18. BRAXTON
Chapter eighteen
T he SUV rolled to a stop in front of the pre-revolutionary building in the heart of Pechersk that Nik called home. The place was a relic of Kyiv’s imperial past, its facade a testament to old-world elegance. Ornate balconies and intricate stonework adorned the yellow and white exterior. It wasn’t the kind of place you would think someone like Nik Volkov lived, and to the untrained eye it looked like any other historic luxury residence.
But if you knew where to look, subtle details told a different story—cameras along the perimeter, facial and retinal scanners beside the doors, men dressed in black observing from a distance.
The eyes behind security cameras followed our every move. Even before we reached the front door, Nik was recognized, and the outer doorway unlocked with a soft mechanical click.
One of his men followed us to the steps leading up to the vestibule. He kept a hand near his weapon, scanning the street continuously for any threats. Nik didn’t even glance back at the SUV. He moved with the quiet confidence of a man who was certain no one would dare come for him here.
Once Nik stepped up to the door, he turned to the man and said, “Go home. I’ll let you know what the plan is soon enough.”
The man didn’t hesitate; Nik’s orders were law.
Nik stepped up to a security panel next to the inner front door, which scanned his retina before opening. No deadbolts. No chains. Just pure tech. The moment we were inside, the door sealed with a quiet hiss behind us.
Now we were alone, and the utter quiet was a staggering contrast to everything I’d been going through over the last few days.
Nik had spent years transforming the entire home into a hypersecure command center. The atmosphere in here belied the home’s historic exterior. Minimalist. Modern. Impeccably efficient.
Sleek black leather furniture dominated the open-concept space, accented by matte steel fixtures and decorative elements.
One side of the home functioned as a full-fledged surveillance hub. One wall was lined with security monitors—screens flickering with real-time feeds from private networks, hacked security cameras, and encrypted communications. High-end workstations with multiple ultra-wide monitors and custom-built keyboards sat beneath shelves stocked with server towers. This wasn’t just a home—it was a digital fortress.
The kitchen was a modern masterpiece of stainless steel, polished marble, and industrial lighting. It was fully stocked, pristine, like something out of a Michelin-starred restaurant. I knew from experience that Nik could cook, and when he did, it was the only time he seemed remotely human.
Beyond the main living space was a staircase that led up to a floor with several bedrooms, each of which had their own en suite. Not that the man ever had any guests. My guess was that I’d been his first.
Above that floor was a rooftop terrace, which housed an emergency escape route and bulletproof glass walls that overlooked the city skyline.
Nik lived like a man who expected an ambush at any moment—because in his world, one was always possible.
I leaned against the kitchen counter, crossing my arms. “So, what now? The clock is ticking on Daria’s life.”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he moved through the kitchen and pulled open the fridge. “You need a drink.”
I exhaled through my nose. “I don’t need a drink. What I need is to get moving. You and I both know they’re putting her through hell.”
Nik opened one of the kitchen drawers and rummaged for a second before pulling out a worn key ring. A few keys dangled from it.
“Give me your hand,” he said, already stepping closer.
I lifted my arm, the broken cuff still locked tight around my wrist. Nik didn’t hesitate. He slid one of the thinner keys into the cuff’s lock and twisted.
There was a soft click. The cuff loosened and dropped into his palm.
He tossed it onto the counter. “There. You’re officially free.”
He grunted and then retrieved a bottle of vodka and two crystal glasses. Of course it was vodka.
“This isn’t a conversation I want to have sober,” he said, setting the bottle on the counter between us.
I picked up the cuff and turned it over in my hands, wondering if Nik would actually help rescue Daria.
“Something wrong?” he asked, twisting the cap off.
I met his gaze evenly. “Yeah. I don’t trust you.”
He chuckled, pouring the drinks. “Good. That’s how you stay alive in this world.”
“See, that’s a problem for me,” I said coolly. “Because if we’re going to work together, I can’t be constantly wondering what kind of dangerous mafia shit you’re involved in and whether getting Daria back will be your priority.”
He slid a glass toward me. “Trust is a liability, but there’s one thing you should know—I’m a man of my word. A person’s worth is only measured by their ability to stand by their promises no matter the cost. Their willingness to bleed for what they believe in. I told you I would get Daria out, and I will.”
I ignored the glass. “You want me to play the role of one of your mafia thugs? Fine. But I’m not a pawn. If we’re doing this, we do it as equals.” I held his gaze. “And that means I need to know exactly what I’m walking into.”
He blew out a slow breath, rubbing a hand over his jaw. For the first time since I’d met him, he looked tired. Not physically worn—he was still the same cocky bastard—but mentally, like he’d spent years calculating every move, every possible outcome of every situation, and it was finally starting to take its toll on him.
Then, without a word, he turned away, moving to the stove.
I sat on a barstool next to the island as he retrieved a pan, set it on the burner, and pulled out a cutting board in the same quiet, precise way he did everything else.
“You’re cooking?” I asked.
He shrugged. “It helps me think.”
I narrowed my eyes as he got out some ingredients—a couple of prime cuts of beef, rosemary, cloves of garlic, butter.
Expensive. Everything about him was always expensive.
Nik finally glanced at me, one brow raised. “You gonna drink, or are you just gonna glare at me all night?”
I grabbed the glass, knocking back the vodka in one swallow. It burned like hell, but maybe he was right. I needed to take the edge off so I could think straight.
“Fine,” he said, tossing a pat of butter into the pan. “You want honesty?”
I leaned forward. “I want to know who the hell I’m really working with. I want to be your partner, not just an errand boy.”
He gave me a slow, knowing smirk. “You ever heard of Anonymous ?”
My fingers curled tighter around my glass.
“Yeah. I’ve heard of them.”
He flicked his wrist, adding a sprig of rosemary to the pan. “Well, let me make this clear: they’re the most elusive, untraceable hacker collective in the world. Governments fear them. Billionaires reward them. Criminals underestimate them. They don’t play by any rules, don’t follow any cause except their own. They tear through firewalls like wet paper, expose corruption, and sometimes—when they feel like it—bring entire economies to their knees.”
I listened carefully, absorbing his words.
Nik glanced at me and said matter-of-factly, “I’m not just in the mafia, Brax. I run some of the most powerful cybersecurity companies on the planet. Some legal. Some not.”
To that, I had no reply. For a few minutes, I remained quiet.
Nik prepared a simple house salad and began cutting up some broccoli and carrots to go on the side. After everything that had gone down with his sister, Anastasia, in New York a couple of months ago, I’d gotten a vague notion about what he did, but I was sure it was only the tip of the iceberg.
Now, after I’d said I wanted to be his partner, he was making sure I understood just what I was getting into. Nik wasn’t just a mafia heir. He wasn’t just some rich Russian with good connections. He was one of the most dangerous men in the world.
A man with no allegiances, no loyalty to any government.
I exhaled sharply, setting my glass down. “So, you’re basically a cyber mercenary with just enough of a moral compass to sleep at night.”
He chuckled and turned to face me. “Something like that.”
I didn’t flinch or question what I was hearing; instead, I held his gaze, unblinking, waiting for him to continue.
I’d seen the worst humanity had to offer on the streets in and around Tacoma and Seattle, and I understood violence and what power did to men who had no morals.
But this?
This I could work with.
I didn’t give a shit about egos. I didn’t care about the lines Nik had to cross to survive.
I cared about one thing.
Saving Daria.
When the steaks were done, Nik got a couple of plates out from the cabinet and slid the steaks onto them, adding the salad and fresh vegetables before pushing one across the island counter toward me. “Eat.”
I eyed him for a second. “We good?”
His smirk returned, lazy and unreadable. “For now.”
Good enough. I took the plate and settled into a seat at the table, cutting into the meat. I was starving. Nik sat across from me, forking a tomato with one hand, his other already wrapped around a tumbler of vodka over ice.
For a while, we just ate, lost in our own thoughts. But the silence couldn’t last.
As we neared the end of our meal, Nik finished off his drink and pushed back his plate. “All right,” he muttered, grabbing the laptop that had been sitting idle on the table. He flipped it open, his fingers moving quickly across the keys.
“Let’s start with the obvious,” he said, his voice all business now. “They drove her back into Russian territory. When I planned the exchange, I worked directly with her father and a man named Taranov, the warden of the prison. Let’s hash out ideas based on what you experienced and anything she might have mentioned. Where do you think they took her? And if you had to guess, what will their next move be?”
“She pissed the hell out of not only Taranov but every guard she came across at the prison. Not to mention she shot the guy at the gate—twice,” I said, swallowing my last bite of steak.
He kept his eyes on the screen. “Hmm, definitely some retribution would be in order. They’d want blood for what she did. Taking her back to the prison makes the most sense—it’s the easiest place to hold her until they decide how to make an example of her.”
My stomach twisted at the thought. I knew exactly how that place worked. And Daria…she’d be considered a traitor—a worthless bitch with a smart mouth.
Nik must have read the unease in my expression, because he said, “Yeah. I know. If she’s back there, it’s bad.” His fingers sounded like gunfire against the keys.
I ran a hand through my filthy-ass hair, trying to shove down the frustration clawing at my ribs. “Okay. Say they did take her back there. What are our options?”
He stopped typing and scrubbed his hand over the stubble of his beard. “I could bribe someone for her release?”
I shook my head. “Not a chance. We’re dealing with her father, the Kremlin, and the Bratva. Everyone involved is either too powerful or too scared to take a bribe.”
He scoffed. “Yeah, they’re not exactly the types to accept a politely worded email and a wire transfer. Maybe if I throw in a let’s play nice fruit basket, they’ll reconsider?”
I wasn’t in the mood to laugh, but my mouth twitched despite myself.
“Blackmail then?” he continued. “Daria’s father? Prison officers? Someone in the FSB?”
I considered it, but the idea didn’t sit right. “You’d have to find something big enough to make them blink. And the people we’re dealing with don’t blink, no matter how much nasty shit they have haunting them.”
He nodded absently, running his finger along the edge of the laptop. “Yeah. It’d be a long shot to find something motivational enough for the bastards running this show.”
I exhaled slowly, forcing my brain into pure strategy mode. “What about a transport hit? If they’re moving her, we could intercept.”
He glanced up. “That’s assuming we know the route, timing, and security details—and assuming they don’t put a bullet in her head the second shit goes sideways.”
I clenched my jaw. “Still an option.”
“Difficult,” he countered, “but possible.”
We sat in silence for a moment. I turned over a bunch of ideas in my head. None of them were good. None of them were safe.
“Infiltration,” he finally offered. “If we can get a fix on her location, I could get people inside.”
I nodded. “That might work, depending on the security and how much time we have.”
He frowned. “We’re already out of fucking time. Every second we waste, they’re deciding how to dispose of her.”
I rolled my shoulders back, fighting to keep my rising panic in check. “What about a full-scale war? Volkovi Notchi versus the Tambovskaya Bratva. Burn half of Russia down.”
Nik actually considered it for half a second before shaking his head. “Suicidal.” Then, with a small smirk, he added, “But it would be fun.”
I stared at the back of the laptop. We were throwing ideas at the wall, but nothing stuck. Nothing felt like a real plan.
Nik kept typing, the glow of the laptop casting shadows over his face. Then he froze mid-keystroke, his body going rigid as his eyes scanned the screen.
“What?” I demanded.
He tapped a key, then turned the laptop toward me. “FSB intel chatter about Lieutenant Colonel Melnichenko. Encrypted communications I just intercepted from a military server.”
I scanned the translated text. One phrase stood out.
Clean up the loose ends.
The words sent a cold pulse through my veins. “They want her dead.”
Nik nodded grimly. “If she doesn’t prove useful under interrogation, she’s expendable.”
A cold silence filled the room. We were running out of time.
I rubbed the back of my neck, forcing myself to stay in control. I’d seen men react to stress in two ways. Some broke. Others burned.
I sure as hell wasn’t going to break.
I was going to burn the whole fucking world down to get her back.
Nik continued to work like a man possessed.
His fingers flew over the keyboard, tapping into a world most people didn’t even know existed.
I let out a slow breath, forcing myself to stay alert.
We had a job to do.
Standing, I gathered our empty plates and took them to the kitchen. I needed something to keep my hands moving. My muscles ached, and my body was sluggish with exhaustion. By the time I was finished washing up, Nik had already relocated to his war room.
I made coffee and followed him, stepping into the other half of the apartment. The bright screens flickered between surveillance feeds and real-time intelligence chatter pulled from dark-web servers. One screen tracked Russian government communications. Another sifted through satellite imagery. A third ran facial-recognition software, scraping data from security cameras across the country—looking for any trace of Daria.
Nik didn’t acknowledge me as I sat down. His eyes remained locked on his screens, his hands moving over the keys in a blur. His focus was absolute.
For hours, I sat there, watching him pull classified intel like it was nothing and keeping him supplied with fuel, alternating between vodka and coffee.