Chapter 21
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
NIKOLAI
The moment she opens the door, I know something’s wrong. Sofiya stands there, pale and tense, her arms wrapped tightly around herself like they’re the only thing holding her together.
“What happened? Are you okay?” My voice comes out hoarse, my chest tightening with worry. I step forward, reaching for her as she breaks into tears and I pull her into a protective hold.
Behind me, my men shift uncomfortably, their arms full of boutique bags. I glance over my shoulder, and with one hard glare, they get the picture and scatter without a word.
Inside, I guide her to the bed and sit her down before crouching in front of her. Her tear-streaked face is turned away, and I gently tilt her chin toward me with two fingers. “Sofiya. Are you sick? Is it the headache from earlier? I can call a doctor?—”
“No.” Her voice is hoarse. “It’s not that. I was, uh… watching a sad movie.”
I raise a brow. “A sad movie?”
She nods quickly, her eyes avoiding mine. She’s lying—I can feel it in my gut. What I don’t know is why.
“Something’s bothering you. What is it?”
A shadow moves across her face. “I… I miss my sister.”
I have an instinctive urge to close the distance between us. To take away her pain and sadness, comfort her, even though I'm the reason she was upset in the first place.
What did I expect? That she’d be thrilled to live here? That I could drag her into my world, and she’d simply accept it? I knew the moment I watched her dance that solo that there was a fire in her, a fighter who wouldn’t give up easily.
Sofiya is a thorn lodged under my skin, impossible to ignore, no matter how much I try. Here I am ordering her the finest leotards, donating a ridiculous sum to her favorite charity.
What the hell am I doing? I’ve let myself soften. I’ve let her distract me, and it has to stop.
I stand, hardening my expression. “If the headache comes back, tell Yelena to call the doctor.”
As I turn to leave, her eyes drop to the bag in my hand.
“Is that from Yumiko?”
No point denying it now. I pass her the bag without a word.
Before we left the boutique, I made Valeria track down the best dancewear money could buy. Somehow, she managed to source it all within hours, and one of my men picked it up.
Sofiya looks up at me, her eyes glassy, as she pulls each leotard from the bag one by one. She lays them carefully on the bed beside her—black with mesh panels, deep burgundy with delicate straps, and a shimmering dark green that catches the light. A pair of contemporary dance half-soles fall out next. Not that I know anything about dance shoes. Valeria thought they’d be helpful for Sofiya to have. Her fingers brush over the fabrics.
“I don’t know what to say.” Her gaze remains fixed on the leotards, and I can’t read her expression.
I shrug, keeping my tone flat. “It’s nothing.”
As my sharp tone lingers in the quiet between us, I know my actions reveal way more than I’d like them to.
Her eyes shutter. “I’m not exactly going to take the dance world by storm while I’m held prisoner here.”
“Whether you dance or not is not my concern. You have the leotards. Use them if you want to.”
I storm from the room—annoyed at her but even more annoyed at myself for letting her get under my skin in the first place.
An hour later, I’m in my office, neck-deep in the endless shitstorm of paperwork that comes with running my empire, when there’s a knock at the door.
“Come in,” I say, still staring at my computer screen.
Emil steps inside, hesitating in the doorway. “Sorry to interrupt,” he says. “Thought you’d want to know that Igor showed up unannounced. He just passed through the front gates.”
My teeth clench as I sit back in my chair. My phone’s been on silent all afternoon, and when I glance at it now, Igor’s name flashes on the missed calls screen. He’s the last person I want to see right now, and I’m irritated by how I left things with Sofiya earlier, but he’s here, and I can’t blow him off.
“I appreciate the heads-up.” I nod at Emil in dismissal, but he doesn’t step back.
“By the way, I meant to say thanks for letting me join the meeting with Igor earlier,” Emil adds, shifting his weight. “It was valuable.”
“Good,” I say, distracted by Igor’s surprise appearance. “Any idea what he’s doing here right now?”
Emil shrugs. “I get the feeling he likes dealing with you directly.”
I lean back in my chair, dragging a hand down my face. It’s standard for my second-in-command to handle meetings I skip, but Igor is old school. He doesn’t trust secondhand updates.
Heavy footsteps echo down the hallway. Emil straightens up as Igor’s frame fills the doorway. He’s built like a tank, his tailored gray suit doing nothing to soften the sharp lines of his shoulders.
“That’ll be all, Emil,” I say, standing to greet Igor. The two men exchange a brief, unreadable look before Emil nods and slips out, the door clicking shut behind him.
Igor strides toward me, unbuttoning his jacket with a deliberate tug as he crosses the room.
I round the desk and extend a hand. “I didn’t realize you’d be stopping by tonight.”
“A business matter has come up that requires an in-person discussion,” Igor says, his tone edged. “And since I missed you earlier, I thought I’d drop by. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” I say, gesturing to a chair. “Sit. I’ll pour us a drink.”
Igor’s calculating stare tracks me as I cross to the bar. “Busy day?”
I don’t know what he’s getting at, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of riling me. “It was productive.”
He sneers. “I was surprised to hear that you missed our meeting to take your wife on a shopping spree. Very unlike you.”
Fucking Vadim and his big mouth.
I hold his stare, forcing a calm I don’t feel. “Sofiya is an extension of me and my bratva. She’s expected to look a certain way.” My jaw tightens. “What’s the business we need to discuss?” I ask, steering the conversation back on track.
I pass him a glass of brandy as we settle into the wingback chairs in front of the fireplace. Igor raises the glass to his lips; his gaze is locked on mine as he takes a measured sip. “Our timeline has been moved up.”
“What do you mean?”
“It means the minister wants to award the casino contract sooner than expected,” he explains. “In the next three weeks.”
“Well, that’s fucking inconvenient,” I snap, a wave of irritation building.
He leans back in his chair, his fingers drumming on the armrest. “It’s been well over a week, and we’ve heard little from the Syndicate. It’s time to apply more pressure on Roman to accept the deal. He’s dragging his fucking feet because he thinks he can. We need to show him there are consequences for his inaction.”
I swirl my drink, a bad feeling brewing. Igor hasn’t spelled out how he expects us to bring the Syndicate to heel, but I know where this conversation is heading.
“Roman’s not a man who admits defeat easily,” I say, keeping my tone measured. “Don’t forget, I know how the Syndicate operates. They need time to realize they’re out of options and come to us. Trust me, I’ll make sure they feel the pressure.”
“How?”
My spine stiffens at the challenge in his voice. Igor may be powerful, but I’m the pakhan, and I don’t take orders from anyone. I slam my palm on the table between us, making his whiskey glass rattle.
“You don’t need to worry about the how,” I bite out. “I said I’d handle it, and I will.”
Igor’s face hardens. “Will you? Because skipping meetings to take your wife shopping makes it seem like your focus is slipping.”
“My focus isn’t slipping,” I grit out. “We just have different methods for getting results. You believe in the stick, but I see value in the carrot. Don’t mistake that for weakness.”
Igor reaches for his drink as he stares into the roaring fire. “I think we both know that sticks are more effective in the world we operate in. The Syndicate needs to see how brutal you can be. How much Sofiya is suffering at your hands. They need to be desperate—willing to do anything to end her misery.”
Tension lines my shoulders, lodging at the base of my neck. Roman blew a gasket when I sent him the pictures of Sofiya marked with my tattoo, and that was child’s play. Igor is right. Hurting her would set things in motion, but it would also have far-reaching consequences. More than that, the thought of causing her pain makes my stomach churn with disgust.
I grip the glass so tightly I’m surprised it doesn’t crack under the pressure. “We need to be fucking smart about this. We’re proposing a partnership with the Syndicate. If we abuse Sofiya more than we already have, when the time comes, they’ll seek revenge.”
“It won’t matter. By the time they make their move, we will be untouchable.” His tone goes cold. “If you can’t do it, I will.”
“You will not fucking touch her,” I growl.
My eyes scan the room, looking for anything I could turn into a weapon. If he so much as looks at Sofiya the wrong way, I’ll make him regret it. He doesn’t deserve to breathe the same air as her.
A knock at the door interrupts the standoff. No one on my staff would dare disturb me during a meeting.
“Nikolai? Are you in there?”
Fuck. It’s Sofiya. The universe must be laughing at me right now.
Unease anchors itself in my chest. The last thing I wanted is for Igor to see how protective I’ve become of her, but I’ve done a shitty job hiding it.
“This is a bad time,” I snap, hoping she’ll scurry off.
Igor’s fingers drum lazily against the armrest, his expression smug. “Not at all. Please invite her in. I’d like to meet your wife.”
“Come in, Sofiya,” I say eventually.
The door creaks open, and she steps inside, wearing the black leotard with mesh panels and a low scooped neckline that shows off her round breasts. I drag a full breath into my lungs to keep my reaction in check.
Sofiya’s eyes widen as she realizes I’m not alone. She hesitates, looking to me for reassurance. “Oh, I’m sorry to interrupt. I wanted to say thank you for the leotard. It fits perfectly. I’ll be on my wa?—”
“It’s no problem. We’re finished here,” Igor cuts in, rising from his seat. His gaze sweeps over her, lingering far too long. The way he drinks her in from head to toe sets my nerves on fire. “Are you going to introduce me, Nikolai?”
My blood turns cold. I clear my throat and force a mask of disinterest. “Sofiya, this is Igor Bocharov, the senior advisor to the minister of finance and an associate of mine.”
Sofiya offers him a reserved smile. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Bocharov.”
She extends her hand, and Igor seizes the opportunity. Instead of a quick shake, he lifts her hand to his lips and presses a slow, deliberate kiss to the back of it.
Her body stiffens at the contact. Not for the first time tonight, I regret not having a gun tucked into my waistband.
“Please, call me Igor. We’ve actually met before. In Moscow a few years ago. I was having dinner with some associates, and you were at the next table with your sister, her husband, and the mighty Maxim Belov and his wife, Kira.”
Sofiya frowns, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember that.”
Igor chuckles, the sound predatory to my ears. “It was a brief encounter. I only stopped by to say hello to Maxim. You were very young then. I’m sure an old man like me wouldn’t have left much of an impression.”
I can’t take it anymore. My patience snaps. “Go upstairs, Sofiya. I’m in a meeting.”
Her eyes flick to mine, a hint of hurt in her expression, but this is for her own good.
“Good night, Sofiya,” Igor purrs. “I look forward to seeing you again.”
“Uh, you too.” Sofiya licks her lips nervously as she backs out of the room. My molars press together. I wish like hell she hadn’t come down here at all, and most definitely not wearing that.
The door clicks shut, and Igor turns to me, his face tight with disdain. “Buying her clothes to dance in, letting her roam freely around your house. Is that the kind of carrot you prefer to use?”
The weight in the room feels like a live wire, humming with unspoken threats. Igor and I have always agreed on one thing—you do what’s necessary to secure money and power. You annihilate anyone standing in your way.
Right now, I don’t give a shit about any of that. Primal need thrums through me to protect Sofiya, making me want to tear Igor limb from limb.
He places a hand on my shoulder, squeezing hard enough to make his point. “Use her,” he insists. “Bring the Syndicate to its knees. You should be the most powerful pakhan in Russia—not Maxim Belov or Roman Vasiliev.”
With that, he walks out of the room, a suffocating silence taking his place.
After Igor leaves, I grab the keys to the Bugatti and go for a long drive.
Pushing the car through tight bends at breakneck speeds is the only way to ease the weight crushing my chest. Igor’s words won’t stop echoing in my head—his accusation that the Syndicate isn’t coming to heel fast enough, that I’ve gone soft because of Sofiya.
The worst part is he’s not wrong.
She’s fucked with my head, and it’s up to me to screw it back on straight.
I might feel a scrap of something for my wife, but it doesn’t change a damn thing. At the end of the day, I know all too well what happens when you care about someone so deeply that you give them everything—your freedom, your trust, your love, and your protection. They stab you in the back, leaving you bleeding and broken.
I won’t make that mistake again.
I’ll do whatever is necessary to bring the Syndicate in line. I have to prove to myself that I still have the edge and that I can be ruthless when I need to be.
Sofiya is a pawn, and I’ll use her as one if that’s what it takes to win.
I pull up in front of the house, slamming the car door behind me. Inside, I take the stairs two at a time. A voice in the back of my mind warns me that I can’t be trusted right now. That I’m only going to do something I will regret later.
It’s the middle of the night, and I’m not in a good place. I should go to the strip club and find someone to fuck, to take out all this dark, churning energy inside me.
But no one else will do.