Chapter Ten
~ Nicolai ~
I ran my fingers through Mishka's soft hair as he rested his head against my chest. The penthouse was quiet, just the sound of our breathing and the occasional car horn from the streets below.
These moments of peace had become precious to me in a way I hadn't experienced in decades. My bear rumbled contentedly within me, satisfied to have this fragile human so close, so protected within our domain.
"You're thinking too loudly," Mishka murmured against my chest, his fingers idly tracing patterns on my arm.
I chuckled, the sound rumbling deep in my chest. "After a century of life, thinking becomes a habit that's hard to break."
"What are you thinking about?" he asked, tilting his face up toward mine, those eyes that had captivated me from the first moment I saw him peering into mine.
"How unexpected you are," I admitted, brushing my thumb across his cheek. "How in over a hundred years, I never expected to feel—"
The door to my private quarters burst open with such force that the handle slammed into the wall. I was on my feet in an instant, positioning myself between the door and Mishka before the echo of the impact had faded.
Yuri stood in the doorway, his normally impassive face pale with urgency. In all our decades together, I had rarely seen such naked panic in his eyes.
"Police are here with a warrant—searching for a missing teenager," he announced, voice tight with urgency. "They're coming up now."
My bear roared to life inside me, claws scraping at my insides, demanding release. This was no legitimate police action—this was O'Rourke making his move.
"How many?" I asked, already moving toward the far wall.
"Six. All armed. They have papers that look real enough."
I glanced at Mishka, who had gone completely still, his face a mask of controlled terror. He'd been running from O'Rourke for months before stumbling into my territory. Now the hunter had found him.
"Come," I ordered, grabbing Mishka's hand and pulling him toward my private study. My mind raced through options, discarding each as insufficient until only one remained. "Yuri, delay them. Protocol seven."
Yuri nodded once, sharply, before disappearing back down the hallway. I could hear him speaking into his communication device, alerting our security teams.
"What's happening?" Mishka whispered, his voice barely audible as I pulled him into my study and locked the door behind us.
"O'Rourke's men. Dressed as police." I moved directly to the antique bookcase that covered the eastern wall. "They've come for you."
Fear flashed across his face, but there was resignation there too. He'd been expecting this. "I should go. I can't put you in danger—"
"No." The word came out as a growl, more bear than man. "You are under my protection."
I reached for a leather-bound copy of War and Peace, tilting it forward rather than removing it. The mechanical click was barely audible, but I felt Mishka tense beside me.
"You have a secret passage?" he asked, eyes widening as a section of the bookcase silently slid back, revealing a steel door behind it.
"A panic room," I corrected, punching a code into the keypad. The heavy door swung open with a soft hiss of hydraulics. "Get inside. Now."
Mishka hesitated only for a second before ducking inside. I followed him, guiding him with one hand at the small of his back. The room was utilitarian—reinforced concrete walls lined with monitors showing feeds from throughout the building.
A small cot stood against one wall, next to shelves stocked with water, non-perishable food, and emergency medical supplies. A weapons locker was secured to the far wall.
"This place could withstand a bomb," I explained, watching as Mishka took in his surroundings. "The walls are two feet thick. Soundproof. Air filtration system. Independent power supply."
"You were prepared for this," he said quietly, looking up at me.
"I've been alive for over a century, malysh. I'm prepared for everything."
I moved to the control panel and activated the surveillance system, watching as six uniformed officers pushed past my security at the main entrance. One face in particular caught my attention—Marcus "Sparky" Denton. O'Rourke's muscle.
I felt my lip curl into a snarl. My bear clawed more insistently beneath my skin, desperate to defend what was ours.
"You need to stay in here," I said, turning back to Mishka. "No matter what happens, no matter what you see on these monitors, you do not come out until I or Yuri come for you. Understood?"
His eyes searched mine, fear giving way to determination. "You're going out there? To face them?"
"This is my territory," I growled. "No one violates it."
"They have weapons," he protested. "They could kill you."
I allowed myself a small, cold smile. "Many have tried over the years. None have succeeded."
Stepping closer to him, I cupped his face in my hands, feeling how delicate his human bones were beneath my massive palms. My bear howled possessively within me. This human was ours to protect.
"Stay silent, malysh. No matter what you hear," I instructed, watching his eyes widen in understanding. "The room is secure, but it's better if they don't suspect anyone is here."
Reluctantly, I released him and moved back toward the door. Each step away from him felt wrong, my bear protesting at leaving our most valuable possession unguarded, but I needed to eliminate the threat.
"Nicolai," he called just as I reached the threshold. I turned back to find him standing straight, his jaw set with determination despite the fear in his eyes. "Be careful."
I nodded once, then stepped out. The wall slid shut behind me with a soft mechanical click, sealing Mishka inside the reinforced chamber. The bookcase moved back into position, concealing any evidence of the hidden room.
For a moment, I stood there, centering myself, feeling the bear's rage coursing through my veins. I did not shift—that would come later, if needed—but I allowed the strength of my other form to fill me, sharpening my senses and heightening my already considerable strength.
Downstairs, I could hear the commotion as the fake officers pushed their way into my restaurant. Glass breaking. Customers crying out in alarm. Yuri's controlled voice trying to maintain order.
My hands clenched into fists as I drew my clothes on. These men had invaded my territory, threatened what was mine.
They would not leave alive.
I straightened my suit jacket, adjusted my cuffs, and headed for the door. It was time to remind O'Rourke why even other criminals feared the name Aleksandrovich.
I descended the staircase with measured steps, each footfall deliberately heavy enough to announce my arrival. The elegant chandelier in my restaurant's main dining room cast a warm glow over the chaos below.
My customers—wealthy patrons who came for fine dining and discretion—were being herded toward the exits by men in police uniforms. The sight of these intruders in my domain made my bear snarl beneath my skin, but I kept my face impassive.
A century of life had taught me that displaying emotion too early gave away advantage.
The moment I reached the bottom step, I spotted him—Marcus "Sparky" Denton—standing in the center of my restaurant like he owned it.
The police uniform he wore was authentic enough to fool civilians, but I'd been watching this particular dog of O'Rourke's for months.
I knew the way he carried himself, the nervous habit he had of touching his scar when he felt threatened.
"What is the meaning of this?" I demanded, my voice deceptively calm as I strode forward, positioning myself between the staircase and Denton's men. No one was getting upstairs to Mishka, not while I drew a breath.
Denton turned toward me, a smirk playing on his lips as he took in my appearance.
"Mr. Aleksandrovich, we have a warrant to search these premises for a missing person.
" He patted the breast pocket of his fake uniform.
"Nineteen-year-old male, approximately five-foot-eight, blond hair. Been missing for three weeks."
My restaurant, with its black marble bar and cream-colored walls, had been designed to exude elegance and exclusivity. The gold accents that normally gleamed warmly under soft lighting now seemed to pulse with the tension filling the room.
Crystal glasses behind the bar caught the light, creating prisms across the polished floor where my customers' meals now lay abandoned on tables draped in fine linens.
"O'Rourke's getting desperate, sending his dogs in costume," I growled, allowing just enough of my contempt to show. I didn't bother maintaining the pretense—I wanted Denton to know that I saw through their charade.
Surprise flickered across his face before he smoothed it away.
"Don't know what you're talking about, Aleksandrovich.
I'm Sergeant Miller with Metro PD." He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded document, flashing it with smug confidence.
"The warrant's legitimate, Aleksandrovich.
Step aside or face obstruction charges."
I didn't bother looking at the paper. If O'Rourke had gone through the trouble of obtaining a real warrant, it meant he was more desperate than I'd realized. It also meant he had more resources in city government than we'd previously tracked.
My gaze swept around the room, cataloging threats. Four more men in police uniforms had fanned out across my restaurant, hands hovering near their weapons. Not standard issue, I noted. The bulge under their jackets was too large for regulation firearms. They'd brought something special for me.
From the corner of my eye, I caught Yuri's subtle movement near the bar.
To anyone else, it would look like he was simply adjusting his tie, but I recognized the series of small hand gestures he was making—signals to our security team who were strategically positioned throughout the restaurant and watching from cameras.