Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Nikolai
The meeting room in the ancestral mansion was thick with smoke, the air so heavy it felt like blood might drip from the ceiling.
The long table was packed with Bratva's core members—those old bastards who'd clawed their way up with my father. Every single one of them wore a dark expression, their eyes full of doubt and discontent.
"Pakhan."
Gregory, sitting to my right—a thick-necked bruiser with a double-headed eagle tattooed on his bald skull—crushed his cigar into the crystal ashtray with a harsh, grating hiss.
"The Marchetti family's been causing trouble on our turf three times this month.
Last week they blew up two of our warehouses at the docks, and this week they went after your woman in broad daylight.
" His voice rasped like a rusted saw. "Every crew in Washington's laughing at us.
They're saying the Volkov family's gone soft, that we can't even protect our own women! "
"Gregory's right."
Another old-timer jumped in—Ivan, who ran our weapons smuggling. He pushed up his gold-rimmed glasses, his tone dripping with mockery.
"Pakhan, forgive my bluntness, but since Ms. Cole entered your life, you've become... hesitant in your decision-making. The old you would never have tolerated this kind of provocation from Marchetti."
"And your point is?" I leaned back in my chair, lifting my eyes from the shadows.
"My point is—" Ivan drummed his fingers rudely on the table, "perhaps it was the young lady's... aggressive attitude toward Carmine at the charity gala that triggered this series of retaliations. A woman's tantrum shouldn't become the whole family's burden."
I slammed my rocks glass onto the black marble table. The thick glass bottom shattered instantly, amber whiskey mixed with sharp glass shards spraying out and slicing Ivan's cheek.
The room fell dead silent. Only the faint sound of blood drops hitting the table.
"Ivan," my voice turned to ice, "what did you just call my woman?"
Ivan's face went white for a moment, but he quickly forced that fake smile back.
"Pakhan, I'm simply being objective—"
"Objective?" I stood, planting both hands on the table, looming over them with suffocating pressure.
"Then let me be objective with you—Vivienne Cole is the woman I've chosen.
She represents the Volkov family's face.
Carmine went after her not because she offended him, but because he wanted to test my limits. "
I straightened, coldly adjusting my cuffs, not bothering to look at these worthless fools again.
"Sasha."
"Yes, Pakhan."
"Mobilize the Cleaner squad. Heavy weapons.
Before midnight tonight, I want Marchetti's three smuggling warehouses at the docks burned to the ground.
Hang those Italian bastards' heads on their shipping containers.
" I scanned the circle of stunned elders.
"Use their blood to shut your mouths. Now, does anyone else have objections to my decision? "
Dead silence.
By the time I got back to the estate, it was completely dark.
I leaned back in the car seat, exhausted, eyes closed, temples throbbing.
These past three days, I'd barely slept.
Days were spent dealing with Marchetti, placating restless old fools, reorganizing Washington's entire power structure. Nights at the estate, I forced myself not to knock on her door, not to watch the monitors showing her curled up in bed.
After that fight, it was like a transparent wall stood between us.
I knew she was in that room. Knew she barely ate. Knew she'd locked herself in that small space like a wounded cat licking her wounds.
But I couldn't back down.
If I compromised on the surveillance, I'd be admitting my methods were wrong. And once I admitted that, I couldn't protect her anymore.
The car stopped at the estate entrance. Sasha opened the door.
"Sir, shall I have dinner prepared?"
"No." I rubbed my temples. "Has she... eaten anything today?"
Sasha paused before answering. "Some. But... very little, Pakhan. Natasha says Ms. Cole has no appetite. The lunch and dinner we sent in were barely touched. And she threw up this morning."
My head snapped up. "Threw up? Is she sick?"
"Natasha believes it's gastrointestinal distress from emotional stress." Sasha's tone remained even. "But if you're concerned, I can arrange for a private doctor—"
"No." I cut him off, my voice sharp. "I got it."
I strode into the estate and went straight to the kitchen.
Sophia was directing staff to clean up after dinner. She clearly startled when I walked in.
"Sir? Do you need something?"
"Everyone out."
Sophia and the servants exchanged glances but obediently filed out of the kitchen.
Rolling up my shirtsleeves, I opened the refrigerator and pulled out fresh ingredients.
She'd once said that when she was stressed or blocked on her writing, her favorite comfort food was a piping hot cream mushroom pasta loaded with cheese and black truffle.
Shaving truffle, chopping basil, boiling pasta, making sauce...
I hadn't done this in years. The last time I'd cooked, it was in Moscow, for my mother.
And now, strangely, the process brought me an odd sense of peace I hadn't felt in a long time.
Twenty minutes later, I stood outside her door holding a plate of steaming pasta fragrant with rich truffle, took a deep breath, and knocked.
"Vivienne. It's me."
A few seconds of silence, then her voice came through, cold as ice.
"What?"
"I made you dinner."
"Don't need it."
"Vivienne—"
"I said I don't need it."
My fingers tightened on the doorknob, nearly warping the cold metal.
"Open the door." My voice dropped. "We need to talk."
"Nothing to talk about."
"Vivienne Cole." My tone hardened. "If you don't open this damn door, I'll take it off the hinges."
Silence, then the sound of slippers on the floor.
The door cracked open.
Vivienne stood there in an oversized knit sweater and pajama pants, chestnut curls loosely tied back, face frighteningly pale, dark circles heavy under her eyes.
She'd lost weight.
Noticeably thinner.
"Well? What is it?" She leaned against the doorframe, exhausted and cold.
I held out the tray. "Eat something. Sasha said you barely ate today."
She glanced at the pasta, something complex flickering in her eyes before the coldness returned.
"So Sasha's monitoring what I eat too? Nikolai, you're everywhere."
"I'm just worried about you." I frowned.
"Worried?" She laughed bitterly, cutting me off. "Your worry means having your men report my every move? Nikolai, you know what you're like? You're a sick control freak using your mob logic to turn me into a caged canary!"
"I just don't want anything to happen to you."
"Did you ever think your methods are driving me insane?
" Her voice started shaking, eyes reddening.
"I'm done, Nikolai. Done being monitored, done being controlled, done with your bullshit 'it's for your own good' logic!
You know what these three days have been like?
Every word I say, every step I take, I'm wondering if you're watching!
I can't even relax in my own room because I don't know if you're behind some camera! "
"Vivienne, you're being stubborn." My voice sank as I tried to suppress the agitation rising inside me.
"So what?" She interrupted, tears finally spilling. "You bugged my phone, you have Sasha report everything, you even know I threw up today! Nikolai, don't you understand how terrifying that is? Nikolai, you disgust me."
That sentence was like a poisoned blade, driving straight into my most vulnerable nerve.
"I told you, it's to fucking protect you!" I raised my voice, chest heaving violently. "Those rabid dogs are hunting you out there! If I don't know where you are, you'd already be a corpse!"
"Then let me die!" She shot up, like a small animal backed into a corner, screaming hysterically.
"I'd rather die in the street than be your prisoner in this goddamn gilded cage!
Being monitored, being controlled, needing your approval for who I see and what I say!
Nikolai, this isn't protection—you're sick and you're controlling me!
Take your food and stop using this condescending charity to manipulate me! "
She violently swept her arm across the table, knocking the tray to the floor.
The fine porcelain plate shattered against the thick Persian rug with a dull crack. The pasta I'd made—still steaming—splattered everywhere.
The air froze solid.
I stared at the mess on the floor, fists clenched so tight at my sides my nails nearly broke skin.
I watched her thin shoulders shake violently with anger and fear. I had a thousand ways to force her submission, but all I felt was a deep, damning sense of powerlessness spreading from my bones.
I didn't understand. I really didn't. I'd given her the safest fortress in Washington. I'd cooked for her myself. I'd turned on the old guard for her, gone to war with Marchetti for her.
I'd tied my life to hers.
But all she felt was suffocated.
"Fine."
I slowly lifted my head, every emotion in my eyes crushed down in an instant, becoming the cold, ruthless Pakhan again.
"If you want to starve yourself, be my guest. But as long as I'm breathing, you're not leaving this estate."
I threw out those words coldly, turned, stepped over the broken porcelain, and strode out without looking back.
The door slammed shut. Two worlds separated.
I walked down the stairs with heavy steps, fury and exhaustion in my chest like two snakes tearing at each other.
Sophia stood in the shadows at the first-floor landing. The old housekeeper who'd served the Volkov family for thirty years—who'd practically raised me—had clearly heard the carnage upstairs.
"Have the staff clean up the carpet." I loosened my tie, irritably pinching the bridge of my nose. "Don't let her step on broken glass. If she still won't eat, have the kitchen prepare some broth and keep it warm."
"Already arranged, sir." Sophia's voice was calm and gentle, carrying the wisdom of years. She didn't leave immediately. Instead, she stepped forward, blocking my path to the study.
"Right now, you look exactly like your father did when he drove your mother away."
That sentence hit my absolute trigger point with surgical precision. I stopped dead, eyes instantly freezing over. "Sophia, watch yourself."
Sophia didn't back down. She clasped her hands over her apron, her lined eyes filled with penetrating compassion. "I watched you grow up, Nikolai. I know you care about that girl. You're willing to go to war with Marchetti early just to protect her. But you're using the wrong methods."
"I'm not wrong." I bit out the words, my voice rough as sandpaper. "I gave her absolute safety! I assigned my best men, I put a tracker on her to make sure no one could hurt a hair on her head! And what does she do? She treats it like I'm some pervert stalker, throws food on the floor to protest!"
"Because she's not from our world, sir." Sophia sighed softly. "You're a Pakhan. You're used to building impenetrable fortresses to keep out enemies. But to an ordinary girl who craves freedom in her bones, a fortress locked from the outside is no different from a suffocating tomb."
I froze, my jaw clenched tight.
"Ms. Cole is a writer. You clipped her wings and shoved her into a bulletproof glass tank, then wonder why she won't sing for you anymore?
" Sophia shook her head, her tone cutting straight through.
"Sir, you think you're protecting her from enemies, but actually...
right now, the person backing her into a corner and terrifying her most—is you. "
"Terrified..." I repeated the word, my mind suddenly flashing to moments ago in that room—Vivienne's thin shoulders trembling like a dying animal, those eyes full of despair and resistance.
"Also, I don't know if you've noticed," Sophia's tone became hesitant, brow furrowing slightly, "but Ms. Cole's condition these past few days has been extremely wrong.
It's not just anger and hunger strikes...
she's pale as paper, her eyes are defensive.
She looks... like she's carrying some terrible secret alone, something frightening her badly, and she's about to break under the weight of it. "
My heart dropped, a thorny sense of dread coiling around my throat.
"Secret?" My brow furrowed deeply. "What secret could she have in this estate?"
"That's an answer you need to find yourself, not through a wiretap." Sophia lowered her head, her tone grave. "If you keep crushing her with this iron fist, you'll lose her forever. Not to Marchetti, but destroyed by your own hand."
With that, Sophia bowed slightly and walked toward the far hallway.
I stood alone in the vast hall, the brilliant crystal chandelier overhead suddenly blinding. I clenched my fists, knuckles cracking from the pressure.
That rock-solid conviction I'd held was now fractured—dangerously—by Sophia's words.