Chapter 14 Nik
NIK
In the Barkov Organization, I am Nikolai Barkov.
Misha is Misha Barkov.
We carry the weight of our adoptive father’s empire—the debts, the blood, the sins we never asked for.
On the ice, I am Nikolai Ivanov, my real name, my real blood. A mask I wear for the world, a man they think they know.
Living two lives isn’t a skill. It’s a gamble. I work hard to keep the two worlds separate, but the truth is, the line between them is a goddamn lie.
Most people see what they want to see:
Nikolai Ivanov. Nikolai Barkov.
Two names. Two faces.
Safe to assume they’re different men.
Ignorance is bliss.
A few, though, know the truth. Know that the same man drifts between shadows and spotlights, that loyalty and violence sometimes collide with hockey pucks and locker room banters.
The same hands that score game-winning goals.
Can crush windpipes without hesitation.
The same voice that roars on the bench.
Can whisper threats that make grown men tremble.
The overlap is inevitable, especially since Don Campisi holds the strings for the team I play for.
And apparently, I’ll be seeing him very soon.
At the Commission meeting.
Where power isn’t earned, it’s taken.
Where deals are coated in blood and loyalty is tested with knives hidden in smiles.
One wrong move, one careless word, and everything you are…everything you think you own…can vanish in an instant.
“I see,” I say to Lars, who has just announced that he will be traveling to the States soon to attend this rare meeting.
“You and your sister will be there,” Lars says. Not a question.
“I have West Coast games leading up to it, but I’ll book a redeye back.”
“Khoroshiy,” Lars says. “I need you both. What is your report?”
“The Campisi family was in the box recently. I don’t know for sure which ones, but I did hear a conversation post-game between Vincenzo, his oldest, and Coach Harris.”
Lars makes a noise of interest. “About?”
“Throwing games. Harris is doing his part, but unwillingly. Vincenzo seems to be threatening his family. He’s unhinged, as we already knew, and there is only Ezra in the mix at the moment beyond that.
My understanding is that the daughter is a full-time college student at Northwestern.
She’s top of her class and spends time with her family, but doesn’t seem to be doing any specific work for them at the moment.
The other son is in prison, but you knew that. ”
“So out of that lot, who do you think Campisi will eye as a successor?”
I lift a shoulder, even though he can’t see me through the phone.
“Vincenzo or Ezra, I would gather. Campisi doesn’t have a number three who would be in line, and I can’t imagine his eldest’s penchant for violence’d spook him.”
“Well, if they like violence, they might just get it. They’ve been setting up shop in Russia lately. Mostly just low-level stuff with black market thugs, nothing with the Bratva families.”
“And how do the families feel about that?” I ask.
“They sent a message,” Lars says. “Took a guy’s wife and shipped her back in a box of rubies.”
“Campisi will be looking for payback,” I say. “Do we know which family made the move?”
Lars is quiet for long enough that I have my answer. “Fuck.”
“And the easiest target,” he says, “Is Misha.”
I literally feel my blood go cold. “Why?”
“Because she’s my daughter. Because she’s your sister. Because she’s high profile.”
“That’s too big a leap,” I argue. “You whacked some low-level lackey’s wife, and they come straight for Misha? No.”
“Nik,” he says, “The Commission is coming to Chicago. This is Campisi’s domain, and he’s just had a body dropped into his lap. He cannot afford to look weak, not in front of the Bratva. He will go big.”
I sit with this for a moment before I respond. “I’ll put extra eyes on Misha, then.”
“Good, good.” Lars sighs. “They won’t strike during the meeting. All weapons are surrendered as a sign of good faith, a short-term cease-fire. But he could move before, to bring leverage into the room.”
“I’ll keep ears to the ground,” I say.
“I know you will, moy syn. I know you cherish her as I do.”
“More than anything.”
“Is everything else okay?” Lars asks.
“Under control.”
“Good. You know, Nik, you work hard. Too hard, sometimes. Misha tells me you have no women in your life.”
My mind goes to my private dancer, Ana.
“I am fine,” I say.
“Still,” he says, “I’m bringing a woman with me. Natalia. She’s a ballet dancer and the daughter of an associate I trust. You’ll like her.”
“No, no,” I say. “Respectfully. Match her with someone else.”
Lars sighs again. “Nikolai.”
“No,” I say again. “Misha is willing to do this, but I am not.”
“She’s beautiful, Nik. You two would make beautiful babies.”
“I told you, I’m never getting married. I don’t want children. This is not for me.”
He chuckles. “So stubborn. I’m bringing her anyway. You’ll change your mind when you see her.”
I know Lars just wants me to have the opportunity to be with someone I could love and to have a safe space of light in my own dark world. But Misha’s safety is at the top of my list right now.
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, sure, sir. I’ve got bigger things to worry about. I’m going to check on Misha’s security.”
“Perfect, son. Do what you need to do.”
I sit with a half-empty glass of vodka, staring into the past like it might change if I look hard enough.
When our parents died, and I was angry enough to swallow the world. But Lars’s wife, Volya, was warm, motherly, and steady, a rare safe place in the chaos.
While Lars channeled my rage into hockey, teaching me to fight and handle a weapon, Volya was the one who sat by my bedside when I woke up screaming in the night.
Her presence made the darkness more bearable, gave me a foothold in a world that had already tried to crush me.
Volya was a traditional Russian woman from a small town. I’m still dumbfounded she ended up married to a half-Russian, half-Swedish criminal mastermind.
From a child’s perspective, their marriage was a strange, bright light in a grim world. Their relationship was the most normal thing about growing up in the Barkov organization.
The rest of it? Hell.
People came and went through the house, men and women alike. The estate was massive, remote, and part of it was a prison.
Hostages, pain, torture, things I wasn’t supposed to see. The family wing kept me and Misha insulated, but curiosity is a dangerous thing.
By the time I hit my teens, it got the better of me. I started sneaking into the business wing, watching punishments unfold.
I couldn’t stomach rape, but a man taking a well-placed punch? That made my pulse spike. The crack of bone under a fist. The desperate gasp as air left a man’s lungs. It was intoxicating in its own dark way, not cruelty, not enjoyment, but control. And power.
Proof that I could survive.
That I could strike back.
That in a world built to break me, I wasn’t broken.
That same instinct follows me onto the ice. Every hit, every check, every clash of sticks is a release, a measured strike against a world that tries to control me.
I don’t just play hockey as Nikolai Ivanov, I play as Nikolai Barkov, the side of me that thrives in chaos, that doesn’t flinch from the pain of others, that turns anger into fire. Every time I hit the ice, I hear that echo of bone snapping, and I know I’m alive.
Truly alive.
I am thankful to Lars for taking us in. But I am not happy.
Not happy about the Commission. Not satisfied with the turf war that seems to be brewing.
Not happy that my little sister is potentially in danger.
I drain the glass and call Misha.
“Hey,” she answers, voice a mix of boredom and amusement.
“You okay?” I ask. “I just…want to make sure you’re careful. The Commission is stirring, and things aren’t quiet. Don’t do anything stupid.”
“Wow,” she says, laughter in her voice. “Nik Barkov, playing the protective big brother. How sweet.”
“I’m serious, Misha,” I snap. “I’m not joking. Watch your back. Keep your head down.”
She sighs theatrically. “I’ll be fine. Maybe I like a little danger. Ever think of that?”
“Not this kind. Not with what’s coming. You know it’s not a game.”
She snorts. “I know, I know. Thanks, though, mister scary hockey hero. Your concern is…noted. Don’t get too soft on me, okay?”
“I’m not soft,” I growl, but the line between worry and anger tightens in my chest. “Just…don’t make me worry more than I already do.”
“Copy that, boss,” she says, smirking. “End of lecture.”
I hang up, running a hand over my face. Misha’s reckless streak is a spark, but she’s smart. Mostly.
I just hope it’s enough.
I shake off the melancholy, pour the anger into my workout, and drink a ton of water, like it could wash the booze from my system.
Shower done, suit on, no tie; I head to the arena, ready to let the ice hear my fury.
We’ve got a home game, but when Coach Harris gives the pre-game speech, I can see the fire’s gone from his eyes.
Thrown game. Fantastic.
We head into the tunnel, and while the crowd roars, our team feels flat. Everyone can sense that something’s off, even if no one knows why.
Dom smacks my elbow and leans in. “What the fuck, man? You feel that?”
I shake my head, keeping my jaw tight. “Yeah. I do.”
Lights flash, music blares, the arena shakes. It should fire us up. It doesn’t.
My eyes flick to the corporate box, which is filled with Campisi’s yes-men in cheap suits, and I feel my blood boil. Not a single one of them knows what it’s like to bleed for a win.
I can’t help thinking that Campisi is a fucking pussy for not showing up to watch his investment tank.
“Fuck him,” I mutter under my breath, grinding my teeth.
Dom frowns. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” I lie. “Just…watching amateurs try to play big.”
The puck drops, and the familiar, ruthless fire takes over. Ivanov disappears.
Tonight, I am Barkov. Nikolai Barkov.
The anger I’ve carried all my life ignites in every hit, every slash, every strike. The ice knows it. I know it. And everyone else will feel it too.
Vicious, unrelenting, untouchable.
First period: a bone-crunching hit, two penalties, a goal.
Second: another goal, a fight, another penalty.
Third: I score again. The crowd goes wild. Hats fly onto the ice, some sliding under the boards.
Coach Harris paces on the bench, his jaw tight, eyes flicking between us and the scoreboard. I skate past him at the final buzzer, slow and deliberate.
“You’re killing me out there,” he snaps, voice low, almost a growl.
I lean close, letting the words hang. “You look scared.”
He freezes. Eyes locked on mine. Not the look of disappointment. Not anger.
I skate past, letting the roar of the crowd drown him out. “Enjoy your victory,” I murmur over my shoulder.
By the time I’m gone, he looks like he might piss his pants from fear.