Chapter 13
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
NIKOLAI
The port worker slumps in a chair, his wrists zip-tied behind him. Sweat beads on his brow, even though we’re in one of the port’s cold storage rooms.
Metal racks filled with crates of goods line the walls, the faint smell of fish and damp concrete lingering in the air.
I circle him slowly, the sound of my boots scraping against the concrete. He shivers, his teeth chattering, though I doubt it’s just from the cold.
“You took something that didn’t belong to you,” I say, my tone deceptively calm. “Tell me why I shouldn’t gut you alive right here?”
The man’s eyes dart around, his panic growing. “I—I had nothing to?—”
I cut him off with a sharp punch to the stomach, my fist driving into his gut with enough force to make the chair rattle against the floor. He groans, his body jerking forward, but the ropes keep him upright.
“Let’s try this again,” I snarl, stepping closer. Vadim places a firm hand on the guy’s shoulder, shoving him back against the chair to steady him. “Who the fuck are you working for? Because I don’t believe for one second that you masterminded the theft on your own.”
Three million dollars of my coke vanished between the port and our warehouses, replaced with fucking baby laxative. It looks the same, weighs the same, and was even packaged the same. But one of my guys noticed a tear in a bag during the inventory check. The powder didn’t dissolve properly, and that’s when alarm bells went off.
After days of asking questions and beating down leads, all signs point to this motherfucker in front of me.
“No one!” he cries, his voice cracking. “It was just me, I swear! I needed the money—my kid’s sick, and the hospital bills?—”
I glance at Vadim, leaning casually against the wall, eating an apple like it’s his lunch break. When I catch his eye, he shakes his head, silently confirming what I already suspected—this mudak doesn’t have kids.
I grip his throat and squeeze, cutting off his air. His eyes bulge, his face turning a deep shade of red as his legs jerk wildly. I hold him there, watching as the panic sets in. When he’s seconds from passing out, I let go, and he slumps back against the chair, gasping for air.
“You’re not walking out of here alive. So you can make it easy on yourself and tell me the fucking truth, or you can make it hard, and I’ll carve it out of you. Either way, you’ll squeal. They always do.”
His eyes dart to Vadim, who’s polishing a machete with a rag. The man whimpers, his pants darkening as he pisses himself. Vadim raises an eyebrow. “You might want to hurry up. I’m feeling generous today, but it won’t last for long.”
“Alright, alright! I’ll tell you what you want to know!” he cries, his voice hoarse.
“Smart choice,” I say, gripping the machete Vadim hands me. The knife’s tip presses under his ribs, enough to make him wince. “Lie to me, and I’ll bury this in your kidneys. Now start talking.”
It’s past midnight when I finally return to the estate. The house is silent, just as I’d expect.
Shrugging off my blazer, I head for my office, the weight of the past three days pressing down on my shoulders.
The port worker talked, just as I knew he would. Turns out, he’d met a couple of guys at a bar not too long ago. A few drinks in, the idiot got chatty—told them where he worked, even bragged about my product coming through the port.
Dumber still, he let them convince him it’d be easy to pull a heist and rip me off. They promised him a cut, but what he didn’t realize was that these clowns belonged to a low-level street gang with delusions of grandeur. They thought they could take me down.
They won’t get the chance. By the end of the night, not one of them will be alive.
I grab a glass from the bar cart and pour a shot of whiskey, tossing it back in one go. The alcohol soothes my frayed nerves, but it doesn’t clear my head.
I’ve barely been home over the last few days. I’d hoped the distance from Sofiya would erase her from my mind, but it hasn’t. She lingers like an ember that refuses to burn out.
It doesn’t help that I watch her on the cameras every chance I get. I didn’t need Emil’s regular updates to know everything she’s been up to: wandering around, playing piano in the music room, reading in the library, and chatting with Yelena, though she mostly stays in her room. It’s taken all my willpower not to watch her in that private space, because if my obsession is already spiraling, seeing her in her most unguarded moments would ruin me entirely.
I pour another shot, the alcohol sliding down smoothly as bad intentions fizz hot and heavy through my veins. I want to see her, feel the warmth of her skin, and hear the soft catch of her breath. But I also want to remind the Syndicate that I’m not a man who tolerates being put on ice.
From my desk drawer, I take out the ring—the one I had designed specifically to match her auburn-streaked hair and the ivory tone of her skin.
A better man would wait until morning, but I’ve never claimed to be a good man.
Her room is dark except for the moonlight spilling through the curtains. Sofiya is a vision when she sleeps, her dark hair spread across the pillow, her plush lips slightly parted, begging for my cock to slide between them.
I drag a chair from the corner and sit, the quiet of the night pressing in around me as I watch her. My eyes follow the slow, steady rise and fall of her chest, her features relaxed, her brow smooth, like she’s finally found some peace in sleep. She looks so damn serene, untouched by the chaos I’ve pulled her into.
I should feel guilt for what I’ve done, and for what I’m about to do, but guilt isn’t in my nature.
Instead, a dark satisfaction and a possessive thrill pulse through me, knowing she’s mine now. Sergey wanted her as his bride, but that bastard is rotting in the ground while she lives in my house, soon to wear my ring. I hope he’s watching from whatever pit of hell he landed in, confronted with everything he lost.
I rise and lean over her, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek before my hand finds her shoulder, and I give it a small shake. “Wake up, Sofiya.”
Her eyes flutter open, hazy with sleep. But the moment she registers me standing so close, she bolts upright, dragging the blanket underneath her chin. “What’s going on?” she gasps. “Why are you in my room?”
“Technically, every room in this house is mine. So, really, you’re in my room.”
I flick on the reading lamp on the bedside table, warm light flooding the space, and give her eyes a moment to adjust.
She blinks rapidly, glancing at the clock beside her before releasing a growl of irritation. “It’s the middle of the night, Nikolai. What do you want?”
The wariness in her voice unsettles me. “Relax. I’m not here to hurt you,” I say, my fingers grazing her cheek. “But you’re the pakhan’s wife, and it’s time everyone knows it.”
Her brows draw together. “You know as well as I do that this marriage is only temporary. Once Roman makes you a deal?—”
I cut her off, tracing the curve of her jaw with my thumb. “Roman needs to be reminded that I’m not a man to play with.”
She swallows hard, her voice dropping to a whisper. “What does this have to do with me?”
“Everything.” The word lands heavy between us. “Now, get up. You’re coming to my office.”
She shakes her head and burrows further under the covers. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Then I’ll carry you.”
“Don’t you fucking da?—”
Her protest dies as I rip the covers off and haul her over my shoulder. She kicks and pounds at my back, but it’s no use. My hand grips her perfect ass firmly to hold her in place.
She’s wearing more of Eva’s clothes—barely-there sleep shorts with a flimsy tank top, and my cock twitches at the sight, threatening to derail my focus. I force down the primal urge to throw her on the bed and claim her, and I keep walking.
“I can’t believe you,” she hisses, fists hammering uselessly against my back. “This is humiliating! Put me down!”
“I warned you,” I remind her calmly, a small smile playing on my lips. Even at a time like this, I enjoy her fire.
Inside my office, I lower her onto the suede couch and lock the door behind me, just in case she gets the brilliant idea to make a run for it.
Sofiya wraps her arms around herself, glaring at me with venom in her eyes. “Stop playing games and tell me what this is about.”
Instead of answering, I unlock my desk drawer and pull out what I need. “You have a choice to make, Sofiya.”
Unease flickers in her eyes as she scans the room. “What choice?”
I sit beside her on the couch, laying the items on the coffee table between us. Her gaze shifts nervously between me and the box. “What is that?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” I snap open the jewelry box, revealing a princess-cut ruby ring set on a platinum band, surrounded by a halo of diamonds that shimmer like fire. “Will you wear my ring, Sofiya Zhukova?”
Her eyes widen at the sound of my surname, twisted into its feminine form. Before I’ve even explained the alternative, she’s already shaking her head.
“You’re sure?” I ask, my voice dropping as I bring my lips inches from hers.
Her eyes narrow with spite. “I’m damn sure I’ll never wear your ring.”
“In that case…” I reach for the cloth, pulling it away to reveal what’s beneath. Her eyes lower to the device in my hand. She blinks, her brow furrowing as confusion flickers across her face.
“What is that?”
I hold it up for her to see. “A tattoo machine.”
Her voice is quieter now, more cautious. “What are you planning to do with that?”
I capture her chin, forcing her gaze to mine. “If you won’t wear my ring, I’ll tattoo one onto your finger. It’s your choice, Sofiya. But one way or another, no one will question who you belong to.”