov. My father’s shadow. His enforcer. The son he chooses.
Once, I’d thought Maxim was the brother I’d choose. But that was a long time ago.
Maxim is a study in controlled precision, every aspect of him meticulously curated to project strength and capability. He’s tall, just a hair under my own height, with a broad-shouldered build. His face is sharp and symmetrical, the kind of handsomeness that draws attention whether he wants it or not. High cheekbones, a straight, aristocratic nose, and a jawline so defined it could cut glass.
There’s a duality to him—an effortless charm that can disarm an enemy in one breath and a ruthless edge that can end them in the next. Maxim is the kind of man who thrives in shadows, a predator hiding behind a polished veneer. He’s sharp, cunning. A perfect soldier for my father’s empire.
“The package,” Maxim says, addressing my father. “I’ve hired outside men, as you instructed. The transaction was anonymous. Nothing can be linked back to you. They’re heading to New York tonight.”
The word package sets my teeth on edge. My gut tells me I’m not going to like what’s coming next.
“She’s critical leverage,” my father says. “Make sure they’re careful. Russo’s sister is no use to us dead.”
Sabina.
My fucking father ordered fucking Maxim to nab Sabina. And Maxim sent two mindless thugs to do the job. If they hurt her, I will burn their world to ash.
I keep my expression blank, my posture relaxed. My father’s attention shifts to me for a second, searching for a reaction, but I give him nothing.
“Leo will move heaven and earth for her,” my father continues, his tone icy. “And we’ll use that to our advantage.”
“Leo’s weakness is predictable,” Maxim says, his gaze locked on mine. He’s enjoying this. Enjoying the fact that he thinks I will be upset that my father chose him instead of me to carry out this order. Is that why he made a point of coming in and discussing it while I’m here?
“You’d better hope your men are competent,” I say, my tone as cold as theirs. “Russo will come at us hard if this backfires.”
Maxim smirks. “Leo Russo doesn’t scare me.”
He should. And so should I.
I stand and wander toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, my back to the room. The glittering lights of the Strip stretch out before me, but my thoughts are a storm of fury and determination. My father’s plan is reckless and short-sighted, and it puts Sabina in the crosshairs.
I glance at the reflection of my father in the window.
He thinks he controls the board. He thinks he controls me.
Let him think that. For now.
Sabina, my golden goddess.
She doesn’t know it yet, but she is already mine. And I protect what’s mine.