6. Nikolai
6
Nikolai
The scent of gasoline cuts through the icy air, biting and pungent, with a hint of something chemical and sinister beneath it. The limo lies on its side. I force the door above me open with my shoulder. The metal groans in protest, the frame bent and jagged, bits of glass cascading around me. The wind bites hard as it rushes in, stinging every exposed inch of skin.
My attention focuses on the woman slumped below me, her pale, beautiful face streaked with blood. She looks like something carved out of marble—perfect, untouchable. But she is touchable. Bruised. Bleeding. Mortal. And I feel every inch of her fragility like acid in my chest.
“Sabina,” I bark.
She stirs, blinking sluggishly, her lashes dusted with flakes of snow that have swirled inside along with the wind. Her lips move, but no words come. A streak of crimson marks her from temple to jaw.
“We need to go,” I say, reaching down and catching hold of her upper arms.
“What—?” Sabina’s voice is faint, hoarse, like the word dragged itself free.
“We need to get out of here,” I say, hauling her toward the opening. “The limo’s about to light up like a torch.”
The words jolt her, and she scrambles to follow me, her movements clumsy as I help her through the gap. Snow whips us like shards of glass, the bitter cold slicing through our clothing as I pull her clear of the wreckage.
The storm is relentless, the snow falling thick and heavy, swallowing the world in silence. I steady Sabina as her legs wobble, her weight sagging against me. Ridiculously, she’s still clutching her purse as if it can ward off all the evils of the world.
I shoot a glance at the limo. It’s a mess of twisted metal and shattered glass, flames licking at the edges of the hood. We don’t have long.
I grip Sabina’s shoulders and hold her gaze. Her eyes, still defiant despite everything, narrow at me as if I’m the one responsible for this mess. I guess in a way, I am.
“Listen to me,” I say, keeping my voice calm and low. “The car that was tailing us spun out, but I doubt they took the same hit we have. It’s only a matter of time before they’re here to finish the job. I need you to stay put while I get Piotr. Can you do that?”
Her brow knits, then she nods.
I let go, hating the fear in her eyes and the way she sways on her feet.
“Piotr!” I shout as I turn back to the wreck, the wind stealing my voice. He isn’t just an employee. He’s a friend, a man I trust, a man I care about. He’s been with me for over ten years. We’ve been to hell and back together hundreds of times over. I shout his name again but there’s no reply.
I grab the jagged edges of the twisted frame and drag myself up onto the limo, the metal groaning under my weight. When I reach the driver’s door, I wedge my fingers into the gap and pull, every muscle straining. The door doesn’t move.
I jam my fingers deeper. Pull harder. It doesn’t budge.
“Fuck,” I roar.
Then I squat lower, using my whole body as I strain to get the door open. Finally, with a screech of protest, it gives a little, and then a little more, until I have an opening big enough that I can see Piotr slumped against the steering wheel, his body suspended by his seatbelt, blood dripping from a nasty gash in his forehead.
He groans and opens his eyes.
Relief and dread twist through me.
“Piotr,” I say.
“Boss.” He offers a lopsided smile. “This sucks.”
“Yeah.”
I assess the situation. I can’t reach around to unhook his seatbelt. The angle is all wrong with the limo tilted on its side and the interior a nightmare of torn leather, jagged metal, and shattered glass.
I glance back at Sabina. She’s still on her feet, no longer swaying, her arms crossed over her chest as she glares daggers at me through the swirling snow. That fire in her, the one that makes her a Russo, burns hot as ever. It’s infuriating. It’s impressive.
“Hold on,” I say to Piotr as I clamber inside, my boots crunching on debris. I wedge myself into the small space.
The seatbelt is twisted and taut, biting into his shoulder. I brace myself, gripping the belt to relieve the tension as I fumble for the release. The buckle is slick with blood, the mechanism sticking.
“Stay with me,” I mutter, my focus narrowing to the task at hand. Every second stretches painfully long as the heat from the hood grows stronger, the flames hissing closer.
Finally, the buckle clicks free. Piotr slumps forward, and I hook my arm under his to keep him from falling. He’s heavier than he looks, and the cramped space makes it harder to maneuver.
“Come on,” I grit out, pulling him toward the open door.
“Let me help.” Sabina’s voice cuts through the chaos, sharp and unwavering. I whip my head around, ready to bark at her to stay back, stay safe, but the look in her eyes stops me cold. She is fierce. She is unrelenting. She is not asking permission; she’s telling me she’s helping whether I like it or not.
I watch as she climbs up in those crazy heels, her breath fogging in the freezing air.
“Stay back,” I snap, even as a surge or something foreign—respect, maybe—flares in my chest.
“Shut up,” she fires back, her eyes blazing. She reaches in and between the two of us, we manage to begin to drag him from the wreckage, inch by inch. Sabina braces herself against the side of the limo, her heels scraping against the metal, but she doesn’t falter.
Together, we haul Piotr free. He slumps heavily against me as I lower him to the snow.
Sabina collapses to her knees beside him, her breath coming in sharp bursts. With shaking hands she presses her silk scarf against the wound on his head.
“He’s losing a lot of blood,” she says.
“Head wounds bleed a lot,” I say. Truth. “He’ll be okay.” Possibly the truth, possibly not. But I can’t let myself think about that. I need to focus on getting us somewhere safe.
The flames are stronger, hotter, higher, licking hungrily along the hood. The car that hit us can’t be far, and when they get here, they won’t be offering us help.
I look at Sabina. She’s wearing a black cashmere turtleneck and a high-waisted pencil skirt under a tailored camel coat. And her trademark sky-high heels.
Fuck. How far can she even get in that outfit? Every step will sink her heels deeper into the snow, and if the cold doesn’t get her, a twisted ankle might. She’s trembling already, trying to maintain some semblance of control, but I can see the tremble in her hands as she clutches the collar of her coat tighter around her neck. Her designer ensemble might as well be paper armor against this relentless storm.
I grit my teeth. Sabina Russo is many things—stubborn, sharp, a thorn in my side—but fragile isn’t one of them. And yet, in this moment, with the wind cutting like a knife and snow thickening around us, her refinement feels out of place. Vulnerable. Dangerous. She’s not dressed to survive this. And whether she likes it or not, her survival is now my priority. All of our survival.
“Help me get him up,” I order, grabbing Piotr under the arms.
Sabina nods, slipping an arm around his waist as we lift him together, the discrepancy in our height leaving Piotr listing heavily to one side. He groans, his head lolling forward, but he doesn’t resist.
The sound of an engine pierces the wind. Headlights cut through the swirling snow, and my gut tightens. A black SUV pulls to a stop a few yards away, its doors snapping open.
Four men step out, their boots crunching against the snow. Guns gleam in their hands, the cold steel reflecting the dim light. Vasiliev’s men. Of course. The only message Chicago wants to send is death.
One of them steps forward, his scarred face twisted into a sneer. His gun is trained on my chest. “On your knees,” he barks in Russian.
I lower Piotr back to the ground then slowly sink to my knees beside him, my hands loose at my sides. It’s a position meant to humiliate, but humiliation requires surrender. I’m not surrendering, just biding my time. The moment will come. Sabina makes a noise—half gasp, half growl—but I shake my head sharply, silencing her. Not now.
“Vasiliev sends his regards,” the thug says, his voice venomous. “Two good men, left to rot in that motel. You thought we wouldn’t notice?”
“They weren’t good men,” I reply evenly, my voice cold. “They were fools.” Not just fools—examples. Their deaths were deliberate. Loud. I wanted the Chicago syndicate to notice, to understand that if they stepped into my territory, I would annihilate them.
The thug’s jaw tightens, his finger twitching on the trigger.
“Phones,” another man orders, stepping forward. They yank mine and Sabina’s from my pocket, toss them into the snow, and shoot them. Smart—they can’t exactly smash them underfoot given the inches of snow covering the ground. I hate smart enemies.
The first thug meets my gaze, then offers a twisted smile. He lifts his gun, aims, shoots.
Piotr crumples, blood pooling around his head, almost black against the blanket of white. The sight of it—of him—twists in my chest, acute and raw, but I don’t let it show. My grief will wait. Their deaths will not.
The thug turns to Sabina, his grin lecherous.
“Pretty girl,” he says, his tone mocking. “Maybe we take her with us.”
No one touches Sabina. She is mine .
Pulling the knife from my boot, I’m on him before he can react. My blade finds his throat in a swift, brutal motion. His blood sprays hot in the freezing wind, spattering my arm, my face. The others scramble, shouting, but I’m already moving, striking the next one with precision.
A gunshot rings out, the bullet passing so close I feel the heat of it on my cheek. I dive, taking a third man down, rolling so he is positioned atop me. I use his body as a shield while I slam my blade into the side of his throat, severing his carotid artery. Then I shove him off as blood sprays, a crimson fountain.
I surge to my feet and spin and find Sabina wielding a long shard of glass with both hands, ready to defend herself.
The last man hesitates, his eyes darting between me and the bodies in the snow. Then he turns and bolts, diving into the SUV and speeding off.
Coward. His survival in this moment buys him nothing but a slower death. I’ll find him. I’ll end him. But not now. Not yet.
I stand there, breathing hard, my vision hazed red with rage.
Piotr is dead. Sabina is alive but shaken.
I will make them all pay.
I turn to her, finding her standing unsteadily, her face pale, her eyes fierce. Her coat is splotched with blood.
“It’s over,” I say, my voice quieter now as I carefully pull the shard of glass from her grasp and toss it aside.
She doesn’t respond, just stares at me, her breath puffing white in the freezing air.
“There’s a cabin nearby,” I say. “We’ll be safe there.”
“Safe?” She throws me a glare that could cut steel. “Stellar job keeping me safe, Nikolai. Truly A-plus work. Kidnapped? Check. Shot at? Double check. Tossed around like a fucking rag doll? Absolutely. I feel so safe right now. Really, it’s a dream come true.”