Chapter 4 Nik
NIK
By the time I knock out the last pull-up, I’m sweating, but not just from the workout.
I can’t stop thinking about her.
The girl who danced for me at the club on Friday.
All these damn days, she’s been lodged in the back of my mind like shrapnel I can’t dig out.
After she left, I just sat there like an idiot, hands wrapped tightly around my drink, staring at the space where she’d been. Ten minutes. Maybe more. Didn't say a word. Didn't move.
Didn’t chase.
I should’ve.
I wanted to.
Wanted to see her face. Ask her name. Hell, even hear her voice and smell her scent.
But I didn’t.
I just sat there, with a raging hard-on, trying to wrap my head around what the hell had just happened.
She caught me off guard.
It takes a lot to surprise me, but she managed to do so.
Perhaps it was her innocence.
She was clearly not a professional dancer, clearly not an expert in the art of seduction. Everything about her in those first minutes was awkward.
I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d panicked and headed for the door. She wouldn’t have been the first to freeze under my gaze, even among more experienced entertainers.
That’s why I wear the mask.
Part protection. Part necessity.
Only a handful of people know I own Ahren, and I intend to keep it that way.
My face is already on billboards. My name is stamped on the arena walls.
The last thing I need is the press sniffing around, twisting stories about what I do when the lights go out.
.. and what I like when I’m not lacing skates.
But there’s another reason.
When sight is gone, everything else sharpens.
Touch. Smell. Sound. Instinct.
It’s a rush—like tuning into something primal, a sixth sense that takes over. I enjoy testing my limits, allowing desire to grow without relying on physical appearance.
I was, undoubtedly, carnally attracted to that woman.
Not just physically, though there’s no denying that part, but something about her hesitation, about the way she moved, got under my skin.
“Ana.” That’s the name Vasiliy gave me. He knows better than to share anything else.
I can’t stop thinking about her.
“Nik!”
My sister Misha snaps. She supposedly works out at my home gym, though I’m pretty sure her phone has gotten more use than her muscles.
“What?” I ask, brow furrowed.
“You’re not listening to a word I’m saying.”
“And this is different from any other day, how?” I ask, though my eyes are still fixed on the pull-up bar. “I’m just… processing.”
“Processing? Processing what? You’ve been looking at the bar for five minutes.”
“I’m multi-tasking,” I shrug.
“Multi-tasking? You mean ignoring me while you pretend to be some tortured gym hero?”
“Exactly,” I deadpan.
She rolls her eyes so hard I swear they might get stuck. “Unbelievable. You act like every day isn’t exactly the same. You ignore me, grunt at the weights, and brood over… I don’t even know what.”
“Thoughts. Deep, mysterious thoughts,” I mutter, adjusting my grip.
“Thoughts, huh? Maybe one day I’ll get to hear them instead of yelling at your back.”
“Maybe,” I say, smirking. “But don’t count on it.”
She lifts a corner of her upper lip in a near-snarl. “You suck, dude. Why do I bother to hang out with you?”
“Because you have no friends.”
She sighs. “I do have friends,” she says. “I’d introduce you, but last time you told me to keep them away because they kept pawing you.”
“Well, they did,” I say, shrugging, moving to the cable machine, which I adjust and then attach to my ankle.
“You’re a professional hockey player, and professional hockey players have reputations. I’m sure they thought you’d be into puck bunnies.”
“Well, I’m not. I’m into consent, and I did not consent to be touched. Still, my feelings about your friends don’t mean you can’t go hang out with them instead of sitting in here pretending to work out.”
“Christ, you’re cranky tonight. Are you hangry? Should I order something for delivery?”
“Maybe,” I concede. “I had conditioning this morning, then had to go handle a boundary dispute in one of the suburbs. By the time I got back, it was time for practice. I didn’t get to eat.”
She nods. “Why did you have to go?”
“We fucked up,” I say. “Did business in Campisi territory. It did not go well for our employee.”
She makes a face. “Idiot.”
“Mmm,” is my noise of agreement.
“How’s your other job?”
“You know how things go with this team.”
“Do you know who actually owns the Reapers?” Misha asks, scrolling through her phone but not really paying attention.
“I have a pretty good idea,” I say, tightening my gloves. “Silent owner. Evidence points to Don Antonio Campisi.”
Misha whistles softly. “That guy’s untouchable. He’s got his fingers in everything in this city—real estate, politics, small businesses. Grocery stores, restaurants, pharmacies… name it, he’s there.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “And that’s just the legal side. Midwest’s weapons, drugs, jewels, people… he runs it all.”
She frowns. “And the clubs?”
I shake my head. “Not like mine. Thoughtless, dirty. Women addicted, trapped, working off debts they never agreed to. Places like that make me sick. I’d be embarrassed if I owned them.”
Misha smirks. “Which is why you did it better.”
I glance at her. “I do what I can.”
“How many games have you guys thrown this season so far?” Misha asks.
“Six or seven, perhaps?” I answer. “In the grand scheme of a season, it’s not that many to lose, but it’s fucking demoralizing. I’m a team captain, and I have to sit and watch our coach make purposely shitty coaching decisions that are obviously designed to make us lose.”
“The Reapers are like the WWE of hockey,” Misha jokes. “A bunch of effort and bluster, but it’s all fake.”
“I don’t know about that,” I say. “It’s a real effort. Most games are normal. And we’re a bunch of brawlers, so we fight hard for the wins we get.”
“Don’t be defensive, brother,” she says. “I’m just messing with you. Oh, how’s the cute Irish guy?”
“No.”
Misha laughs. “No? That’s not an answer to my question.”
“Yes, it is.”
“He flirts with me at every event.”
“I literally punched him in the face for talking about you disrespectfully the other day.”
“Such a hard-ass,” she says. “What did he say?”
“I will not repeat it. But I will repeat this – stay away from him. He’s off limits.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s a fucking loudmouth. Because he would use you once and then discard you. Because he fucking annoys me.”
“Maybe being used and then thrown away is exactly what I need right now,” Misha says, grinning.
“Pick literally anyone else. I mean it.”
I switch legs and start my next set. Misha still hasn’t done a single exercise, and we’ve been in here for half an hour.
“Papa called,” she says, wisely changing the subject.
Papa. She means Lars Barkov. She was only three when our parents were killed, barely old enough to remember them. For her, Lars and Volya became Mama and Papa, without question.
For me, it’s never been that simple.
I remember our parents as if it were yesterday. Wrong place, wrong time, caught in the crossfire of a turf war between Russian crime families. Barkov’s men accidentally shot them while Misha and I slept in the back of the car.
Lars and Volya adopted us because we had no one else to turn to. For Lars, it was penance to atone for killing two innocents.
“He wants me to consider a match,” she says when I don’t respond. “He has two men in mind. They’re really Russian.”
Whatever the hell that means.
“Do you want to do that? Have an arranged marriage?”
She shrugs. “You know I’m loyal to the family. If Lars thinks it’s best, I’ll consider it. I told him I need to be attracted to the guy, and he can’t be some meathead who beats his women.”
“Wow, your standards are very high,” I say sarcastically, unhooking myself from the machine.
“No one has standards as high as you, brother,” she says. “No one is good enough for you, and someone needs to make little Barkov heirs. I’m fine with it being me.”
I shake my head at this. Lars has approached me more than once about making a political match through marriage, as if we were royalty or something of the sort.
No thanks.
“Well, congratulations, I guess?” I say. “On your impending nuptials.”
“You’re so stupid,” she says. “He wants you to call him.”
“Of course he does.”
“I can’t tell if you’re annoyed.”
“I’m not,” I say. “But as you pointed out, I am hungry. Can you go order something? I’ll call him while we wait.”
She nods, rattles off a few delivery options, and once we settle on one, she slips out of the gym into the main living space of my West Loop penthouse.
I purchased the entire building outright and converted it into luxury lofts—sleek, industrial-modern spaces featuring exposed brick and matte-black steel. It keeps the cash flowing, and I kept the top floor for myself, complete with a private elevator.
I’m the Barkov family’s eyes and ears in the U.S.—effectively the head of the family, while Lars rarely sets foot here.
Balancing that with professional hockey? Exhausting.
Two lives. Two masks. One is always threatening to bleed into the other.
Lars got me on skates shortly after we moved in with him. Encouraged me, pushed me to be good.
I was eight, clumsy, stubborn, and obsessed.
He probably never thought I’d go pro. But here I am: signed with the NHL at eighteen and simultaneously the youngest crime-family leader in the world.
A happy accident for him: someone he trusts in the U.S., expanding the empire.
I sit on the weight bench and make the call. Lars answers on the first ring.
“Moy syn,” he answers in Russian, the language we use for official family business on these burner phones. My son, the term of endearment he uses, even though I have never returned it by calling him Papa.
“Sir,” I say. “How is today?”
“Today is another day I am alive.”
This is code. It means he can talk freely. If he’d answered, “The weather is sour and so am I,” I’d have known he needed to talk once he got somewhere safe.
“Great,” I say. “What’s up?”
“The eldest Campisi is becoming a nuisance,” he says. “He has been shaking down some of our Chicago weapons deliveries. He takes a few items from each shipment, calling it Campisi Tax.”
“That little shit,” I say. Vincenzo Campisi is older than I am, I think, but, from all accounts, he acts like a petulant teenage bully.
While Don Campisi is elegant and controlled, his eldest son is a powder keg waiting to blow. He causes an awful lot of trouble, but he’s also untouchable as the son of crime family royalty. Lying even a finger on him would likely cause a war between our families. “I’ll look into it.”
“Quietly,” he reminds me.
“Of course,” I say. “I’ve heard that Vincenzo is desperate for Don Campisi’s attention. It would be great if he would garner it via activities that don’t impact our work.”
“Indeed,” Lars agrees. “But I need to know if Vincenzo is doing this at his father’s behest, or on his own as a stunt. The kid can be handled, I believe, but if this is the Don’s doing, then we have a new layer of complications to consider.”
“Got it,” I say. “Anything else?”
“There are three other children, as you know. Two more sons and a daughter.”
“Are any of them a threat?”
“That I leave to you to find out,” he says.
I was aware of the sons, but I hadn’t heard much about the daughter. In fact, so little that I’d forgotten she existed.
Interesting. I’ll have to look into her. Perhaps she can be leveraged if things go sideways.
“Chest’ i vernost’,” he says. “Be well, my son.”
“Chest’ i vernost’,” I repeat as I hang up.
Honor and loyalty.
When I step out into the main living space, the food has already arrived. Misha plates everything for us and pours me a much-needed drink.
“Everything good?” she asks.
“Some Campisi stuff to deal with,” I say. “Nothing to worry about.”
She nods. “Can I help?”
I shake my head. My sister has always aspired to a larger role in the family business.
She’s twenty-three and far better educated than I am, as I barely finished upper primary school.
Hockey had me traveling constantly on national youth teams, and as a result, my grades suffered.
By the time I was done, my education was essentially equivalent to that of an eleventh-grader in the United States.
She accompanied me to the States when I turned pro at eighteen. As her legal guardian, I enrolled her in a private school and provided her with a structured and stable environment. She thrived and earned her place at the University of Chicago, where she pursued a degree in international relations.
I never pushed her toward more. Lars is protective. So am I.
Even now, with her grown and capable, I feel responsible. That’s why she has her quarter in the building. Because if danger ever comes knocking, I need to be close enough to reach her first.
“Does he know how much pressure he puts on you?” she asks, her voice softer than her words.
A rare thing she is questioning Lars about.
“It’s okay,” I say simply. “This is my life.”
“But I could help.”
I lift my hand. We’ve had this conversation before. Lars doesn’t budge. Neither do I.
“I’m just glad you’re here,” I say. “That’s more comfort than you know.”
She presses her lips together and stabs at her food. The answer won’t satisfy her forever. But tonight, she lets it go.
Honor. Loyalty. That’s who we are.