19. Nikolai
19
NIKOLAI
“ Y ou better pray he kills me. If not, I’m gonna hunt you down and gut you like a dog. Do you hear me?” I yell while fighting the six-foot-three guard dragging me out of the courtroom. “The lies you told the jury last month will be nothing compared to the shitstorm I’m gonna rain on you.”
When my father’s defense attorney maintains his quiet front, I spit at his worthless feet, wishing we could be left alone for just a minute.
I don’t need a week, a day, or even an hour. Just one measly motherfucking minute to show him I’m the monster he portrayed me to be.
I sat by and watched him spill lie after lie to the jury because, at the end of the day, whether I was the psychotic adolescent he was portraying me to be or a boy who had endured an incalculable amount of abuse his entire life, I was destined for freedom. It was so close I could taste it on the tip of my tongue and smell it in the air. I didn’t think anything could wipe the victory from my eyes.
I was wrong. So very fucking wrong.
The jury believe every twisted lie spilled from my father’s defensive team’s lips, and stupidly believed he was an honorable man. The man who had abused me for years was seen as a saint when he took the witness stand to beg for the judge to be lenient on me.
“Niki is sick. He needs help. I will get him the help he needs,” he said earlier today, urging a deep sigh from numerous female jurors batting their lashes at him. “This doesn’t need to go any further than it already has. Nikolai is my son. I don’t want to see him hurting any more than he already is. Please, Judge, I implore you to return my son. Let me take him home where he belongs.”
The judge soaked up every word he spoke as if it were gospel, not hearing the sneer in his undertone that warned me I’d be punished for disobedience the instant I returned home.
I heard his underlying message, and the three men flanking him perceived the hidden innuendo in his confession, but those most important didn’t hear a thing.
All they saw was a father panicked his second eldest son was set to face prosecution for attempted murder. They saw the shiny fa?ade Vladimir wears in front of others—the one that hides his satanic face—instead of the man he is behind the shield.
The monster.
The taunter.
The person I despise so much, if given a second chance, I wouldn’t hesitate to slit his throat.
Unaware he was sentencing me to a fate much worse than death, the judge accepted my father’s plea for leniency. He spoke as if he were doing me a favor by ordering me back to the hell that had been my life for the past sixteen years, completely oblivious that I’d have chosen a life sentence in maximum security prison over returning to my family compound any day.
And that is how we reached the point of me being dragged from one court to another—the one in which I’m about to face the deadliest trial any man could undergo.
My father is waiting in the car for me, his patience stretched thin at the court’s request to secure a tracking monitor to my ankle before returning me home.
He isn’t the only one impatient because of the delay. The sooner my probation begins, the faster my quest for revenge will start.
“And it’s gonna start with you,” I murmur as my icy-blue eyes lock on to Carmichael Fletcher, the recently knighted partner at Schluter & Fletcher defensive law.
Under different circumstances, I’d be impressed that a first-year law student was offered a partnership at any firm, even one on the verge of collapse. But since I know Carmichael’s promotion wasn’t rewarded for years of gallant service, I keep my accolades to myself.
I wonder how much my soul was worth to the devil? Did my father negotiate a lower rate to have me returned to him by using the statistics of any man in our industry living past their twenties to his advantage? Or was he as blindsided by Carmichael as well as I was?
I should have smelled Carmichael coming from a mile away. Usually I can sniff out a ratty, underhanded man for more than a mile, but Carmichael’s scent was suffocated by honest eyes and gifted words. He was a good actor, nearly as skilled as the sheriff strapping on my ankle monitor.
He tries to act ignorant, but I saw the quickest flare of emotion blaze past his eyes when he spotted the numerous cigarette burns and scars running down my left leg.
If he’s green at the gills because of the faint marks on my skin, he needs to harden the fuck up. They aren’t one-tenth as bad as the ones I keep hidden with clothes.
After giving me a rundown on how the ankle monitor works, the sheriff ushers me toward the back entrance of the courthouse, thankfully saving me from walking through the sea of media waiting out front.
The media contingency is always strong when a high-profile member of my family is in public, but their attention grew tenfold when they caught wind that closed court sessions being held every day the past three weeks were in direct association with members of the Popov entity.
My family aren’t celebrities by any means, but the media treats us as if we are. I only turned sixteen three months ago, but that hasn’t stopped me from attending nightclub opening after nightclub opening the past two years. I’ve snorted coke with celebrities and fucked a handful of foreign princesses in the last six months alone, but I doubt one of them remembers my name.
When you have money, people don’t care how it is achieved. They treat you like a god whether you slave over a computer for eighteen hours a day or financially ruined a rival gang.
Money is money—filthy or not.
When we reach a sizable vault-like door, the guard jerks his chin up, requesting me to spin around. Although adrenaline is still coursing through my veins, I’m hyped up for an entirely different reason than earlier. My father’s SUV is idling at the curb, waiting for me.
Now the real fight begins.
“Good luck,” mumbles the sheriff as he opens the door, freeing me from incarceration but sentencing me to death.
Incapable of a suitable reply, my lips etch into an uneasy smirk. A lack of confidence has never been a weak spot for me, but for the first time in my life, hesitation thickens my blood when I gallop down a set of stairs to the waiting SUV.
How fucked up is the world we live in when it’s acceptable to order a sixteen-year-old boy to return to the man who has abused him for years?
I gave the DA enough evidence to convict Vladimir of over thirty charges of abuse, torture, and deprivation of liberty, but instead of the DA prosecuting him, I was the one facing conviction.
I did try to kill my father—I’ve never lied about that—but it wasn’t because I am a beneficiary to his estate like the jury was told. I wanted to kill him for what he did to my brother. The punishments I have suffered under Vladimir’s watch were nothing compared to what Rico went through three months ago.
The smell of his skin burning when Vladimir ordered for acid to be thrown over him… Fuck . My stomach rolls at the thought. It was terrible, one of the most disgusting scents I’ve ever had the displeasure of smelling.
I recorded my first kill when I was eight. I’ve traded in weaponry, drugs, and women since I was eleven, but not one thing I’ve witnessed the past sixteen years scarred me like watching the skin on Rico’s back melt like butter on toast.
He didn’t scream or even fight. He just accepted his fate like a man much older than the teenage boy he was. The courage he showed that day was so remarkable that he’ll be my model when I face my darkest day.
After dipping my chin in greeting to Roman, who’s holding open the back passenger door of my father’s SUV, I slide inside. Roman looks tired and withdrawn, his glistening eyes clouded with worry. He would have stopped me if he had known what I had been planning to do.
That’s why I kept him in the dark. Even though he is like a father to me, in our industry, that means nothing. It doesn’t matter if you have forty years of experience like Roman or sixteen years like me, we were born to serve one man, and we will continue serving him until we are laid to rest.
Favoritism, friendship, or even something as weak as love should never enter the equation.
We are not men. We’re soldiers.
“Niki,” my father greets me, the word trickling out of his mouth alongside a thick stream of smoke.
He takes a second substantial draw on his cigar while tossing a pack of cigarettes into my chest. He waits for me to gather the packet before signaling for the driver to go.
His gesture could be seen as friendly to an outsider, but to anyone in our industry, being offered anything without a stipulation attached is a death sentence.
Vladimir is not a generous man. If you accept anything from him, even something as cheap as a pack of cigarettes, you better be willing to accept the terms associated with it.
Vladimir watches me intently, his arrogance craving a frightened swallow or a silent plea for forgiveness. I give him neither, refusing to bow at his feet for a second longer than I have my entire life.
My stubbornness nearly kills me.
“No!” I shout, the combination of my angry roar and warning glare stopping Roman’s steps mid-stride. “Don’t interfere. It’s not your place to interfere. This is family business. It has nothing to do with you.”
He stares at me with pleading eyes, the moisture in them doubling when my back is whipped for the umpteenth time in a row.
I arch my body, resisting the urge to succumb to the pain shredding me to pieces.
Although my battered and bruised body displays signs of distress, not a sigh spills from my lips when I’m whipped again and again and again.
I refuse to add more glory to my father’s retribution.
He’s watched the entire proceeding with an eagle eye, the glimmer in his sable gaze brightening with every whip, punch, or cut inflicted on my exhausted body.
I don’t know how long I’ve been hanging in this sooty, bloodstained room. The sky has shifted from a murky blue to the color of Vladimir’s lifeless eyes, so at least four to five hours have passed since we arrived at this warehouse on the outskirts of Vegas.
I’ve been beaten to the point of blacking out before being awoken by the slice of my knife. The blood coating the chains wrapped around my wrists has dried, but the pools under my feet are sticky to the touch.
I’ve nearly broken twice, but with my desire to die greater than my wish to live, I’ve yet to surrender to the pleas of my body.
Besides, only a coward breaks under pressure. I am not a coward. I’m just a boy who dreamed of freedom.
Gritting my teeth, I struggle to fill my lungs with air when men triple my size and double my age come at me from all directions. I stop scanning their faces for future recognition when the blood streaming from my skull adds to the weight of my eyelids. I am on the brink of death, both exhausted and relieved.
I silently beg for the blackness to take over, to be freed from the hell I’ve been living for the past sixteen years.
My soundless pleas are answered with more fists, cuts, and taunts.
I don’t want them to break my spirit.
I want them to break my soul.
I can’t hold up my head by the time my punishment is over. I slump to the ground with a thud. The chains holding me hostage for the last seven hours crank through the hoist mechanism mounted to the ceiling before raining down on me, coating my already purple skin with fresh welts.
A short time later, through the pulse raging in my ears, I hear the scuffling of feet. At first, I pray they’re returning to put me out of my misery.
Unfortunately, I’ve never been lucky.
“You should have let me stop them,” Roman chastises, his voice croaky with emotion.
“Then we’d both be dead,” I manage to force out, my words barely audible.
Air whizzes between my teeth when Roman curls his arms around my torso to lift me from the ground. “Jesus Christ, Nikolai. How are you still breathing?”
“Maybe I am lucky?” I reply with a blood-streaked grin, my stomach heaving when I attempt to laugh at the madness consuming me.
He mumbles something under his breath, but I can’t hear a word he’s speaking. My ears are still ringing from the back-to-back hits that battered my brain against my skull.
While I gasp through a collapsed lung, Roman moves me toward a dirty old mattress stashed in the corner of the room. My right ankle is so contorted it drags along the ground, staining the already filthy floor with more of my blood.
After carefully aiding me onto the mattress, he flutters around me, gathering supplies and hot water to dress my wounds. I lie as still as a corpse with my eyes facing the ceiling and my mind shut down. I didn’t cry, whimper, or sob during my punishment. I acted like a man, although I am only a boy, but I’m still full of shame.
I did the one thing I swore I’d never do.
The one thing that will haunt me until the day I die.
I broke.
Mentally, not physically.
When your brain is beaten to the point of swelling, you can be excused for a moment of madness, but I know that isn’t the case with me. I’m not plotting revenge or configuring a way out of my predicament. I’m strategizing ways to guarantee something like this never happens to me again by ensuring I’m the one dishing out the punishments instead of receiving them.
It is a sick and twisted twenty minutes, even more stomach-churning than the past seven hours.
You’d think I’d welcome a change in perspective. I don’t. Because…
There is only one difference between
a madman and me.
The madman thinks he is sane.
I know I am mad.
—Salvador Dali