13. NIKOLAI
Chapter thirteen
T he second she disappeared from the alley, I gave Henri a heads-up to track her phone, to get eyes on her quickly, and to let me know when she was safely at home. Then I texted Rory to pick me up.
I stepped out of the alley’s shadows and onto the sidewalk. My pulse hadn’t settled, and my dick was still as hard as steel.
Leaning a shoulder against the brick wall, I exhaled hard and dragged a hand over my jaw.
What the fuck had that been?
I hadn’t meant to touch her, not like that. But she’d pushed every button I had—walking home alone in a city full of predators, wearing that little black dress, knowing full well I was watching.
And she had wanted me to see her.
Wanted to drag me out of hiding.
She’d succeeded and gotten more than she’d bargained for.
God, she’d been exquisite in that alley—wild, furious, trembling beneath my hands as I pinned her to the wall.
Every gasp she’d made lit me up. The heat of her mouth under mine had unleashed something savage inside of me, and I’d barely been able to restrain myself when my fingers had found the wet slickness of her pussy.
She’d been soaked, dripping—not because I’d coaxed it from her, but because she’d already been there.
She had tried to deny it, tried to spit fire in my face, but her body had betrayed her in the most delicious ways. That whimper when I’d circled her clit. That desperate little gasp when I’d whispered “taste.” That tongue flicking out on command, licking her own arousal from my fingers.
Fuck. I should’ve stopped sooner.
But I didn’t regret it.
Even now, the memory of her mouth and those swollen lips parting for me made my dick twitch.
She was perfect. Beautiful and defiant, soft in all the right places, and strong in ways that sent my imagination spiraling.
I loved the way her voice had cracked when she’d told me to let her go…
and then moaned when I didn’t. I’d loved the way her body had rocked against my thigh in her naturally sensual rhythm.
I could still feel her heat against my palm, her sweet taste on my tongue.
I could still hear her footsteps echoing down the street.
Running away.
And I’d let her go.
My jaw tightened.
My girl had no idea how close she had become to being devoured.
Headlights hit me when the SUV pulled up to the curb in front of me, and I quickly climbed in and slammed the door shut.
“Where to?” Rory asked.
I tapped my phone screen, pulled up the DarkMatter surveillance feed from Lyla’s apartment, and leaned back into the seat. “She just walked into her apartment.”
On the screen, Lyla stormed inside, slammed the door, and paced her living room like an angry cat.
“So, are we just going to sit here watching her?” Rory muttered, giving me a side glance.
“No. Head home.” I adjusted the audio feed, allowing Lyla’s voice to play through the speakers.
“…arrogant bastard… ruins my night… can’t have one fucking night out with my friends without some controlling asshole trying to make it about him!”
She kicked off her heels, threw her wrap across the futon, and kept muttering to herself, pacing, ranting, vibrating with fury.
She stomped into her tiny bedroom and started to change her clothes. Heat coursed through me as she peeled off her dress—her spine curving in a delicious arch—and I was given a glimpse of her firm thighs and ass.
When she turned toward the camera, I noticed her nipples were hard. Even angry, she was still desperate for my touch.
I adjusted my position, shifting uncomfortably in my seat. I shouldn’t have given her five minutes of my time. Hell, I should never have even checked her background.
But I had. And now…Rory was right—I was invested, conflicted.
Who the hell pretended to be her own dead sister just to survive in New York?
Who thought working at a place like The Sacrifice was just a job?
And why, out of every woman I’d ever met, had this small-town stray gotten under my skin and taken up permanent residence in my fucking brain?
I was spiraling—I knew it—but still I wanted more.
My phone rang. Lucian Byrnes’s name flashed on the screen—one of the owners of Club Xyst, and a man who never called me. I closed out of the live feed and answered. “Yes?”
“Volkov,” his voice rang through. “We’ve got a problem.”
Of course we did.
“What kind of problem?”
“Slade flagged a Mara Salvatrucha heavy walking into the club. Recognized the face. Says he’s part of Delgado’s inner circle. He strolled in like he owned the place. With Jarvis fucking Hayes, the mayor’s brother.”
Hmm, that didn’t bode well.
“Where are they now?”
“In the casino. Drinking. Smiling. Real cozy.”
I cursed under my breath and muttered to Rory, “Xyst. Back entrance.”
He nodded and changed course, pulling into the traffic heading south.
Lucian kept talking. “Facial rec confirms he’s a Palabrero—Raul Castillo. Street name’s El Pastor. Former enforcer for MS-503 in Guatemala before Delgado pulled him up here.”
“Good work,” I said tightly. “Keep eyes on him. I’m on my way.”
I ended the call and stared out the window. Street lights slid past as my temples started to throb.
MS-13 was moving in fast, trying to stake their claim on the city—hell, on the entire Eastern Seaboard—buying favors and making alliances. Ciro Delgado was announcing his presence like a fucking matador waving a red flag.
And I was busy chasing a girl in a black dress.
Fuck.
I dragged a hand over my face.
Lyla wasn’t just a distraction.
She was a goddamn liability.
And the worst part?
I would never be able to stop wanting her.
A few minutes later, Rory dropped me behind Club Xyst, next to a security door that led into the service hallway.
The club’s head of security, Slade—six and a half feet of silent threat in a tailored black suit—waited just inside the door. He was the kind of man who could end a fight just by standing up. My sister used to call him her favorite blunt instrument, and he’d worn the title like a badge.
“Nik.” He nodded once, stepping aside.
I clapped his shoulder. “Slade.”
Ana had trusted him with her life, and in this world, that counted for everything.
I took the private stairwell down to the underground casino and paused just outside the entryway, adjusting my jacket and posture before stepping inside.
The downstairs level of Xyst was all understated wealth and controlled vice.
No gaudy slots. No cheap noise. Just smooth jazz from a baby grand, warm wooden finishes, and clusters of monied elite seated around velvet-covered poker tables.
The air smelled of aged whiskey and power.
Only private members had access to this area—men and women with real privilege.
At the corner booth by the old-world bar, Lucian sat with his back to the wall, surveying the room intently. Lachlan Byrnes and Gabriel Rossi flanked him, while Julian Lombardi leaned casually against the bar nearby.
Lucian, his younger brother Lachlan, Gabriel, and Julian ran Club Xyst. Six months ago, I’d discovered that Anastasia—along with the rest of them—co-owned Xyst, an exclusive Midtown club for the rich and powerful.
Behind its polished facade, it offered a discreet venue for high-stakes gambling, professional escorts, and under-the-table dealmaking for those who knew the right people.
The underground casino and balcony levels were reserved for members only.
The main floor was open to those who passed a background check but didn’t meet the club’s stringent standards for membership.
Lucian Byrnes was an arrogant, sharp-tongued Irish bastard who got a kick out of trying to yank my chain.
He’d been involved with my sister, fucking her for years with no strings attached and no clue who she really was, until her car accident and subsequent amnesia.
He hadn’t known Ana was the daughter of a Russian Pakhan or that she had a twin brother who could order a man’s death with a single look.
But now that I controlled her share of the club, Lucian and I had reached a functional understanding—he liked breathing, and I needed loyal men.
Now he was neck-deep in our world, whether he liked it or not.
To his credit, he’d stood his ground and kept the club running like a well-oiled machine.
He might have resented me taking over Ana’s share, but he was smart enough to know what survival required.
Soon, I intended to bring him—and the rest of the Xyst crew—into my inner circle.
They were already business associates. It was time they became soldiers.
Lucian didn’t stand when I entered, just tipped his head slightly and gestured from the shadows toward the center of the casino, where a poker table sat bathed in golden light like a throne at court—perfectly positioned, impossible to ignore.
It was surrounded by high-rollers. Men and women dressed to the nines lingered nearby, watching intently—amused and hungry to see someone lose.
At the table, Jarvis Hayes—the mayor’s brother—sat with a man who looked like he belonged in a gangland shootout, not a private club.
Scarred knuckles, busted nose that hadn’t healed right, and wiry frame dressed in a rumpled button-down with the top few buttons undone, no tie in sight.
He spoke in a thick accent and seemed to be making no attempt to hide where he was from.
Though he was radically out of place here, he apparently didn’t care.
“El Pastor,” Lucian murmured under his breath as I moved to sit beside him. “One of Delgado’s top men. Word is he ran an aggressive and absolutely lethal hit squad across Central America for the last ten years.”
I gave Lucian a subtle nod. “He’s too comfortable.”
“Jarvis Hayes brought him in like they were longtime friends. They’ve been drinking, laughing, talking shit for over an hour.”
I scanned the table. “Anyone else?”
“Just the two of them. But Jarvis introduced him as a business consultant to the other players.”