Chapter 18 Nik
NIK
Dominic is cleaning his handgun as Christopher and Darius give their reports. The two men lead our shipping and receiving operations for liquor and weapons here in Chicago.
“That little psycho’s been intercepting our shipments,” Christopher says, voice tight. Sweat beads on his ruddy, round face, his balding scalp shining under the light. “He roughs up our guys, then skims a few bottles here, a few guns there. Every time.”
Darius, lean and wiry like a street fighter, gives a single nod. “Calls it the Campisi Tax. At first, we thought it was a joke, but it’s happened at least ten times now.”
“And you just…let him?” I ask.
Dom looks up from his task, clearly curious what their answer will be.
“We don’t want to be the start of a war,” Christopher says. “We shoot the Don’s kid, nothing good's gonna come of it.”
“True,” I say. “But doing nothing implies we’re weak.
Allowing him to terrorize us makes us look like we’re bowing to kiss the Campisi ring.
And I’m not okay with that. You want to sit in front of Lars when he gets here soon, and tell him you just let Campisi come slap us around, let him just walk off with our stuff? ”
“I’d be happy to pop a bullet between the guy’s eyes,” Dominic says casually. “Sounds like a menace.”
That’s a nice way of describing a man, I’ve realized, who is probably bat-shit crazy.
And while there’s a lot of crazy in the crime world, reckless crazy is never a good thing. Still, Vincenzo Campisi is not on the kill list; not unless we want to start a war on Lars’s behalf.
“I don’t think so,” I say. “Not yet.”
“Then what are we going to do?” Christopher asks.
“First, double up staff on receiving. Tell them to say no and refuse to open the crates. Tell them to ask Vincenzo if they should call the Don and ask if this is on his order. Make him squirm. And, shit, rough him up a little. Send him home with a black eye that he’ll have to explain to his daddy.”
Dominic chuckles at this.
“In the meantime,” I continue, “I’ve got it on good authority that the Campisi daughter is an unassuming college student here in the city.
I haven’t had time for a full briefing, but I understand she’s a strong contender to be his successor.
So, I’m thinking that we start with a little pushback if the fucker shows up again, see how that goes.
Then, we keep Princess Campisi as a back-pocket option for leverage. ”
Dominic makes a face, thinking about this, then nods. “We nab her, and if they want her back, they tell the little shithead to back the fuck off and let us do our business.”
“Yes,” I say. “But also, stop working behind our backs in Russia. We play by their rules here; they need to play by ours over there.”
“We already shipped them one of their women as a message on that front,” Christopher says, leaning back in his chair, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Can’t take a subtle hint, I guess.”
“Which begs the question, boss,” Dom shakes his head, a dangerous grin spreading across his face. If they’re still fucking with us after we literally send them a dead woman in a box of rubies, do we really think roughing up Vincenzo is going to matter?”
I raise an eyebrow. “What are you saying?”
He leans forward, fingers steepled, each word precise like a chess move. “We grab the daughter sooner rather than later. Why wait? If she’s the bargaining chip, we take her at the Commission meeting.”
Darius blinks, and Christopher’s eyes go comically wide, a mix of shock and disbelief.
The Commission meeting is a sacred schedule; interference with it is almost unthinkable. Usually, it’s strictly off-limits for any violent maneuver. Otherwise, the meetings would be nothing but chaos, everyone trying to assert dominance instead of doing actual work.
I lean back, rubbing my temple, letting the silence stretch for a beat while I think it all out.
“At the end of the day,” I say slowly, making sure they all follow, “Dom and I have to head out west for a few games. We’ll get back on the red-eye the first night.
I’ll be in the first meeting with Lars, and Dom… ”
I lock eyes with him. “You coordinate from here. Make sure we have eyes on the Princess, track her movements, and report any anomalies. I don’t want to leave anything to chance.”
Dom nods sharply. “Understood. I’ll have everything mapped, every pattern noted, and any issues flagged immediately.”
I shift my gaze to everybody. “And security. I need Lars, Volya, and Misha to get extra protection. Lars thinks the Campisis may try the same plan with Misha, and I’ll literally slit the throat of anyone who allows that to happen.”
Christopher chuckles nervously. “Always straight to the point, huh?”
“On it, boss,” Dom says with respect in his voice, knowing I mean exactly what I say.
We leave the meeting and climb into the car. Dom starts the engine, and for a while, it’s just the low hum of tires on the road. The kind of quiet that feels heavier than words.
After a beat, he says, “You ever hate this?”
The question hangs, sharp and quiet, cutting through the roar of the city outside. I glance at him, trying to read the expression behind his calm exterior. His jaw is tight, fingers drumming against the wheel. There’s a flicker of doubt in his voice.
I don’t answer right away because what I feel doesn’t fit into words that simple. It’s anger, exhaustion, a thrill I can’t admit even to myself.
“This?” I ask finally.
“Yeah. The meetings. The family stuff. Then, having to flip it off and play hockey like none of it exists. Living two lives.”
“Hmm.” I pause, weighing my words. I should be the leader; he works for me as a part of the Barkov organization, but he’s also one of my only true friends. “Yeah… sometimes.”
He glances at me, eyebrows raised, seemingly kind of shocked by my honesty. “Really?”
I shrug. “I don’t really hate them, but both worlds just take everything out of me. There’s barely any room left for anything else.”
“Like your budding pickleball hobby?” Dominic jokes.
I raise an eyebrow. “Fucking pickleball. Hockey and Barkov business are a hell of a lot higher on my list than that sport.”
“Is it an actual sport?”
“Not to me, no,” I say.
“What’s higher on the list than Barkov’s business and hockey, then?”
I don’t answer.
“Fucking,” he says, like he’s checking off a box. “Never mind. Guess I answered my own question.”
I snort.
“I like killing people,” Dom says, then rolls his eyes at himself.
“Okay, killing assholes, usually. I’m not some psychopath who murders for fun.
” He shrugs. “And I like hockey. But if I’m honest?
I keep this stupid little daydream of meeting a pretty girl and getting off the grid.
A farm. Dogs. Chickens. Up at dawn. Simple shit. ”
It actually makes me laugh—the real kind I don’t give away often. “I cannot picture that. Not even a little.”
He shrugs, half-smiling. “Dreams are dumb. Probably never gonna fucking happen. Suppose I live long enough to be too old to enjoy it, maybe. I’m a killer—so I’m also a target. That’s life.”
The mood darkens again. “You’re a ghost. No one can touch you.” I say.
The conversation ends as we pull into the arena parking garage. Conor is pulling in at the same time, and I groan.
“You like him,” Dom says with a smirk as we both step out of the vehicle and grab our bags. “Deep down, you like him.”
“Hey, fuck-asses,” Conor yells as he strides toward us. “When do I get an invite to the top-secret asshole club again?”
“Never,” I mutter.
Dom chimes in at the same time, grinning, “You didn’t spend enough money, the girls said you were ugly, and your dick was small.”
Conor throws up his hands in mock outrage as we head toward the locker room. “Wounded! First, it’s not the size, it’s what you do with it. Second, every man in this room has seen it. It’s not small!”
A few other guys hear this exchange and start making jokes about the size of Conor’s dick.
Conor, in an effort to defend himself, starts throwing out insults.
“Yours is crooked, Angel,” he says to one of our second-string wingers, “Just like your shots. And Max Knight’s is a weird color.”
“You’re a real cock connoisseur, Murphy,” Max says in his posh British accent. “A fan of cocks, perhaps?”
“Stop eyeballing everyone’s cocks, Murphy,” Angel adds. “I might have to go to HR.”
Conor makes a face, then mimes masturbation. “You guys are all cocks.”
Laughter erupts. Everyone’s in on the fun, fucking with him, except me, because I find Conor Murphy completely fucking annoying. And because I’m not participating in this literal dick-measuring exercise, so naturally, he turns his attention to me.
“I think Nik hasn’t used his in a long time,” he says with a grin. “Maybe he needs to get laid. He’s strung so tight, someone could play a tune on him. Am I right?”
I stop. I turn. I stalk right up into his face, and suddenly the room quiets just a fraction.
“There is a reason I can get in that club and you can’t. There is a reason I can turn around a shitty game, and you can’t. It is called discipline. Discipline about what I do, what I say, how I conduct myself, what I eat, who I fuck, and how I fuck.”
Conor blinks at me, open-mouthed, looking like a kid who just realized he poked a hornet’s nest.
“Discipline, Murphy,” I continue, voice low and steady. “Something you clearly have zero experience with. Keep testing me, and remember—you don’t want to lose any more teeth.”
Conor freezes mid-smirk, the joke dying on his lips.
“You’re gonna say something?” I ask, my voice sharp and controlled. “Or are you realizing now that some things are better left alone?”
He swallows hard, then forces a grin. “Relax, Nik. Someone’s gotta keep you entertained, right?”
I turn slowly, deliberately, back toward my locker. Every eye in the room is on us. “Entertain yourself elsewhere,” I say over my shoulder. “I don’t need your help.”
A few guys snicker, nudging each other, clearly enjoying the show. Conor takes a step closer, still trying to save face. “C’mon, Nik. Don’t be like that. It’s just a joke—”
“Not funny,” I interrupt, voice cold. “And keep in mind, Murphy, my definition of ‘joke’ and yours don’t align. Last time, you found out what happens when you push too far. You don’t want a repeat performance.”
Conor, to his credit, keeps his mouth shut.