Chapter 20 Nik
NIK
I sink back into the stiff airport chair, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the early morning crowd shuffling past.
Dom scrolls through his phone beside me, quiet for once.
My phone buzzes. Lars. I answer.
“Sir.”
“Nik, moy syn,” Lars says, his tone calm but firm, the weight of authority in every word. “I saw you wrap up the West Coast games. Great job. The Reapers performed well.”
“Spasibo, sir. We handled it,” I say, shrugging. “Sweep was clean. Not sure it’ll be enough for playoffs, though.”
“Da. Playoffs don’t matter. What matters is control. Discipline. That is what I expect. That is what I want from my son.”
There’s the faintest shift in his tone, almost soft. “Volya and I are at the hotel. All in order here. Is security for Misha good? Everything under control?”
“There should be no issues at the hotel, sir.”
“Good. Very good.” He pauses, then adds, more measured: “Listen, Nik. Keep your eyes on Misha. She is strong, but… this world is not kind. You understand.”
“I understand.”
“I trust you, moy syn. No one else I would trust to… handle things more appropriately.”
I swallow, feeling the weight of his words and the implicit threat beneath them. “Understood, sir. Everything is planned. The Commission, the security, the locations… I’ve got it handled.”
Lars lets out a low hum, almost satisfied. “Good. The Campisis… they are persistent, as always. Be careful. Do not make mistakes. But I trust you to manage. You always do.”
“I won’t, sir.”
“Excellent. That is what I want to hear. Nik, it will be good to see you when you return. Chicago has been quiet, Volya and I can’t wait to see you.”
“I’ll see you soon.”
“Safe flight. And remember, Nik…” There’s a brief pause, his voice carrying more warmth than he usually allows. “…be careful. Always.”
“I will, sir.”
“Chest’ i vernost’,” He says.
“Chest’ i vernost’.”
The line clicks dead. I set the phone aside and let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
Dominic leans over, smirking. “Even over the phone, he makes you feel like you’re walking a tightrope, huh?”
I shrug, sliding my phone back into my pocket. “He’s just… protective. Careful. And he expects results. Always.”
Dominic shakes his head. “Classic mafia dad.”
“Exactly,” I mutter, eyes fixed on the blinking gate sign. “Classic mafia dad.”
O’Hare is a ghost town when Dom and I step off the red-eye from LAX. It’s barely five a.m.; the sky is still black. I managed to get just enough sleep on the plane to survive the first day of the Commission meetings.
Lars and Misha are already checked into the hotel, with extra security on them. Dom will be prowling around once we get there, keeping an eye on things. It makes me feel better having him at my back.
“Well, it was fun winning on a fair playing field,” Dom says as we tromp through the eerily empty airport.
“Not enough to get us into the playoffs,” I say.
“I realize that. I’m being a Glass Half Full Guy.”
I roll my eyes. “Okay, Glass Half Full Guy—what’s your hot take? You think our silent owner’s gonna keep letting us piss off the oddsmakers by not tanking when we’re told?”
“What’s he gonna do? Come out and tell people we’re not good at getting fucked in the ass for the sake of his oddsmakers?”
I lift a shoulder. “I’m not interested in being fucked in the ass at all.”
Dominic chuckles. “Well, don’t knock it until you try it.”
“Fucking sick bastard,” I mutter, though I can’t help grinning. Dom does shit like this all the time, makes random comments that seem out of left field or meant to shock people. He has a wicked dark sense of humor, and sometimes it’s enough to get me out of my own head.
“I do like giving Campisi a middle finger out there,” I say. “I’m not taking a dive just to line his pockets. I play to win.”
“Same,” Dom says. “I am a little worried about Coach Harris, though. I don’t think he signed up to coach for a rigged team.”
“He is scared,” I confirm. “If he refuses to comply, his family is at risk. If he walks away, the Campisi family will either kill him or, at best, ensure he doesn’t coach in the league again.”
“Perhaps we can provide some discreet security,” Dominic suggests.
“Perhaps,” I agree. “For his family. They are innocent in this.”
“That would be a very nice thing, if you chose to do it.” There is a wry humor in Dom’s tone.
With heavy side-eye, I say, “I am many things, and nice is not one of them.”
We walk the rest of the way in silence, and a car service is waiting for us as we head to the ground transportation level.
Inside, Dom throws his head back against the seat and closes his eyes, grabbing a few minutes of shut-eye.
He’ll go to his apartment first to shower, then come to the hotel to keep an eye on security for Volya and Misha.
I’m going straight to the hotel to check into my room, shower, and change before our first meetings.
I thought of Coach Harris’s family again. Technically, I shouldn’t interfere.
Harris and his family aren’t under Barkov’s protection, and they haven’t asked for it.
Harris seems woefully unaware of the criminal element in Chicago; otherwise, I imagine he’d have some idea of who I am outside of hockey.
I could offer protection, but I’d need a reason other than altruism.
Altruism doesn’t exist in our world.
There’s always a give-and-take, and Harris technically has nothing to offer me in exchange for his or his family’s safety.
Still, I hate it when innocents get caught in the crossfire. It always brings me back to the memories of my parents, to the reason Misha and I are in this life instead of some other.
The easiest thing to do would be to help the Harris family disappear. I could obtain new identities for them and relocate them far away, with assurances in place for their safety and well-being.
But then Campisi will just hire some other shitty dishrag of a person to do a shitty job of coaching what could be a championship-level team.
So, yes, taking care of Coach Darrell Harris and his family would be a kindness. But it also just pulls some other innocent into our world.
What a conundrum.
By the time we get to the hotel, I’ve decided to put surveillance on Harris’s family. Dominic says he’ll get it in order, with instructions to report if anyone from the Campisi organization starts sniffing around.
Inside, I stride through the large lobby area, looking around to see if I recognize anyone. I see a few people heading out for a morning run or grabbing coffee at the kiosk, but I don’t see anyone I know. At the front desk, I hand over my driver’s license and credit card.
“Nikolai Ivanov. Oh, don’t you play for the Reapers?” the hotel clerk asks. She looks at me, wide-eyed, for confirmation.
“I do indeed,” I say.
“Weren’t you just on the West Coast?”
I nod. “Yes. I took the red-eye back. I have meetings here this week.”
She types some things into her computer and then says, “Well, it’s been hectic for us here. We actually had some overbooking. I think we got it all taken care of, but we had some unhappy guests earlier. I’m glad you did the online confirmation, or we might have given your room away.”
“Well, good thing I live in the city,” I say. “I could have just gone home.”
She makes a noise of agreement. “We have a sister property next door, but several guests were not happy to go there. Either way, I’ve got you in a king suite with a kitchen and a city view on the twenty-first floor.”
She slides the key cards across and points me toward the elevators. Then, almost shyly, “Would you mind a selfie? My dad and brothers will lose it when they find out I met you.”
I’m dead on my feet, praying for an hour of sleep, but I manage a smile. “Sure.”
She comes around the desk, phone ready. We snap the photo, she thanks me again, and I sling my bag over my shoulder toward the elevators.
It feels like a painfully long ride, though it’s barely a minute. By the time I hit the room, the time difference and flight had left me running on fumes. All I want is to drop my bag, take a piss, and face-plant into the pillows for an hour.
I manage the first two without turning on the lights—bag dumped in the kitchen, quick stop in the bathroom. Then I head for the bed.
Immediately, a smell hits my nose, and I’m suddenly fully awake.
Perfume.
Peaches. Soft. Sweet.
Sharp, unmistakable.
I pause, instincts kicking in. Something, or someone, is in the bed.
A shadow moves beneath the thin fabric of a chemise. My eyes narrow.
“Are you… Ana?” I ask, my voice low, cautious.
The figure freezes. For a moment, it’s like we’re both caught in the same daze.
Then she shifts, and I see her profile, the curve of her neck, the slope of her shoulders; recognition flares in both of us. My eyes take in her mouth, the way she holds herself, that quiet defiance filling the space.
She stirs, reaching out instinctively as if to steady herself, and her gaze lands on me. Her eyes are wide, alert, startled, and something else flickers in them—curiosity, disbelief, awareness.
I flick the light on. The soft glow illuminates her face. Dark hair cascading around her shoulders, eyes flashing—Leanna Campisi.
Not Ana.
I take a slow breath, locking the image in my mind. She sits up, clutching the covers, still stunned, still caught between confusion and recognition.
“You… how did you—?” Her voice wavers, unsteady, but demanding.