20. NIKOLAI
Chapter twenty
B oston was quiet and polished on the surface, but beneath the charm and old-money facade, it had its own underworld.
A business associate and I were perched on the rooftop of one of Back Bay’s luxury hotels, sipping overpriced cocktails under heat lamps that barely cut the November chill. The skyline glowed softly in the distance as the city lights scattered across the harbor.
Brooke was laughing about offshore securities…or maybe the view. I’d tuned her out around martini number two.
Her fingers grazed my thigh, slow and possessive.
I let her touch linger.
Why not?
She was gorgeous. Smart. Knew exactly how to manage a room full of men with too much money and no conscience. She was the kind of woman I usually appreciated—low drama and transactional.
But tonight, I didn’t want her.
Not really. I was meeting with her because it was convenient. I was already in town on other business, and she was a private banker working to help me convert some of my holdings into liquid US dollars. Now that I was living in Manhattan and building up an armory, I needed greater cash flow.
My phone buzzed once. Then again. And again.
I ignored it.
Brooke leaned closer, her perfume floating in the air between us. “Would you like to move this meeting inside?” she purred.
My gaze dropped to the manicured hand sliding up my thigh. I thought of Lyla’s fingers—strong, short nails, fidgety as hell—and something I refused to acknowledge punched me square in the chest.
Buzz. Buzz.
I yanked my phone from my coat pocket and glanced at the screen.
Henri.
Shit.
I opened the thread.
We lost her.
We never saw her leave the theater, and she’s not home.
We’re not the only ones who can’t find her. Delgado’s lackey is freaking out. Overheard him talking, and he said Delgado was going to kill him if she wasn’t found immediately. Something about how she’d called Carlos and told him she quit.
Checked with Carmine. He got a text from her saying she quit on him too. She’s heading back to Tennessee.
Something cold and twisted settled in the marrow of my bones—a rare, unwelcome punch of dread, the same I’d felt the day I learned Ana’s car had been totaled.
“What is it?” Brooke asked.
I downed the rest of my drink in one swallow. “I’ve got to go.”
“Seriously?” Her tone snapped like a whip. “Nik, I thought we were—”
“I’m not in the mood to explain,” I said, standing. “Thank you for the meeting. You’ll send over the documents and an invoice tomorrow, won’t you?”
She blinked up at me, wounded pride flashing in her eyes. “Okay, sure. No problem. Is there something you need my help with? You look…off.”
I didn’t answer, turning away and heading to my room.
Because no one could fucking help me.
Lyla had disappeared…vanished out from under my men’s noses.
Delgado’s man had lost her too. If he couldn’t find her, Delgado would assume she was hiding from him.
And he’d come looking personally.
Not with questions, but with a blade.
“Fucking hell,” I muttered, storming toward the elevator.
What the fuck was Lyla thinking?
My phone buzzed again. Henri.
Delgado’s guy isn’t so sure she skipped town.
I’ll keep you posted.
I typed fast: Leave no stone unturned. I don’t care what it takes. I want eyes on every street corner she ever walked.
My head was a fucking mess. I’d spent days keeping my distance, telling myself she was a complication I didn’t need. But the second I’d learned she vanished, it felt like the air had been ripped out of my lungs.
I should’ve had her chipped.
I should’ve never come to Boston.
I should’ve—
Fuck!
The elevator doors closed. I swiped the room key and leaned back against the wall, crossing my arms. My temples were starting to throb.
I didn’t have time for this. Not now. Not with Luca breathing down my neck about syndicate business. Not with a war breaking out. And certainly not with Delgado sniffing around my business and stealing from my warehouse.
But there was the truth of it.
Lyla Laine—or Lacey Grace or whatever the hell her real name was—had gotten under my skin so deep I couldn’t think straight. And now she was gone.
And I was losing my goddamn mind.
I slammed the door to my hotel room, shoved the laptop bag onto the desk, and shrugged off my jacket.
The drinks hadn’t taken the edge off my temper. The rooftop air hadn’t helped, nor had Brooke’s wandering hands. I’d left her there, confused and pouting, because the second I’d seen Henri’s message, my focus had narrowed onto one thing.
Finding Lyla.
I yanked open the laptop, my fingers flying across the keyboard before I even sat down.
Henri’s updates scrolled across the screen—camera feeds from every street surrounding the theater and most of Hell’s Kitchen.
They’d tracked her leaving her apartment.
There she was, bundled in layers under the coat I’d given her, looking like the Michelin Man, her backpack stuffed full.
She’d planned this.
She went to rehearsal like she was supposed to. Checked in and did what she normally did. Left the studio with the cast.
But then?
Nothing.
No footage of her exiting. No phone activity after 11:37 p.m. No movement was detected from any of the cameras of nearby businesses. My guys had eyes on every door. Henri had pulled his entire unit in to sweep the building. Still no sign of her.
I pulled city surveillance cameras and even checked for heat signatures in underground tunnels in the area. I ran facial recognition scans everywhere within a three-block radius of Playwright’s Haven.
Nothing.
It was as if the girl had actually vanished.
I raked a hand down my face and sank back in the chair.
But I wasn’t going to give up this easily. I growled under my breath and leaned forward to check the feed from her apartment building. Her roommates were home, but there was no sign she’d returned.
Delgado’s guy, the one who’d been tailing her, looked just as lost as I felt. Henri’s team had intercepted some of his conversations and learned that he was doing everything he could to find her, but Delgado was pissed as hell.
At least they didn’t have her—yet.
I stared at the screen, the cursor blinking back at me.
She’d slipped through our surveillance.
That wasn’t supposed to be possible.
I stood up and started pacing. The Boston skyline blinked back at me through the glass window.
What the hell was I doing here?
I should’ve never left Manhattan.
Returning to the desk, I glared at the laptop screen. If I knew her, if I understood her even a little—which I did—she hadn’t run home. She was too proud, too stubborn. Too fucking determined to make something of herself in the theater world.
My fingers hovered over the trackpad. I zoomed in on my map of the Theater District again. I’d checked every known exit. Every alley, corridor, and sublevel.
Fuck.
It hit me then. She was a dancer—agile, small, and flexible—and she was used to backstage layouts. She could be hidden somewhere within one of the many small spaces.
I opened the renderings for the building’s original blueprints. Not just the public ones—the historical ones. They showed old sub-basements, connected properties, pass-throughs to rehearsal spaces, small theaters, and outdated maintenance corridors. Some of these weren’t even legal anymore.
Henri’s men were good, but this girl was better.
I checked the time—almost three a.m.
My eyes burned from staring at the screen, and my brain was foggy.
I had a meeting with the Irish mafia boss, Jack Byrnes, in five hours.
Because of course I did. Luca was riding my ass about helping to ensure the Irish families here in Boston were all in as loyal syndicate members.
He’d wanted me to allay any of Jack’s worries about my part of this deal, since he had told Luca recently that he wasn’t so sure about working with a Russian Pakhan.
I rubbed my temples, trying to release the pressure building behind my eyes. I needed a couple of hours of sleep. Just enough to function. But I knew what I’d see the second I lay down.
Her face.
Her bright eyes, wide with fear. Her lips swollen from my kiss.
My fingers wrapped around her throat.
I sat back at the desk and typed a final message to Henri before I let myself crash.
Stay hidden from Delgado’s crew. Search every basement, boiler room, storage closet. She’s still there. I want hourly updates. No exceptions.
I hit send.
Then I leaned back and cracked my neck.
She could hide all she wanted.
But she’d never escape me.
Not in this lifetime.