8. NIKOLAI
Chapter eight
O ne last look through the slats of Lyla’s blinds confirmed she was asleep.
God, she was serene now, curled on her side with that book next to her, her breathing slow and even, like she didn’t have a single worry in the world.
A faint smile played on her lips—sweet, vulnerable.
She looked like something out of a fairy tale, except no prince was coming.
Just a monster watching from the dark.
The metal of the fire escape creaked under my weight as I shifted to leave. I had to fight the instinct to stay.
I pulled out my phone and fired off a text— Come get me— and shared my location.
As soundlessly as possible, I descended one level at a time. The last stretch was a short jump to the ground. Once I’d hit the pavement, I adjusted my coat and started walking toward the opening of the alley.
Within minutes, a sleek black Escalade rolled to a stop in front of me.
Rory Lynch—my most trusted confidant—was behind the wheel.
Our bond ran far deeper than any mere employer–employee relationship.
We’d met during our time at Imperial College London, instantly hitting it off.
He’d gone on to become an SAS operative while I handled Volkovi Notchi business and honed my more secretive skills.
All six-foot-four of him was a formidable presence, even seated.
His dirty-blond hair was neatly buzzed at the sides, and his emerald-green eyes—almost always twinkling with playful mischief—were serious now as he gave me a silent nod of greeting.
Rory was big and beefy, a walking advertisement for controlled power.
He could crack jokes and charm women with ease, but when it came to business, he was all focus and lethal efficiency.
A few months ago, he’d moved to Manhattan without hesitation, abandoning his life in the UK after everything had gone sideways with my father, with Anastasia, and again after the recent shit in Russia that had forced my sudden departure.
No one watched my back like he did. He was my shadow, my driver, always on call.
His condo in my building was a testament to his constant proximity and unwavering loyalty.
The front passenger door clicked open, and I climbed in.
“What’s up?” he asked as he pulled into traffic.
“I’ve got a situation,” I said, scrubbing my hand across my chin. “There’s a girl who doesn’t know it, but she’s knee-deep in the underworld, and her only option to survive is for me to pull her out.”
“So, an extract-and-relocate mission. Sounds straightforward enough.” Rory shrugged, glancing over his shoulder as he changed lanes.
“Appears that way on the surface, but it’s more complicated. Normally, I’d never give a girl like her a second thought—she’s a grown woman, and she’d made her own choices. But there’s something about her…” My stomach growled. “I’m hungry. Go to Cipher, where we can talk.”
A couple of minutes later, Rory whipped into a spot out front. It was quiet at this hour, and there was only one guy inside, sitting near the window. We moved to the back booth and ordered. Soon we had coffee and sandwiches sitting in front of us.
“You’ve got the thousand-yard stare going. What’s eating at you?” Rory asked, taking a huge bite of his Reuben.
I didn’t reply but instead grabbed my phone, shot off a couple of texts, and called Henri, DarkMatter’s lead man here in the city.
“Hey, man, I need you to keep eyes on the woman at the address I just sent you. It’s her in the picture.
Full shadow protocol. No contact. She gets watched twenty-four seven.
And I want a crew at her place ready to install surveillance in the kitchen, the hallway, her bedroom, and outside the building.
Audio and visual. Nothing cloud-based. Local loop.
Our private relay. No digital footprint. ”
“Got it,” Henri replied and I ended the call.
Rory cocked a brow at me. After swallowing his next bite and wiping his mouth with a napkin, he leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table.
“So…” he said, dragging the word out, “what kind of situation has you lurking in an alley behind some shit apartment in the middle of Hell’s Kitchen?
And kicking off full-blown surveillance? ”
I ignored his question. “She works here.”
He blinked. “The girl works here at Cipher?”
“She just started on mornings and is not the kind of person you’d expect to be working in a place like this—small-town country girl too full of syrupy happiness, chatting me up like I’d known her forever.
Too much bless your heart , not enough self-preservation.
I tried to brush her off, but she mouthed off to me.
Didn’t give a damn who I was. That’s what got my attention—that and the fact that Carmine defended her.
” I paused, biting into my pastrami on rye and chewing as I continued. “So I ran her background. Quick scan.”
Rory’s grin curled into a smirk. “You ran a background check because a server was rude to you?”
“There’s something about her that got under my skin. She’s a walking contradiction. She comes off sweet—lighthearted, innocent. Optimistic even. But then…”
He took another bite. “But then?” he mumbled.
“She works at a strip club.”
That got a small grunt from him. “Jesus. Whiplash.”
“And it’s not just any club. It’s called The Sacrifice.”
Rory froze mid-chew.
“Delgado owns the place,” I said.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “You sure?”
I tapped my phone and held up the message from Luca.
Rory exhaled slowly, all humor gone now. “That’s not a place a girl casually works at.”
“No,” I agreed.
Rory didn’t say anything for a moment. “So what’s your angle? You looking to burn the place down or save the girl?”
I didn’t answer right away.
“I want to know more,” I said finally, “which is why I’m going to follow her there tonight. See what I can learn about what Delgado’s running through that place. She might be a backdoor into Delgado’s operation.”
Rory’s gaze narrowed. “Since when do you tail leads personally? You’ve got a whole private army for that.”
I took a sip of coffee. It was bitter and fucking perfect.
He pressed. “Was that her place I picked you up from?”
My silence gave me away.
Rory gave a dry laugh. “Jesus. You followed her home?”
“She lives in a shitty three-bedroom on the fourth floor. The windows face the back alley. I had a few minutes. It wasn’t a big deal.”
“Uh-huh.” His grin sharpened. “Let me guess. You followed her all day, didn’t you?”
I sidestepped the question and redirected us back to business.
“I need to know more about Delgado, especially after the mayor handed him that security contract on a platter. The syndicate’s looking for answers, and Ciro Delgado’s getting more aggressive by the day.
” I took another bite of my sandwich. “MS-13’s expanding faster than we can cut off their supply lines.
They’re getting bold—crossing into our neighborhoods, sniffing around Luca’s people.
I’ve heard rumors that Delgado is moving young bodies faster than we move arms to Ukraine, but the thing is, I don’t know how he’s doing it.
That club? I’m guessing it’s not just a fuckhouse. It’s a funnel.”
“So you do want to burn it down?” Rory asked, that lethal sort of enthusiasm in his voice.
“Not yet. First, I want to see who else has their hands in it. Let Luca’s new syndicate take the lead. In the meantime, I need more soldiers. I want my own brigade here in the city. Men with blood ties to me. Men who will be loyal to the new syndicate but will understand I’m their boss.”
“I’ll get on it.”
We ate in silence for a while.
When I looked up from my food, Rory’s grin was back. “So, your interest in this girl is just about getting intel on Delgado?”
“Exactly.”
Rory gave me a long look. “Bullshit. You’ve had chances to go at Delgado for weeks. Now, suddenly, you’re watching this girl from her alley like some Romeo.”
I held his gaze. “Like I said, I had time to kill.”
“You don’t kill time, Nik.” He let that statement hang in the air between us for a moment. “You followed her all day.”
I shook my head, throwing my napkin on my empty plate.
He nudged his plate aside. “You stalking this girl?”
“Fuck off.”
“That’s not a denial.”
I shot him a look that would have made most men rethink their next words—but not him.
He leaned forward, taking a breath to unload on me, but my phone buzzed. I snatched it off the table. It was Henri.
On fire escape. The girl’s up milling about. Will keep watch.
Good, Henri had placed himself on her detail. The man tended to handle things personally as much as possible; that was why I trusted him.
“Jesus Christ,” Rory muttered, chuckling low. “What’s your girl’s name?”
“She’s not my girl,” I muttered. Then I exhaled in resignation.
“Lyla Laine Oakley. She’s using her dead sister’s name.
Her real name is Lacey Grace Oakley. Age twenty.
Parents and sister are dead. Been in Manhattan for six months.
Works mornings here at Cipher. Nights at the club.
No drugs. No vices that I can find. Just ambition and family trauma. ”
Rory whistled low. “Using her dead sister’s ID to work in a gang-run strip club? That’s a hell of a survival plan.”
“She doesn’t know who owns it. She thinks she’s just dancing.”
“Still.” He leaned forward. “She’s one of Delgado’s toys. And you’re keeping tabs on her? That could draw a lot of attention.”
“No, it won’t. You’ll see to that. Work with Henri and ensure it’s kept covert. She can’t know.”
Rory nodded once. “Done.”
I glanced out the cafe window, my jaw tight. “She’s walking into a lion’s den tonight.”
“And you’re walking in after her,” Rory said.
I didn’t respond.
He smirked and said in a low voice, “Careful, Nik. You’re starting to sound invested.”
“It’s tactical.”
“And the fact you know her real name, her fake name, her apartment, her history?”
“Simple research.”
“Right.”
My phone buzzed again. Henri.
Target just left the apartment. Alone. On foot. Headed southwest through an alley.
My pulse kicked up.
“She’s walking alone and just cut into an alley.”
“Of course she is,” Rory said. “It’s only Halloween in fucking Hell’s Kitchen. She have a death wish?”
What the fuck was she thinking? Did she want to get jumped? Did she think that hoodie would keep her safe? That someone wouldn’t pull her into a van and erase her off the goddamn map?
“I don’t know. But if she keeps this up, she’s going to get herself killed,” I bit out.
Rory leaned forward. “You want backup?”
“No.” I stood. “Just drop me off down the block from the club.”
“Figures. I’ll stay close by.”
I paused. “She has no fucking clue about the world she’s in.”
Rory’s voice dropped. “She will.”
We stepped out onto the sidewalk and got into the car.
She didn’t know it yet, but from this point on, she wasn’t walking alone.
Not ever again.
We stopped a block south of the club, and I got out and made my way toward the front of the building.
The Sacrifice didn’t advertise itself. No neon lights.
No flashing signs. Just a tall, sleek black facade with a single mirrored door and smoked-glass windows that reflected the streetlights.
If you didn’t know what it was, you might guess it was a high-end private lounge.
It was minimalist, upscale, and discreet—the kind of place meant to intimidate rather than entice.
There were no girls out front. No bouncers were visible. The place radiated a subtle, almost arrogant stillness.
Turning the corner, I ducked into the alley and scanned for a clean way inside.
Two trash bins and a loading platform partially obscured the back entrance.
Graffiti covered the brick walls—tags, warnings, symbols that marked gang territory.
A single motion-sensor light flickered above the door, and I noticed a palm scanner by the doorframe.
I ducked behind the bins to watch the back entrance of the club.
A rat scurried past. Then I heard footsteps.
Lyla turned the corner, heading for the back door, just feet from where I was hidden.
She wore black sweatpants and a baggy hoodie that obscured her face. Her backpack hung off one shoulder, and she had her phone in hand. She stepped up to the scanner and pressed her palm against it before slipping inside.
I lit a cigarette, leaned back against the wall, and took one long drag. I shouldn’t go in.
But I was going to.
Just then, a man rounded the corner, focusing on trying to light up a smoke with a shitty plastic lighter. He was a clean-cut type in a tailored navy suit, maybe in his late thirties. Expensive watch. Confident gait.
A golden opportunity for me.
I flicked my half-smoked cigarette onto the ground and stepped out from the shadows right in front of him.
“Hey—!” He startled.
My fist cracked against his jaw. He stumbled back, wide-eyed, and I caught him in a chokehold, dragging him into the darkness between two dumpsters. He flailed for a second—brief, useless panic—then slumped.
Glancing around, I crouched beside him and checked his pulse. Alive.
I took his wallet, slipped the ID out, snapped a quick photo, and texted it to Rory with an order:
Make him disappear.
No reply necessary.
I brushed off my coat and walked out of the alley like I’d just left a meeting.
The mirrored front door led to a small, shadowy lobby decorated in cool marble and lit by softly glowing chandeliers and wall sconces.
A single bouncer in a black jacket sat on a stool behind a podium, while two more guards in suits stood by the wall—arms folded, earpieces in place.
Professional. Silent. Watching everything and nothing.
I handed the ID across the podium. The bouncer barely glanced at it.
“Have a good night, Mr. Graves,” he said without meeting my eyes.
Even if he had checked the photo, I would have been fine. I was an expert at bullshitting my way around thick-skulled losers like him.
He was sloppy. Fucking pathetic, given how encrypted their online firewalls were. Like a digital fortress wrapped around a paper door.