Chapter 24
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR
NIKOLAI
I’ve done many fucked-up things in my life. I’ve spilled blood, betrayed loyalties, and killed my own brother without a shred of regret. But somehow, using Sofiya like I did weighs on me like a sin I’ll never be rid of.
After the basement, I sent Roman the pictures of her, the knife grazing the delicate skin of her throat, the curated terror etched into her features. Such a perfect lie. They’ll light a fire under the Syndicate’s ass as Igor said they would, but it comes at a cost.
I’ve been holed up in my office all day, haunted by the memory of how fucking good Sofiya tastes, how beautifully she came apart for me despite herself.
But when she looks at me like I’m breaking her, it feels like she’s breaking me, too.
My phone buzzes, and Roman’s name flashes across my screen. Fuck me. I knew this call was coming, but for some reason, I was dreading what he might say. The deal he might offer.
“Roman. Just the man I was looking forward to hearing from,” I lie.
“You sick fuck,” he growls, his tone deadly. “Do you think this is a fucking game? Do you know what I’m going to do to you the first chance I get?”
“Nothing because I have the power here. Now get to the point of this call because I have shit to do.”
He huffs out a harsh breath. “This needs to end now. We are ready to make a deal.”
The satisfaction I expected to feel at this moment is nowhere to be found. Instead, my pulse hammers, and something uneasy twists in my gut. I know where he’s headed with this.
“The Syndicate will allow you to open a casino on our territory, but only on the condition that you give Sofiya back, grant her a divorce, annul the marriage—whatever it takes to erase your claim on her. Never fucking think of her again, never even say her name. She’ll be dead to you.”
I go still, my fingers digging into the leather of my chair. He’s agreeing to my terms. It’s what I wanted—except it’s not what I want at all.
My eyes track to the clock on the wall, the same one Sofiya used to count the seconds to her orgasm. I’m in the room where I inked her ring finger. I know what I’m supposed to do, but the thought of losing her feels like losing the last shred of my soul.
“No.”
There’s silence on the other end. Angry silence.
“What the fuck do you mean, no?”
“I need a guarantee that you’ll follow through. Words aren’t enough. I won’t give up Sofiya until I know you won’t renege on the deal the second I hand her over.”
“Are you fucking serious? I’m a man of my word. You’re the one who’s the goddamn traitor.”
“Forgive me if trust isn’t my strong suit. Call me when you’ve got proof you won’t stab me in the back.”
“Fu—”
I end the call and whip my phone at the wall, disgusted with myself.
Sofiya was never supposed to be my wife, never supposed to be mine forever. But she’s etched into me like a brand, a fire that refuses to die, and until it does, I won’t give her back.
I run my thumb across my lips. Everything I’ve worked for is hanging by a thread. But I can’t find it in me to care right now. Not if it means I get to keep Sofiya for a little while longer.
I pull into the desolate lot, headlights slicing through the darkness. Igor is already waiting near his black SUV, the cherry of his cigarette glowing faintly in the night.
I sit for a moment, fingers drumming on the steering wheel, watching him. There’s a tightness in my chest, a sense of foreboding I can’t ignore. Reaching into the center console, I pull out my gun and slide it into my waistband. I’ve never needed one for our meetings before, but something tells me this conversation could go south.
I step out. The warm air feels heavy as I make my way across the cracked asphalt. His guards stand off to the side, chatting and puffing on their cigarettes as the stench of piss and stale beer wafts from the dumpster nearby.
With his pristine suit and shiny patent leather shoes, Igor looks out of place—too clean for the grime of the city’s underbelly. Being seen with me wouldn’t do his reputation any favors, so we meet far from prying eyes.
As I approach, the sharp angles of his face soften with a smile. He looks too pleased, and I’m sure it has something to do with the picture I sent to Roman.
“You did good,” he says, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “You fucking showed the Syndicate what you’re made of with those pictures. Roman and the rest of those bastards will be eating out of your hand in no time.”
My stomach churns. He has no idea her pain in those pictures is fake, but it’s the delight he seems to be taking in it that makes me want to pummel his face. It’s like he wants to punish her for her family ties.
“Save your applause until I’ve told you the full story,” I say, pulling back from his touch. “Roman called me earlier ready to make a deal, and I turned him down.”
He pauses mid-drag, his expression tightening. “Why did you do that?”
I drag a hand over my jawline, forcing myself to hold his gaze. “Because I don’t trust them to keep their word. Once Sofiya’s back in their hands, there’s nothing stopping them from turning on us. We need real fucking guarantees before we give her up.”
Igor shrugs. “You’re mobsters. Deals are settled with a gentleman’s handshake, not a fucking legal document. What kind of guarantee are you expecting from them?”
“Something more binding than a handshake. Why should we trust their word and give up our leverage?”
My logic is sound, even if it’s kind of bullshit.
Igor cracks his neck, a scowl settling on his face. “I understand, but we’re running out of time,” he growls. “I have the minister up my ass asking when we can lock this deal down. You need to make them desperate, willing to do anything. A video of a night in my cage should do the trick.”
My hand moves before my brain can catch up, pulling the gun from my waistband and pressing the barrel firmly under Igor’s jaw. His head tilts back, his mouth tightening, and the cigarette falls from his lips. It bounces once on the asphalt before rolling to a stop, the smoke curling faintly upward.
Igor’s guards tense, their hands twitching toward their holsters, but none of them actually do anything. They know me too well. They know I’m not bluffing.
My jaw tightens, every muscle in my body tense. I’ve never been more ready to pull the trigger.
“Not going to fucking happen,” I hiss, my voice razor-sharp. “Let me set you straight. I’m the pakhan, and I decide what happens. There’s no way in hell I’d let you touch a hair on her head. She’s my wife. Mine. And I won’t let anyone, including you, hurt her.”
Igor’s Adam’s apple bobs as he tries to hold my gaze.
“C’mon, Niko,” he pleads. He raises his hands, palms facing me, like he’s trying to settle a spooked animal. “Look, you’ve grown attached to her. I get that. We all get that.” He takes a half-step back, his eyes darting to my hand, still gripping the gun. “But everything you’ve worked for since Sergey is right there, ready for the taking. See this through, do what needs to be done, and the Syndicate will fall in line. We’ll control all the casinos that matter in Russia. The money, the connections, the political sway—they’ll all be ours. Don’t you want that?”
I relax my grip on the pistol, slowly stepping back and lowering it into my waistband.
Do I want that? I’ve spent years clawing my way to the top of organized crime in Russia, convinced power was everything. I thought it would fill the hollow spaces inside me and make me untouchable, but it hasn’t. The only thing that feels real and good, the only thing that might make life worth something, is Sofiya. But Igor’s not the man to share this with.
“Of course, I do,” I grit out. “I want all of it. But not if it means hurting her. I won’t cross that line again.”
Igor adjusts his collar, his hands dropping to his sides. “It’s normal to feel something for a pretty girl, especially when she’s been in your bed. But when Roman senses your weakness, he’ll go for the jugular, and you’ll lose a lot more than this deal.” He steps forward, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “Think about what I said.”
He turns and walks toward his vehicle, his guards trailing behind him.
That night, I’m sitting in my office, a bottle of whiskey half-empty on the desk, the room cloaked in shadows except for the faint glow of the desk lamp. I’m well on my way to getting drunk—the booze warming my throat but doing nothing to quiet my mind.
A rough laugh peals from my throat. Today was a fucking disaster. I turned down the Syndicate deal and threatened Igor with a gun for suggesting I use Sofiya for the pawn she was always intended to be.
But fuck, the way his words made me see red. He may not like it, but he’ll have to deal with it. No one is laying a hand on her—not him, not me, not anyone.
A knock at the door cuts through the silence, and I sigh, dragging my hand over my face. The last thing I need right now is company.
“Not looking for a drinking buddy,” I call out, hoping my sharp tone scares away whoever wants my attention.
The door creaks open, and Emil steps inside, his hands raised. “It’s only me.”
“Come in.” I sigh. “Want a drink?”
He shakes his head. “Nah, I’m good. Eva wanted me to let you know the plane is scheduled to take off first thing tomorrow.”
Fuck me. I nearly forgot about our trip to the Caucasus region to meet with the people we do business with—arms distributors, cartel representatives, mercenaries.
Emil steps forward, clearing his throat. “Would you consider letting me come along? I’d like to get experience dealing with arms negotiations and could back you up if things get tense.”
I set the empty glass on the desk and meet his gaze. “No. I need you here keeping an eye on Sofiya.”
His mouth tightens. “Can’t Matvey or one of the others handle it? We’ve never had trouble at the estate, and I want to do something that matters—not just stand around waiting for nothing to happen.”
“I said no,” I grit out, tired of the pushback. “And you’re not standing around. You’re guarding my wife.”
He opens his mouth, ready to fight me on this, but I pin him with a sharp glare. His expression tightens, and he nods. “Understood.”
I let out a slow breath and even my tone. “Next time. I haven’t forgotten what you’ve asked for.”
“Sure,” he says, already turning toward the door.
As he leaves, I roll my shoulders, trying to shake off the weight of too many demands and the nagging feeling that I’m losing control.