Chapter 3
Nikolai
Goddamn it.
I roared as soon as I slammed the front door to my house, the bellowing sounds echoing in my ears. I’d suspected someone had been following me for a few days, although there’d been no outward signs, no attempt at contacting me.
Then the attack.
I had no doubt what they’d planned to do with Chloe. She’d made the mistake of coming into my past, a world of darkness and violence. A world where she could end up as collateral damage. I refused to allow that to happen.
After taking a deep breath, I moved into the den, snapping on a single light then moving quickly to the corner bar.
Before grabbing a glass, I glanced down at my hand.
It would be difficult to explain the ugly bruises and scratches.
Thank fucking God there was only one more day of school left.
I didn’t need to explain myself to a bunch of stuffed shirts who’d rallied against hiring me in the first place.
After pouring a hefty amount of bourbon and taking a long swig, I headed toward my desk, pressing the hidden button underneath. The slight sound the bookcase made as it swung outward gave me pause as well as provided ugly memories from the past.
A past I’d never wanted to think about or revisit again. While I’d planned for an eventual attack given my training and nature, several peaceful years had gone by giving me hope that my name and position had been all but forgotten.
It was obvious I was wrong.
The man who’d called himself my father had changed my name, Nikolai Lenkov no longer existing.
The boy from the street might have well had died in front of the bakery twenty years before.
I’d asked only after several years why he’d chosen the name he had.
Sacha was of French origin, the country he loved even more than Russia, the meaning a defending warrior.
He’d insisted that I would become the ruthless warrior he’d promised from the very first day.
And that had occurred, but not without extreme trials and brutal pain in order to toughen me up.
“Sacha. Come here, my son. It’s time for you to learn a valuable lesson.”
I walked closer to the man I’d called my father, easing onto the stool beside him. “Yes, Father?”
“It would seem you’ve become disinterested in your classes.”
“Only history, Father.”
He took a deep breath as he contemplated my answer. “Russian history is very important. You must understand the beginning of the Bratva in order for you to become a leader.”
“But Michail is the next leader.”
The single look he gave me was one of disappointment. I lowered my head out of deference.
“You are a becoming a warrior as well as a man. You will be the greatest Pakhan that Russia has ever seen. However, you still need to learn lessons in order to get there, including understanding history.”
“Yes, Father. I will do better.”
“Yes, you will. And in order to ensure that you do, you need to embrace the pain that is often necessary in order to become a great leader.”
I hated his punishments, some leaving me in significant agony for days. I worked very hard never to disappoint him. “Yes, Father.”
As he pulled a knife from his pocket, I winced. “Hold out your hand.”
The memory was bittersweet. I flexed the same hand that I’d used to crush the nose of my enemy, turning it over in order to see the scar that had been left from that particular punishment. I’d deserved it by all rights, school as important as anything else he’d taught me.
I’d excelled in school after that, never providing another reason for him to punish me. However, for my loyalty, I’d paid a significant price.
One that had forced me to leave my home.
And what my father had called my rightful kingdom.
Taking my glass with me, I moved toward the hidden compartment, switching on the light overhead.
The vast display of weapons and ammunition was at least a small comfort.
I took another gulp before placing the glass on one of the bookshelves, selecting my weapon of choice.
The Heckler however, until you learn to control your rage, the rush of feelings will consume you, making you weak. Find a place in your mind where you can find solace. Only then will you truly become a warrior. Never forget, you are my son. Whether by blood or acquisition, you’ve become important to me. You always will be.”
Acquisition.
That’s exactly what I’d become over the years. Years of brutal training and harsh lessons learned through long periods of suffering. Then one day, the man who’d become my father had told me I’d finished my lessons in obedience, becoming the warrior he’d intended.
Now everything I’d worked long and hard to achieve was being threatened. That wasn’t going to continue.
I reached for my phone, scrolling to the one number I hoped I’d never have to call.
Sadly, there was no other choice.
Then I grabbed one of the burner phones I’d had altered. I kept several in my possession. This was the reason why. If Ivan had been turned against me, the call would be traced. With a little technical support, that was no longer possible. I dialed the number, taking a deep breath.
“I’ve been compromised. I need support.”
The voicemail was without a voice, the silence as to be expected.
The Russian Bratva were also extremely careful, the number to be used only in the case of emergency. There was no doubt that’s exactly what I was facing.
I tossed the phone, lifting my glass once again. A toast to the man I’d called my father, his brutal murder something that would forever haunt me.
* * *
I gazed at the class I’d grown fond of, taking a deep breath when I allowed my heated look to fall on Chloe.
There seemed to be no difference in her actions that I’d been able to detect.
At least she appeared unharmed from the incident the night before.
While I’d allowed the fuckers to live, even hoping they would report to whoever they were working for that I refused to play their game, I remained on edge.
I’d noticed a car parked a half block away from the house, the single person inside drawing my attention. I was being watched, whoever the person or entity responsible biding their time. I would be ready, handling the situation as I’d been taught.
“Kogda my zkanchivayem god…” I said in my native language, waiting to see if I’d gathered their attention, “pomni eto.” As we end the year, remember this.
I tried to think of the perfect Russian proverb.
Although Maxim had insisted on a higher education, providing needed funds, I’d never considered myself a philosopher.
That wasn’t in my brutal nature. “Ktoh ni riskuyet tot ni pyot shampanskava.”
“He who doesn’t take risks doesn’t drink champagne.”
I shifted my gaze in Chloe’s direction, both surprised and stimulated by her immediate translation.