5. Nikolai
5
NIKOLAI
I lean back in my leather chair, eyes fixed on the screens before me. Sofia moves through her apartment with unconscious grace. The hidden cameras capture every detail—how she lets down her hair while checking her phone.
I watch her car’s marker pulse on the screen, digitally confirming her position. My fingers play across the desk’s polished surface, appreciating how thoroughly I’ve infiltrated every corner of her carefully ordered world.
A knock at my office door breaks my concentration. I minimize the feeds with practiced efficiency.
“Enter.”
Dmitri steps in, followed by Erik’s solid presence and Alexi’s restless energy. My brothers are each uniquely dangerous.
“The board meeting starts in ten minutes,” Dmitri says, straightening his already perfect tie. “You haven’t reviewed the numbers I sent.”
I wave my hand dismissively. “The deal is solid. We move forward as planned.”
Alexi drops into a chair, feet on my desk until Erik’s sharp look makes him reconsider. “You’re distracted. Not like you to skip the details.”
“My attention is exactly where it needs to be.” I catch Erik studying me with that sniper’s focus of his. Of my brothers, he’s the most observant. The most dangerous to my current preoccupation.
“The Italians are pushing back on the shipping routes,” Erik says quietly. “We need full focus on this.”
I stand, buttoning my suit jacket. “The Italians will fall in line. They always do.”
A small movement on one of my minimized screens catches my eye. Sofia, wrapped in silk, settles onto her couch. Mine. She just doesn’t know it yet.
“Shall we?” I gesture to the door, but Dmitri lingers.
“Something’s different with you, Kolya. What aren’t you telling us?”
“Nothing that concerns you.”
I observe my brothers, each settling into their usual roles in my office. Dmitri’s perfectionism shows in every crease of his Armani suit, while Erik maintains his watchful position by the door. Alexi, our wild card, sprawls across my Italian leather chair with characteristic disregard for furniture worth more than most cars.
“The deal with the Italians isn’t just about shipping routes,” I say, organizing papers on my desk. “It’s about establishing dominance. They need to understand their place.”
Dmitri’s ice-blue eyes narrow. “And what about the digital trail?”
“Already handled,” Alexi pipes up, pulling out his phone. “Their security is laughable. I could hack them in my sleep.”
“Nobody touches their systems without my approval.” I fix our youngest brother with a stern look. “We do this my way.”
Erik shifts, drawing attention without a word. “You’ve missed two family dinners,” he states.
“I’ve been occupied.”
“With what?” Dmitri demands. “Or should I say whom?”
My jaw clenches. “Focus on your own interests, brother.”
“Oh?” Alexi perks up, attention finally diverted from his screen. “Dmitri’s right. You’re never this secretive unless there’s a woman involved.”
“Enough.” My tone drops several degrees. “We have five minutes until the meeting. I expect everyone to be prepared and focused.”
“We are focused,” Dmitri counters. “You’re the one with distractions.”
I stand, towering over my desk. “My ‘distractions,’ as you put it, are none of your concern. What matters is the family business. Shall we deal with the Italians, or would you prefer to continue this pointless discussion?”
Erik pushes off from the wall. “As long as these distractions don’t compromise our security.”
“When have I ever compromised this family?”
The question hangs in the air, heavy with decades of sacrifice and dedication. My brothers know the answer. I’ve given everything to protect them, to build our empire.
Erik’s phone rings, and his face hardens as he listens; then, he meets my eyes. “Warehouse 7. Petrov’s been skimming.”
“How much?” I ask.
“Quarter million in weapons.”
I stand, straightening my cuffs. “I’ll join you.”
Dmitri clears his throat. “And what about the board meeting?”
I narrow my eyes. “Surely you are more than capable of handling the board with Alexi?”
Erik’s eyebrow rises slightly—he usually handles these matters alone. “You sure?”
“I could use the distraction.”
We take my Bentley, Erik settling into the passenger seat. The familiar weight of his silence fills the car as I navigate downtown Boston’s evening traffic.
“You’re thinking too loud, brother.” I glance at him.
“Just surprised you’re coming. You haven’t done hands-on work in months.”
“Perhaps I miss the simpler days.” I turn down a dark side street. “Besides, someone needs to ensure you don’t get too creative. We still need him able to talk.”
Erik’s low chuckle holds no humor. “When have I ever gone too far?”
“Belgrade, 2015.”
“He deserved it.”
“The cleanup took weeks.”
We arrive at the warehouse, its steel doors reflecting the streetlights. Two of our men stand guard, nodding as we approach. Petrov kneels on the concrete floor, sporting a split lip.
Erik cracks his knuckles. “After you, brother.”
I remove my jacket, carefully folding it over a nearby chair. “Let’s remind everyone why stealing from the Ivanovs is unwise.”
I circle Petrov like a wolf sizing up wounded prey. His whimpers echo off concrete walls as blood drips from his split lip onto the warehouse floor. Such a mess. I hate mess.
“You know why you’re here.” I loosen my tie, rolling up my sleeves with precise movements. “The question is, who helped you?”
“Please, Mr. Ivanov...” His voice breaks. “It was a mistake.”
Erik’s boot connects with Petrov’s ribs. The crack is satisfying, like the snap of kindling. I watch the man curl into himself, appreciating my brother’s efficiency.
“A quarter million in weapons isn’t a mistake.” I grab Petrov’s hair, yanking his head back to meet my eyes. “It’s suicide.”
Tears streak down his face. “I can pay it back. My sister, she’s sick?—”
“Should have come to me.” I release him with disgust. “Instead, you betrayed my trust.”
Erik hands me brass knuckles without a word. The metal feels cool against my skin, familiar like an old friend. I flex my fingers, watching fear bloom in Petrov’s eyes.
“Your sister will receive excellent care.” I smile, and Petrov begins to shake. “Consider it my final act of generosity.”
The first punch splits his cheek open. The second shatters his orbital bone. By the third, Erik has to hold him upright.
“Names,” I demand, wiping blood from the brass. “Or we visit your sister next.”
Petrov breaks, spilling everything between sobs. Ukrainian buyers. Inside help from our dock manager. It’s a neat little operation—if you don’t account for my cameras catching everything.
I step back, straightening my cuffs. “Erik.”
My brother’s eyes meet mine, dark with anticipation.
“Make it slow. I want footage sent to everyone who thought they could steal from us.”
“Duration?” Erik asks, already removing his jacket.
“Until he stops screaming.” I retrieve my suit jacket, brushing off invisible dust. “Then dump him where his buyers will find him.”
Petrov’s pleas follow me out of the warehouse. By the time I reach my car, they’ve turned to screams. Erik was always talented at his work.
I rest against my Bentley, lighting a cigar as another scream pierces the night air. The warehouse walls do little to muffle Petrov’s agony. Erik’s talent for inflicting pain surpasses even my own considerable skills.
A particularly sharp cry makes me pause mid-inhale. My brother learned things in Spetsnaz that would make hardened criminals blanch. Where I employ calculated violence to achieve specific ends, Erik understands pain on an almost artistic level. Each cut, break, and burn is orchestrated for maximum effect.
The screaming shifts pitch—Erik must have found a new pressure point. Despite my own comfort with violence, I’ve never managed to extract those specific tones of suffering from a victim. It’s like listening to a virtuoso at work.
My phone vibrates with a text from Dmitri.
Done?
Erik’s working. Will have footage within the hour.
Another scream rips through the night, this one raw and primal. I take a long drag, remembering the time in Moscow when Erik made a Ukrainian arms dealer confess to every crime he’d committed since childhood. The man spoke for six hours straight, crying between confessions. We didn’t need the information—Erik just wanted to prove he could break him completely.
The screaming stops abruptly. Silence hangs heavy in the air for three heartbeats before starting again, higher and more desperate than before. That’s Erik’s signature—the false hope of relief before diving deeper into agony.
I glance at my watch. Twenty minutes. A new record for Erik to reduce someone to that level of despair. He’s either getting better, or Petrov is particularly susceptible to pain.