Chapter 17 - Nikolai
Pressure is nothing new to me, since it was something I felt from an early age.
Pressure was Roman teaching me how to keep my mouth shut when I was sixteen and bloodied after my first real fight, and learning how to look calm while holding a gun. Pressure came from understanding that one mistake in our world doesn’t just cost you, but it costs everyone associated with you.
So in essence, pressure itself doesn’t bother me.
What bothers me is Dani and the look she had on her face before I left the house this morning. It keeps replaying in my head, no matter how hard I try to shove it aside.
She looked so hurt and angry after what I said last night, forcing her into becoming guarded all over again, like she regrets letting me close.
Gripping the steering wheel tighter as the Strip looks more muted in the daylight, I silently tell myself to forget about it.
Even from here, the city feels alive with tourists flooding casinos, music spilling from rooftop clubs, and drunk idiots wasting fortunes they’ll likely never get back.
Most of them probably don’t even know what day it is, since they normally come to Las Vegas to lose themselves.
Men like me run the parts they never see while they pay to forget everything else.
“Keep thinking that hard, and you might hit a pedestrian or two.”
Ivan’s voice cuts through my thoughts from the passenger seat, breaking my focus before I can repair it again.
I glance at him briefly before looking back toward the road. “Are you going to psychoanalyze me now?”
“Depends,” he murmurs with a shrug. “You paying?”
A quiet snort leaves me despite myself, and I shake my head.
Ivan’s always been calmer than the rest of us despite everything going on, and he carries his strength in a quieter way than Roman or Sergey. Half the time, people underestimate him because he doesn’t feel the need to dominate every room he walks into, and that’s usually their last mistake.
We pull into the warehouse district near the east end a few minutes later, headlights sweeping across rows of industrial buildings that look unimposing for the most part. This is the part where most people don’t go, but it’s typical for us.
The trade itself is routine.
Inventory will be transferred, and cash will be moved. It’s nothing glamorous, but we need the weapons shipped through the proper channel before they enter distribution, and the two of us are here to oversee it, given everything going on lately.
Men move around us efficiently while Ivan checks his phone, occasionally barking instructions when he needs to. I lean against the hood of the SUV and scan the perimeter automatically while trucks unload nearby.
Despite maintaining the usual focus, my mind wanders occasionally, and I feel the exhaustion tugging at me slowly but surely.
I’ve been out almost all day, and while that isn’t out of the ordinary, it’s also intentional. Something in me has been reluctant to go home, where I’ll be forced to feel Dani’s disdain and cold shoulder.
As much as I know I’m the reason for it, it doesn’t make being iced out any easier to bear.
“You look tired,” Ivan remarks after a while, sparing a glance in my direction.
“I’ve heard that before.”
“Is that right?”
“Mhm,” I murmur, letting the words leave before thinking about them, “You sound like Dani.”
Immediately, Ivan’s brows lift slightly as if I placed some kind of emotional bomb in that statement.
“Did you let that slip accidentally, or…?” he asks with a knowing look.
I choose to ignore him, which is enough of an answer.
A renewed smugness flashes across his face, but to his credit, he doesn’t push too hard. Instead, he pockets his phone and says, “Alexei started walking already.”
That pulls my attention properly, gladly latching onto the topic change. “Yeah?”
A rare grin spreads across Ivan’s face then, softer than I usually see from him, which can only mean this is especially important to him. “Mila says he’s a menace, and I have to agree.”
“Runs in the family.”
“Unfortunately,” he says with a fond chuckle.
There’s something grounding about hearing him talk about his son and other normal things. It almost feels surreal sometimes, finding ourselves standing in the middle of criminal operations while discussing diapers and toddler tantrums. But that’s how our lives work, and how they always will.
Family intertwined with violence is impossible to separate.
“You should see him with Roman,” Ivan continues, amusement threading through his voice now. “He’s completely wrapped around his finger. I’m waiting for them to start conspiring.”
I’ve seen Roman with the little ones enough times not to be surprised. As intimidating as he is, kids love him, and he’s not any stronger against them. Roman Lukov, the terrifying head of our operation, is reduced to weakness by a baby.
“That sounds like blackmail material,” I mutter.
“It absolutely is.”
For a moment, things feel almost normal, and I half expect this thing to go down without any issues.
Then headlights appear at the far end of the lot, and at first, I assume it’s the associate we’ve been waiting on.
That is, until they come in too fast, with more vehicles than anticipated. The flatbed flying in through the gate isn’t remotely big enough for what needs to be moved, and it bypasses our security without missing a beat.
Every instinct in my body sharpens instantly, and I’m already reaching for my pistol.
Ivan sees it too as his expression hardens while multiple black SUVs follow the truck and gun it toward the warehouse.
“Heads up!” I call out, getting into a defensive position behind the vehicle now as our guys do the same, taking cover while they watch.
The vehicles come to a screeching halt, and the doors swing open. Armed men spill out, immediately flooding the area and opening fire.
One closest to us aims at no one in particular with his black sleeves pulled up, and I catch a glimpse of a familiar insignia tattooed on his forearm. I recognize it immediately.
They’re Malenkov’s. I’ve seen that mark enough times now.
My jaw clenches hard enough to ache as I raise my pistol and set off a few shots before ducking again, catching as my brother prepares himself to do the same.
“So he really did figure it out,” Ivan says coldly beside me.
Grigori Malenkov finally connected the dots and accomplished the very thing I never wanted him to.
Gunshots crack through the lot as chaos detonates, pulling us into the fold. Without the chance to respond, I focus on the targets ahead, watching their every move.
Noticing one of our guys in the line of fire, I drag him behind a stack of crates before taking aim again. Before long, the smell of gunpowder floods the air as shouting erupts across the loading bay.
Ivan and I are barking orders without registering them, locked in on the bastards attempting to storm the place. We keep cover for as long as we can before returning the favor, sending as many rounds their way as possible.
Vegas nightlife hums somewhere beyond the warehouse while bullets rip through steel and ricochet off the concrete. Two completely different worlds are separated by a few blocks, and those here to forget about life are none the wiser.
Ivan drops a man near the trucks with brutal efficiency while our people push outward fast, able to clear a path and force Malenkov’s men to lose ground before they can properly lock the place down.
But as I watch their movements, they don’t seem to be pushing hard in the first place. Instead, they’re keeping us preoccupied, acting like they’re advancing before withdrawing again.
They aren’t moving with the vicious intent a group would need to wipe us out, or to claim the warehouse for themselves. It’s obvious enough that they’re not here for a massacre.
Instead of a proper hit, it’s a classic intimidation stunt.
It’s Malenkov letting us know he’s aware of who interfered with his operation, and now he’s testing boundaries.
“Left side!” someone shouts.
Pivoting just in time to catch movement near the secondary loading entrance, one of Malenkov’s men ducks behind a forklift before firing wildly in our direction, and I return fire twice. The second shot drops him, then it’s on to the next.
Nearby glass explodes outward from another impact, causing us to duck while tires screech nearby. It’s already collapsing.
Within minutes, the remaining vehicles peel away, and silence crashes down afterward, but not completely. Instead, groans, shouting, and engines idling fill the space. At the very least, the immediate violence is over as the dust slowly starts to settle.
I lower my gun slowly, chest heaving before I force myself to calm again.
“You hit?” Ivan asks, walking toward me with a smear of blood on his jaw, but looks otherwise untouched.
“No,” I murmur, focusing more on the reality of my situation than any potential damage. “You?”
“Fine.”
We both survey the damage around us grimly, taking note of anything that looks out of place.
From what we gather, a handful are injured, and only one is dead. Several crates were busted open and pulled from, clearly done during the chaos, but they didn’t manage to get the bulk.
They took enough to sting but not enough to start an outright war. Regardless, I know what this means for me, and it burns beneath my skin to even think about it.
My gaze sweeps over the warehouse slowly, anger simmering hotter with every passing second. This is because of me. Not entirely, but enough to warrant concern.
If Malenkov hadn’t discovered who I was, this never would’ve crossed into Lukov territory. It’s not unheard of for these things to happen, but my family is now involved directly in something meant to be completely separate. This is exactly what I was trying to avoid from the beginning.
My phone starts vibrating before I can think, and, as expected, it’s Roman right on time.
I answer immediately. “What?”
“Do you want to explain why I’m getting calls about gunfire at our warehouse?” Roman snaps, definitely pissed. “The truck hadn’t even arrived for loading yet.”
Stepping away from the others slightly, I rub blood from my knuckles with my thumb and deduce that it isn’t mine, at least. That doesn’t mean I’m out of the woods yet.
“Malenkov made contact,” I say evenly. “They sent a group in to ambush us before the trade-off could go down.”
“I gathered that. Were you hit?”
“No. Ivan’s fine too. We had one casualty.”
“Good,” he murmurs, allowing a hint of brotherly concern to show its face before immediately vanishing. “So why exactly is Grigori Malenkov suddenly interested in us, Nikolai?”
That’s the real question, and it’s entirely rhetorical. He already knows, but he wants me to say it.
Glancing toward the damaged crates, my jaw tightens automatically. “He knows I’m the one who interfered with the organ operation. Somehow, he must’ve made the connection of who I really am.”
“Jesus Christ,” Roman utters with a slow, deliberate sigh. “How much does he know?”
“Enough.”
“That’s not helpful. You told me you had it handled. This looks like the opposite.”
“I do have it handled.”
The sound of his fist banging against his desk comes through the phone, and I barely manage to keep myself from reacting. “This is far from handled, Nikolai!”
I let the irritation hit me fully then, both because he isn’t wrong, and I’m already carrying enough blame for this without him driving it deeper. Of course, I can’t fumble a simple exchange without expecting reprimand.
“He made a move and outed his associations with Volodin and the others,” I say coldly. “We pushed them out, and now we know he’s out of hiding.”
“That’s not the point.”
It isn’t, but it’s all I have for now.
Roman exhales harshly through the line before speaking again, sounding more like he’s resisting the urge to completely lose it on me. “What’s your plan?”
The direct and demanding tone says the obvious part out loud…Roman’s a leader first and brother second. Always.
My gaze drifts toward the dark skyline beyond the warehouse district, toward the city where Grigori’s hiding. He can flex his resources all he wants, but he won’t be able to stay hiding for long.
“I’ll handle Malenkov,” I murmur, set on it despite a lack of leads.
“How?”
“I’m working on it.”
“That answer’s getting old, Nikolai. Try again when you come up with something original, for Christ’s sake.”
Biting back my temper takes careful restraint that feels more precarious as this conversation drags on, but I can’t lash out. Roman’s demands come first, as does the family. That is our foundation, regardless of all the ways he grates on my nerves.
“I’ll send a unit out to track them, and I’ll fix this before it escalates further,” I tell him firmly.
“You’d better before this turns into something bigger than it already is.”
Without warning, the line goes dead, and I lower the phone slowly, tension sitting heavy across my shoulders. I urge myself to breathe in and out, and to press on regardless of how it tries to drag me down.
Ivan walks over a moment later with an unreadable expression. “Bad?”
“Roman’s pissed.”
“That’s his default. He’ll survive.”
I snort to myself, but it’s hard to entertain the humorous for now. Maybe he will, but I doubt that will happen until I find a solution and bury Malenkov.
Dragging a hand through my hair, I stare out across the warehouse again and watch as our men begin the usual cleanup. They move the few bodies, with the majority being theirs, at least, and they recount inventory like physically resetting the place.
Our life doesn’t stop for grief or mistakes. You adapt, or you end up like those dead men, and it’s as simple as that.
Despite everything weighing on me right now—Dani pulling away from me, Roman breathing down my neck, and Malenkov escalating things—I refuse to crack. I’ve survived worse than this, but pressure doesn’t break me. It never has, and it never will.
But as I look out toward the city lights glowing against the desert darkness, one thought settles in my mind, leaving no room for doubt.
Grigori Malenkov just made this personal, and it’s going to be a very expensive mistake for him.