Chapter 15
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
NIKOLAI
With a final stroke of black ink, the hum of the tattoo machine cuts out, and I set it aside, taking a moment to admire my work. My initials, entwined with the Zhukov Bratva’s crown, now permanently mark Sofiya’s pale skin. A reminder of whom she belongs to.
“Are you done?” she asks, her eyes still squeezed shut, not wanting to watch me tattoo her.
“One more minute.” Her skin is red and tender, the lines slightly raised. I need to apply the antibiotic cream and bandage it, but there’s something else I need to do first.
Beside her hand, I lay a folded newspaper, the date printed clearly at the top. I snap a quick photo with my phone—the proof of life Roman asked for, with a side of fuck you. A reminder that every day he drags his feet, Sofiya is the one to suffer.
Though it seems I’m the one currently in pain. I’ve had a case of blue balls since I made her come all over my hand. But it was worth it—not only to win the bet but because watching her shatter for me was the sweetest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.
“You can open your eyes. We’re done here,” I say, tucking the newspaper out of sight.
Her lashes lift slowly, and she meets my stare for one long second before her attention shifts to her finger. She examines the ink. “What does it symbolize?” she asks, her voice steady. I expect tears or anger, but she surprises me with her composure. Maybe she’s all out of tears.
“The crown stands for strength, loyalty, and the unbreakable bonds of brotherhood,” I explain. My thumb grazes the edge of the tattoo lightly. “And my initials… because you’re mine.”
I expect her defiance, but not the way her hazel eyes meet mine with a calm that throws me off balance. “A tattoo doesn’t make me yours. Neither does a piece of paper.”
Her words slide under my skin, sharp and unwelcome. I didn’t mark her only for Roman’s benefit or to keep the Syndicate in line. I marked her because I wanted to and because the thought of her belonging to anyone else is like a stab to the gut.
“In my world, it does.” She’s my wife, and the tattoo makes it indisputable. Everyone who sees that mark will know I’ve claimed her. She’s untouchable. “And Roman will agree when he sees a picture of your hand.”
“Are you serious?” she growls. “Why? Isn’t stealing me away enough? Do you know what this is doing to my sister? She’s trying to get pregnant after years of trying. Her stress level is probably through the roof.”
A muscle in my jaw ticks, but I focus on gently cleaning the tattoo. “Roman will control the information she’s getting. This is not about your sister. This is about getting the Syndicate to fall in line and agree to a deal. A reminder that pissing me off has consequences.”
She shakes her head, her mouth falling into a straight line. “Tell yourself whatever you need to, Nikolai.”
We’re both quiet as I smooth a thin layer of ointment over the ink and then wrap it in a protective layer of gauze. “You surprise me,” I say finally. “I didn’t think you’d see our deal through.”
“I must have a talent for making bad decisions,” she says tightly. “And what would you do if I didn’t hold up my end of the bargain?”
My lips thin out. I’d probably rather not think about that. Holding her down and forcing ink on her doesn’t appeal to me, but on some level, I knew she wouldn’t back down. Maybe because she’s stubborn as hell, and she’d rather grit her teeth than give me the satisfaction of breaking her word.
After a moment, she huffs out a breath. “Anyhow, it doesn’t matter. I don’t go back on my word. My parents did that enough to me as a child, and every broken promise taught me who I didn’t want to be.”
I tilt her chin upward with a finger, forcing her gaze to meet mine. “Your parents never deserved you.”
Sofiya’s parents sold her to my brother and Anatoly when she was underage. They will never be anything but the lowest of the low in my eyes. Maybe that’s ironic considering everything I’ve done, but I’ve never pretended to be anything other than what I am.
The vulnerability flickering in her eyes sparks something unfamiliar inside me. Before I can stop myself, I lean in, brushing a finger over the corner of her lips. I have the strangest impulse to give her a soft kiss on the lips, but now that the bet is over, I don’t think my touch would be welcome.
Maybe she senses my intention because her hazel-green eyes widen, searching mine like she’s looking for an explanation I don’t have. Her pink tongue darts out, wetting her lips, and she slowly withdraws her hand from mine. “Are we done here?”
I’m far from done with her, but as her lids droop with exhaustion, I exhale and release her. “Keep it wrapped for a few hours, and moisturize twice a day. No getting it wet until it’s healed.”
“Fine,” she whispers, clutching her hand to her chest like it’s a shield.
“Now go to sleep, moya sladost,” I murmur, leaning in close enough to catch her scent. “Because I still have the smell of you on my fingers and the taste of you on my lips. And in those flimsy pajamas… What's the expression? Don’t tempt the tempted.”
Her pulse jumps at the base of her throat. She hesitates, her gaze dipping to my mouth before darting back up to meet mine.
I turn to face the window, gripping the edge of the frame to anchor myself as she leaves the room. It’s the only way to stop myself from dragging her back here and giving her another reason to hate me.
An hour later, I’m at my desk, finishing paperwork, when Roman’s reply to the picture of Sofiya’s finger comes through. I’m not surprised he’s awake at this early hour—men like us don’t sleep, chained to our positions.
Roman: There’s a special place in hell for men like you, Zhukov.
I put down my pen, a sardonic laugh rumbling in my chest.
Me: I’m sure I have reserved seating. But it’s your reluctance to accept the deal that is costing Sofiya.
He can think I’m the monster here, that I marked her against her will. But I don’t need violence to claim her. She can try to fight this pull between us, but her body betrays her. If Roman knew how she came apart on my fingers earlier, he’d understand that she’s already mine.
Roman: I can’t make this decision alone. There are others who need to weigh in.
Me: Help them understand the urgency. I’m sure your wife doesn’t appreciate the delay.
Roman: Never mention my wife again. You have no idea what you’ve done to her.
Me: I do. That’s the point.
I know where to hit to make Roman bleed. The Syndicate wouldn’t flinch at business pressures—they’re too insulated, too powerful for that. But when it’s personal? When the stakes involve the people they love? That’s when they move. Roman’s weakness is Liza, and Liza loves her sister. Something their shitty parents never did.
That’s the edge I have over him. I have no vulnerable connections like he does. No one that can be used against me. I value my brotherhood—Vadim and Eva, especially—but even their lives wouldn’t compromise my decisions.
Going to jail for Sergey ended up costing me everything—that’s why I make decisions with my head, not my heart. Leading with your heart gets you killed.
Roman: No one has ever come against the Syndicate and won, and you are no exception. One day, I will gut you alive and enjoy every minute of it.
I lean back in my chair, resting my head in my hands with a faint smile curling my lips. Roman’s words are the taunt of a man grasping for power he no longer has. It’s true—the Syndicate hasn’t lost to an enemy, yet. Still, the strongest empires crumble when they underestimate their opponents.
Two years in prison taught me patience. It taught me that control wins wars, not brute force. I can smell Roman’s desperation from here, and it only proves I have him where I want him.
Me: Enough idle threats. I want action. Every day you drag your feet, Sofiya pays.
I turn off the phone, tucking it into my pocket, the last line hanging in the air like a fuse waiting to ignite. I imagine Roman’s fury—the way he’ll hurl the phone, maybe even stomp it to pieces. Satisfaction courses through me. I’ve planted a bomb in his mind, and it’s only a matter of time before it detonates.
Morning light spills into my office, illuminating the papers scattered across my desk. I stretch, rolling the tension from my neck, when someone knocks at the door.
“Come in,” I say, expecting Yelena with my morning tea. Instead, Emil steps through the door.
“Got a minute?” he asks.
I gesture to the chair across from me. “Of course. Have a seat.”
Emil sinks down, trying to seem confident, but I can see a flicker of hesitation. Back when he first joined my bratva, we butted heads—his temper and pride made it hard for him to take orders from me since I’m only a few years older than he is. I gave him more room to screw up because of our history, but that only went so far.
He clears his throat, finally meeting my eyes. “I’m sick of house duty, Niko. Hanging around the estate, playing babysitter—I’m ready for more.”
I lean forward, resting my elbows on the desk. “You think keeping my wife safe and my estate secure isn’t important?”
Emil’s jaw tightens, his fingers curling into loose fists on his thighs. “It’s not that. It’s—I’m ready for more responsibility. I’ve been loyal to you for years. I deserve a chance to enforce for the bratva, do something exciting.”
I sit back, my hand dragging down my jaw, the stubble rough against my palm. When I look at Emil, I still see the hotheaded kid who acts first and thinks later.
I remember the day he charged into an alley, fists flying, because some assholes made a comment about his girlfriend’s tits. He didn’t wait for backup or think two steps ahead. It was three against one, and he didn’t stand a chance. When I pulled him out, his face was a mess, his ribs bruised so badly he could hardly breathe. I get his need to stand up for his girlfriend, but blind anger like that is a fast way to get yourself killed.
“If you want more, show me you can handle it. Show me you can keep your head on straight when it matters. That you can think before you act.”
His mouth sets in a hard line, his nostrils flaring. “How can I prove anything when I’m stuck here all the time?”
I slam my palm on the desk, cutting him off. “Prove you can handle the responsibilities you already have. Do your job, and do it well.”
Emil’s shoulders stiffen, but he doesn’t break eye contact. “Fine,” he mutters, shoving his chair back with a scrape and striding toward the door.
My chest expands as I rake my fingers through my hair. “Emil, wait.”
I don’t want to discourage him, but he needs to understand that climbing the bratva ladder takes more than big balls and quick fists.
He stops in the doorway, turning slowly, and I soften my tone. He’s young and eager—I understand the need to do more. But right now, too much is at stake. “When this shit with the Syndicate is behind us, we can talk about another role for you. But until then, remember that a fuck-up puts my wife in danger. And that’s not a risk I’m willing to take.”
“Understood.” He nods and squares his shoulders before disappearing into the hallway.
I watch him leave, my gaze drifting to the papers on my desk. The casino contract with Igor’s signature stares back at me—a reminder that a war is still ahead of me.