18. NIKOLAI
Chapter eighteen
I didn’t request the car. Could’ve had Rory waiting curbside with the engine idling, but I needed the walk. Needed the cold.
The sky over Manhattan was a sickly pre-dawn gray. This was the start of most people’s day but the end of mine. Slushy snow clung to the sidewalks. The morning was already a gloomy mess, a good match for my goddamn state of mind.
I didn’t have time for this obsession. And it annoyed the hell out of me that this girl got under my skin so badly.
“She called me… me a fucking rapist,” I growled, earning me a nasty look from the woman walking her dog along the curb.
Of all the things I’d been called in my life—hacker, criminal, killer, bratva heir, Pakhan—nothing had ever hit like that word from her mouth.
It was as though she’d taken a blade and driven it straight into the last part of me that still held a shred of my soul—a quiet place I’d buried years ago.
In that place lived the last flicker of hope I hadn’t managed to kill, the piece of my humanity that still believed I could be touched without being used, trusted without being betrayed.
It was the one fucking scrap of me that wanted someone to look at me with something other than fear, the part I kept alive just enough to believe I wasn’t my father’s son.
Delgado, she’d said, was better than me.
Delgado .
That cartel-funded, girl-selling parasite who would happily watch her suffer for a dollar.
And me? I was the monster.
My jaw clenched so hard it popped. I stomped down Sixth Avenue, splattering slush all over my pants. Let people stare—I didn’t care that I looked like a madman in a black wool coat at five in the morning, storming through Manhattan with murder in my eyes.
I’d been born into this shit. I hadn’t chosen it.
Born to Viktor Volkov, a sadist who’d raped and murdered his way through half of the world with a smile on his face and a knife in his hand. My mother wasn’t much better. She loved money more than she’d ever loved her children.
The only thing I’d ever really gotten to choose was to keep my sister out of the underworld. To build her a different kind of life. Maybe I couldn’t claw my way out of this world, but I’d be damned if I dragged Anastasia and her baby down with me.
Which meant the last thing I needed was another woman to protect, to feel anything for.
But fuck—
When she’d looked at me with those stormy blue eyes and said I was no better than Delgado, it had landed harder than any bullet I’d ever taken, because no decent man wanted to be seen like that.
The girl was trouble—a walking complication with a gymnast’s body and a martyr’s heart.
And now she was in deep. Really deep.
Delgado’s man had witnessed the kiss. That message would reach him before the hour was up. And Lyla Oakley—the little Broadway dreamer with scraped knees and sparkly outfits—was officially in the middle of the biggest turf war this city had ever seen.
All because I couldn’t keep my fucking hands off her.
She didn’t know it, but she just became a prize.
Something men like Delgado—and men like me—fought over.
And I’d ignited that war with a kiss.
I could claim it was for her protection, but that would be a lie.
The truth? I’d wanted to claim her.
She was a match, and I was soaked in gasoline.
Now every part of my life—my empire, my secrets, my control—was at risk of going up in flames, all because of one girl who spun through the air with the grace of an angel, tempting men to risk damnation just to touch her.
I reached my building and went through the usual gauntlet: thumbprint scan, retinal imaging, six-digit code.
When I walked into my fortress of a penthouse, all I saw was emptiness.
Silence, glass, steel, and too much square footage.
Just me. And whatever the fuck money could buy.
I hung my coat and walked down the hallway, past the custom kitchen I’d barely used since relocating to the city, even though cooking was a passion of mine, past the guest suite no one ever stayed in, and into the room I actually lived in.
My IT room.
The one place where everything did what I told it to.
Anonymous made me a legend.
DarkMatter made me feared.
But here? In this room? I made myself into a weapon.
I’d wiped bank accounts belonging to corrupt officials in Dubai and funneled every last cent to orphanages in Poland.
I’d exposed private plane manifests of convicted pedophiles and routed the flight logs to journalists in Mexico City.
Global Food Outreach was mine too. It kept a hundred thousand kids fed in Ukraine, even while the bombs were still dropping. It was the same group Braxton Thorin had volunteered with this past summer, when he’d gotten himself caught in the middle of a war zone.
No one knew all the things I had my hands in.
Not Anastasia. Not Rory. Not Luca. Not even the other syndicate heads.
Because in my world, love was turned against you. Vulnerability was currency. And if anyone knew what I actually cared about, they would use it to gut me.
But I did care.
Too fucking much.
And now there was her.
With my fingers hovering over the keyboard, I stared at the main screen, at images of Lyla Laine Oakley.
No. Not Lyla. Lacey Grace Oakley. Little sister of a girl who had died two years ago.
And the woman who might just destroy me.
By one o’clock, I’d packed a bag, instructed Henri to assign additional men to surveil Lyla, and texted Rory: Leaving in twenty. Xyst, Luca’s, then Boston. Overnight bag.
Moving back into my IT room, I dropped into the chair in front of the main console and pulled up the camera feeds from her apartment.
Nat was there, watching something on her laptop, headphones in.
Lyla’s bedroom was empty.
I texted Henri: Status.
His reply was immediate. She worked the full shift. Went home, cleaned, showered, and ate something. She’s headed to rehearsal now.
Of course she was.
Hadn’t fucking listened to a word I’d said.
The little lamb was going to get herself devoured. She was strong-willed. Stubborn. Trouble in a twenty-year-old body built for sin.
I shut the screen off, stood, and grabbed my bag. Time to deal with bigger problems.
Club Xyst sat like a rare jewel in the heart of the Meatpacking District.
From the outside, it didn’t project anything more than exclusivity—columned promenade, understated lighting, tinted windows.
The front doors were still locked for the day.
No sign of Slade yet. I keyed in the access code and stepped into silence.
Inside, a long bar ran almost the entire length of the left wall, mirrored and lit to showcase the club’s top-shelf collection.
A central dance floor gleamed under a giant chandelier.
Booths lined the right-side wall, and a low stage at the back waited for whatever performer or DJ was booked for the night.
To the left, behind a velvet rope and a biometric scanner, was the guarded staircase that led down into the real moneymaker—an underground speakeasy with leather-wrapped poker tables, a place that provided the utmost privacy for those who had a membership.
Above the main floor, two wraparound balconies with private tables looked down at the dance floor below. And at the very top—accessible only by elevator—was the real power center: the office with one-way glass and access to the roof.
Normally, at this time of day, the guys would be hovering.
Lucian, with his sleeves rolled up and sweating as he ensured every detail was perfect for our exclusive patrons.
Lachlan checking the lighting, sound, and security.
Gabriel flirting with the bartenders and waitstaff, doing what he could to make the place run smoothly.
Julian in the background, watching everything without saying a word.
Today? Empty.
Quiet.
Too quiet.
There was one guy on a ladder behind the bar, restocking the shelves, sliding bottles into place. But no music. No noise. No familiar voices.
I stepped into the private elevator and palmed the scanner.
The doors opened at the top floor. As I stepped out, Aria glanced up from the desk with that cool, classy composure she wore like lipstick.
“Mr. Volkov,” she said. “Good afternoon.”
“How are you doing, sweetheart?”
She grimaced. “I’d be better if Mr. Genovese weren’t here. With Vinny.”
I swore under my breath.
“Didn’t know he’d be visiting today,” I said.
“Neither did we. He’s in the office with the guys. Whatever meeting they’re having doesn’t look friendly. And if this goes anything like last time, I’d brace myself.”
“I’ll take care of it,” I told her. “Time to show Luca and his lapdog the door.”
She straightened her spine and went back to her work.
I rounded the receptionist desk, exited the lobby, and walked toward the office.
It pissed me off that Luca thought this place was his now.
Mere months ago, Xyst had been Ana’s.
Her pet project. Her sanctuary. Her illusion that made her believe she could live in the shadows without getting seen.
She’d never wanted the other guys pulled into our world. She’d lied to them about who she really was, thinking it would keep them safe. God, she was na?ve as hell.
I’d tried to keep her from learning the truth, too, for a long time. Worked damn hard to keep her sweet and sheltered throughout her college years. But eventually, Ana had gotten bored.
Of course she had. Danger lived in her blood.
The family had wanted to use her as a pawn. To them she was a beautiful Russian broodmare with a silken leash. They’d tried to marry her off, lock her down, teach her to smile and nod and shut the fuck up.
But Ana had never had an ounce of submission in her.
They would have seen that if they’d ever paid attention to her.
None of us had expected her to rebel in the way she had though. Me, least of all.
But you couldn’t rewrite genetics.
And the Volkovs? None of us could change the nature of who we were. We’d been forged in the cold, dark Russian nights.