Chapter 8
Roman
The negotiation upstairs lasted nine minutes.
Maxim Morozov's meaty face lurked behind cigar smoke, spitting out demands as greedy as a dog in heat. I listened to his bullshit about West Coast docks, fingertips drumming idly on the mahogany table.
But my mind wasn't at the table.
It was downstairs. On Nadia.
The agitation came without warning, yet hit with brutal force. Like two years ago in that elevator—I could sense every tremor in the darkness. Now, even with her out of sight, I felt something fracturing.
"...so thirty percent profit, that's my bottom line." Morozov still droning on.
I shot to my feet. The chair legs scraped across the floor with a vicious shriek.
"We're done, Maxim." I cut him off, voice cold as Siberian permafrost. "Go tell whoever's pulling your strings—they want my docks, better measure for a coffin first."
Morozov froze. Then his face flushed crimson. "Roman, what the hell? We haven't finished—"
"Shut the fuck up. You're wasting my time, old man." I turned without a glance, voice cutting toward Danny who stood statue-still behind me. "Danny, where's Victor?"
"Pakhan, Victor just came up. Said something about ma'am—" Danny stepped forward, face tight.
I didn't wait for him to finish. Strode out of the private room.
The thick handwoven carpet in the corridor swallowed my footsteps, but I heard my heart hammering in my chest clear as day. The deafening bass from downstairs pounded through the floor, beat against my bones, but couldn't drown out that blood-chilling premonition.
When I burst into the VIP lounge, the first thing I saw wasn't Nadia's burgundy dress—it was Victor, surrounded by crew members, backing out of a dim side hallway, drenched in sweat.
"Pakhan!" Victor's face went ghost-white when he saw me.
"Where is she?" I grabbed his tie and slammed all two hundred pounds of him against the wall. The words ground out through clenched teeth, pure murder in them. "I'm gone less than ten fucking minutes and you lost her?"
"The storage room in the side hall! Some asshole named Trent cornered ma'am, she ran in there to get away from him. But the goddamn door lock's busted—jammed from inside!"
My blood turned to ice.
Enclosed space. Darkness. Locked door. The image from two years ago—that stalled elevator—hit my brain like a bullet. The woman who usually bristled with defenses, shattered like glass in the dark.
I shoved Victor aside, tore down that hallway like a rabid animal.
"Move!" I kicked past two bartenders blocking the door, eyes locked on that weathered oak door.
No sound from inside. Dead silence. Worse than screaming or pounding—this silence terrified me.
No hesitation. I stepped back, raised my leg, drove my heel into the lock.
Wood splinters flew. Metal hinges screamed. The heavy oak door crashed inward with a thunderous crack.
Hallway light sliced through the suffocating darkness like a bayonet.
Dust swirled in the shaft of light. My gaze snapped to the corner. My breath stopped cold.
Nadia was curled on the dust-covered floor. That burgundy dress pooled around her like spilled blood. Arms wrapped tight around her knees, face buried in the crook of her elbow, whole body shaking like she'd been dunked in ice water.
Something exploded in my brain.
For a split second, the figure in the corner wasn't Nadia—it was another fragile shadow.
A memory I'd locked in Pandora's box came flooding back without warning—the basement's acrid stench, burned skin, eyes that never opened no matter how I called.
The woman I'd fought with everything I had and still couldn't drag from the flames.
That ghost, clinging like a curse, was trying to drag Nadia into the same abyss.
No. Never.
I bit down hard, tasted blood in my mouth, used the pain to rip that specter from my mind. I forced myself to see the burgundy silk in the corner, see that emerald ring glinting cold on her finger.
This was Nadia. Mine. I'd never let that nightmare repeat itself.
"Turn on every light on this floor. Every single one." I didn't turn around, voice scraped raw. "Now. Light up this whole goddamn place!"
Chaos erupted in the hallway.
I slowed my steps, approached like I was nearing a dying animal. Knelt on one knee in front of her. My tailored suit pants soaked up the filthy dust. Didn't care.
I didn't touch her right away. In the grip of claustrophobia, any rough contact would push her over the edge.
"Nadia."
I said her name in the steadiest, most controlled voice I'd ever used.
No response. Just shook harder, broken whimpers escaping her throat.
"Nadia, sweetheart. Look at me. It's Roman." I dropped my voice lower—I swear I'd never used this tone with anyone. "You're safe. The door's open. I'm right here."
Backup lights flickered on throughout the hallway. Light flooded in from all sides, gently filling the cramped storage room.
Finally, she responded. Her death grip on her arms loosened slightly. Slowly lifted her head.
That face—the one that hadn't flinched before Morozov—was now pale as death. Cold sweat plastered hair to her cheeks. Those beautiful eyes were shattered, unfocused.
Until her gaze found mine.
"Roman..." Her cracked lips moved soundlessly.
"Yeah, it's me. I've got you."
The next second, she lunged forward like a drowning person finally reaching a rock and crashed into my arms.
My arms locked around her instantly, crushing her cold, trembling body against my chest without leaving a breath of space between us. Her hands fisted in my sleeves, nails nearly clawing through the fabric into my skin, gasping for air.
I didn't try anything. Even though the beast called possession inside me was roaring. I just closed my eyes, rested my chin on her soft hair, rubbed her back over and over.
I felt hot tears soaking through my collar, burning like they could scorch my soul.
"Don't let go." She clutched my shirt front with shocking strength, like I was the only lifeline in a bottomless pit.
"Never."
No hesitation. I slid my arm under her knees, lifted her easily. She immediately buried her face in my chest, arms locked around my neck, leaving no space at all.
I carried her through the shattered oak doorway. In the hallway, Victor and a dozen armed guards stood in two rows.
"Clear out. Open the private elevator to the penthouse." My cold command didn't linger on anyone.
We crossed the dead-silent VIP area. The club that had been deafening minutes ago was now so quiet you could hear ice hitting the floor.
The elevator doors closed behind us, sealing out those wary stares. In the gentle weightlessness of the ascent, Nadia sighed—barely audible—and her rigid spine finally softened completely.
Half an hour later, Eden's penthouse suite.
Nadia had taken a sedative and was now sleeping deeply in the wide velvet bed. I stood beside the bed and watched her brow furrow even in sleep. The warmth drained from my eyes, replaced by pure, bone-chilling murder.
I turned and left the bedroom, closed the door quietly.
In the suite's outer sitting room, Danny and Victor were waiting. The air felt frozen solid.
"Talk." I walked to the bar, poured straight vodka but didn't drink it. Just gripped the glass, knuckles white.
"Some punk named Trent Vanderbilt." Victor kept his head down, words flying fast and precise.
"Low-level associate for a nobody south side crew.
Intel says he went to high school with ma'am.
Earlier in the VIP area, he recognized her and...
humiliated her with some shit from ten years ago in high school. "
"What shit?" My eyes narrowed.
"Apparently about ma'am getting expelled, and... being locked in some closet." Cold sweat beaded on Victor's forehead. "The scumbag said some vile things, mocked her about her current position."
The crystal glass splintered in my palm. Sharp edges sliced into flesh. Blood dripped down my lifelines onto the expensive carpet. I felt nothing.
Rage—the kind that could burn this whole city to ash—coursed through my veins.
"Find him." I grabbed a towel and wiped the blood casually. My voice was soft as a whisper from hell, but made everyone present shiver.
"Pakhan, you want him dead?"
"Dead? Too easy." I smiled coldly, eyes churning with bloodlust. "I want the hand that pointed at her—every finger chopped off one by one.
He likes running that mouth? Rip out his tongue.
Then destroy everything he needs to survive—his business, his connections, whatever dignity he thinks he has.
I want him living like a real stray dog in a hell worse than death.
I want every person in this city to know what happens when you fuck with Roman Sokolov's woman. "
"Understood." Victor took the order.
"Also," I turned toward the closed bedroom door, tone darkening further, "dig up everything that happened to Nadia at that goddamn school ten years ago. Every detail. Every rat who had a hand in it—I want names. Every. Single. One."
If she couldn't face the shadows lurking in the dark, I'd drag them all out myself and grind them to dust in broad daylight.
Victor and Danny exchanged a glance and left the room.
The instant the door closed, only my breathing filled the suite.
I walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, looked down at this neon-lit city of sin. Chicago's night reflected my image in the glass—suit rumpled, tie loose, shirt still stained with her tears.
My palm throbbed dully. Glass shards had left wounds still seeping blood.
But that pain was nothing compared to the feeling when I saw her curled in that corner—like something had torn my chest open.
Damn it.
I pressed hard against my temples.
This was wrong. All of this was fucking wrong.
She was just a transaction. A political piece to appease the feds, maintain surface peace. In a year she'd leave with my money, disappear from my life like she'd never existed.
That was the script.
But now?
Now I was acting like an unhinged maniac, abandoning a ten-million-dollar deal because she'd been locked up for less than ten minutes. When I kicked down that door, I wasn't thinking about profit or strategy—just one thought:
She needs me.
What's worse—when she crashed into my arms, when she grabbed my shirt with that drowning-person desperation—
I felt satisfaction.
Twisted, sick satisfaction I didn't even recognize in myself.
Because in that moment, I'd saved her.
Just like in that elevator two years ago.
"Fuck." I cursed under my breath and slammed my fist against the wall.