17. Nikolai
17
Nikolai
My father’s office looms like a mausoleum, cold and unyielding, as I step inside. The sharp scent of cigar smoke lingers in the air, mingling with the faint metallic tang of fear that seems embedded in the walls. His desk is a fortress of polished obsidian, dominating the space like a throne of power. Behind him, the vast windows offer a panoramic view of the Vegas Strip, a glittering spectacle of life and chaos that only sharpens the lifelessness of this place.
Mikhail is seated at his desk, his gray eyes scanning a document with sharp focus. He doesn’t look up when I enter, but I feel the weight of his awareness, as palpable as a blade at my back.
I step forward, every movement measured. He watches me now, his cold gaze dissecting, searching for weakness.
“You took your time,” he says, his voice calm and precise, each word laced with a quiet threat.
“I came when you called, Otets ,” I reply, stepping deeper into the room, keeping the venom from my tone.
His lips twitch in what might be amusement, but it’s as sharp as the edge of a dagger. “The men Maxim hired to bring me the Russo girl have disappeared. No bodies, no reports, nothing. They’ve vanished as if the earth swallowed them whole.”
I keep my expression neutral. “Perhaps they realized the consequences of failure and chose to disappear.”
“Or perhaps,” Mikhail says, his voice edged with bite, “someone intervened.” He pauses. “Do you have any insights to offer?”
“None,” I reply, meeting his gaze without flinching.
His silence stretches, the air crackling with unspoken suspicion. His gray eyes drill into mine, searching for any flicker of deceit. I give him nothing, just a blank slate of calm detachment. Let him wonder. Let him fester. He knows I’m capable of intervention, but suspicion isn’t proof, and I’ll be damned if I give him an inch.
The door opens, cutting through the tension like a blade. Maxim strides in, his movements hurried, but there’s a stiffness to his steps. He’s nervous.
“Mikhail,” Maxim begins, his tone deferential but strained. “We have a problem.”
Mikhail’s attention shifts, and I see the subtle tightening of his jaw.
“What is it?” my father asks, his voice cold enough to freeze the air.
Maxim swipes at the tablet he carries, pulling up a series of files. “It’s about the Orekhov shipment. Customs flagged it, but that’s not the issue.”
“Then what is?” Mikhail’s irritation crackles like static, his voice low and dangerous.
Maxim hesitates, glancing at me before focusing back on Mikhail. “The tip-off wasn’t random. Someone leaked the route. The details.”
Mikhail’s posture stiffens, his icy gaze narrowing. “Who?”
Maxim swallows hard, licking his lips nervously. “Kirill Novikov.”
The silence that follows is suffocating. Even I feel its weight, though I’ve anticipated this moment for weeks.
Novikov. He had been my uncle Vlasta’s most trusted lieutenant, a man who held sway over strategy and alliances, a figure of respect within the Ivanov syndicate. But when Mikhail took over, he demoted Novikov to logistics overseer, a role that seemed essential on paper but was a clear insult. Stripped of influence and prestige, Novikov was reduced to managing shipments and supply chains, far removed from the high-level decision-making he had once commanded.
It was a calculated move by Mikhail—just important enough to keep Novikov from openly rebelling, but humiliating enough to remind him of his diminished standing. But logistics is a double-edged sword. The position gave Novikov access to the arteries of the syndicate—the flow of goods, money, and information—and a perfect vantage point to exploit weaknesses.
When I approached him, he was already disillusioned with Mikhail’s leadership. When I showed him the proof that my uncle had not died of a heart attack but rather had been poisoned he had been incensed. He had loved my uncle like a brother, been loyal to him. And now, his loyalty was to me.
“You’re sure?” Mikhail asks, his voice deadly quiet.
Maxim nods, swiping through files. “I traced the communication logs and payment records. Novikov’s been feeding intel to the Orekhov syndicate’s rivals for months. And…” He hesitates.
Mikhail’s eyes narrow. “And what?”
“He’s been using the money to prepare for something big. Moving assets. Consolidating power.”
Maxim’s words hang in the air like a noose.
Mikhail slams his fist onto the desk, the sound reverberating through the room like a gunshot.
“Find him,” he snarls. “Bring him to me. I’ll tear the truth from his throat myself.”
Maxim nods, but his eyes flicker to me once more before he turns and leaves.
I can’t tell if it’s suspicion, or something else. A silent warning, maybe. A calculated nudge. Maxim’s always been harder to read than most, and his sudden nerves are either a sign of incompetence, or something far more deliberate.
I’ve never known Maxim to be incompetent.
My father’s gaze shifts back to me, suspicion burning in his eyes. “Did you know about this?”
“No,” I lie smoothly, my voice steady. But inwardly, I’m already dissecting Maxim’s behavior. The glance he gave me, the way he hesitated before speaking—he either suspects my involvement or is trying to align himself with me without making it obvious. Either way, I can use this.
“Find out why he betrayed you,” I suggest, keeping my tone measured. “Before you kill him. If he’s consolidating power, he’s not working alone.”
Mikhail stares at me a moment longer, then says, “Get out.”
I leave the office, my steps measured, my expression calm. Inside, my thoughts churn. Maxim has handed me a gift, intentionally or not. The timing is perfect. With Novikov’s betrayal exposed, Mikhail will waste his energy hunting him down while I continue to unravel his empire from within.
And Sabina—
I try to push the thought of her to the back of my mind as I head to my car, but it’s like trying to hold back a flood with my bare hands. Mikhail’s attention is razor-sharp, his instincts too honed to miss even the slightest shift in my behavior. I can’t afford for him to sense the possessive obsession I feel for her, not now, not ever. If he knew, she’d become his favorite weapon—or his most satisfying target.
She’s safe at the Russo compound, surrounded by layers of guards and her fiercely protective brothers. I know this. I trust this. But even that knowledge isn’t enough to silence the gnawing anxiety that eats at me.
So I stay away. I don’t call. I don’t reach out. I don’t even allow myself to drive past the Russo estate. All it would take is one misstep, one thread leading back to her, and she’d be dragged into the abyss I’m fighting to escape.
That evening, the penthouse is silent except for the faint hum of the city below. I pour myself a glass of vodka, the clear liquid swirling like the storm in my chest.
Sabina.
Her name echoes in my mind, pulling me into memories I can’t afford to revisit. The curve of her lips when she challenged me. The defiant fire in her eyes that refused to be extinguished, even in the face of danger. The way her body fit against mine, soft yet unyielding, every touch sparking a hunger that still burns beneath my skin.
I take a long sip, the burn doing nothing to dull the ache. She’s back with her family now, at the Russo compound, surrounded by a fortress of guards and brothers who’d burn the world to protect her. It’s where she’s safest, for the moment.
But I can’t let her think I’ve forgotten her. That I’ve walked away without a second thought.
At my desk, I open a sleek, black leather notebook. Its pages are filled with fragments of her. Notes on the things she said, the way she moved, the things that mattered to her. I flip to a fresh page and begin to write, the plan crystallizing as ink flows over paper.
One gift a day, leading up to Christmas. Nothing traceable. Nothing that could lead anyone, especially Mikhail, back to me. Cash payments only. Third-party couriers with no names, just instructions. No cards. No signatures. Just the gifts, deliberate and personal, each one a message she’ll understand.
The first is obvious. A replacement for the gun she lost in the crash. A Ruger LCP II with a polished blue finish on the slide. Blue like her eyes. Sabina carries her weapons like an extension of herself—precision and purpose. This will remind her that I see her for who she truly is: not just someone to protect, but someone capable of fighting her own battles.
The second gift will be a pair of Louboutins, identical to the ones ruined in the explosion.
The third will be a pair of gold cuff bracelets, a nod to her golden goddess costume from Halloween. And to her secret fantasies.
And the fourth…something more intimate. Black silk scarves. Not just for their luxury or beauty, but for the memory of the night I tied her wrists and bound her eyes. The memory of her surrender, her trust, the way she gave herself to me without hesitation. She’ll know exactly what I’m saying without a single word attached, a gift that will linger in her mind as much as she lingers in mine.
My thoughts unravel slowly as I set the pen down, leaning back in my chair. The glass feels heavy in my hand as I look out over the glittering city. Somewhere out there, she’s in a fortress surrounded by her brothers. Safe, untouchable. For now.
But no fortress is impenetrable. Not for someone like my father. Not for the chaos that follows me everywhere I go. I know she’s protected. And still, the thought of putting her on Mikhail’s radar freezes my blood. I can’t call her. I can’t show up. I can’t even send her something as innocuous as a single word without the risk that Mikhail will sniff it out.
And so I will stay away.
But staying away feels like carving out a piece of myself and leaving it behind in the snow outside that cabin. She’s with me in every step I take, every breath, every waking second. I can’t get her out of my mind. The taste of her lips. The way her nails dragged over my back. The way her voice broke when she called my name.
I miss her fire. Her laugh. Her defiance. I miss the way she looked at me like I wasn’t just my father’s shadow, like I was a man who could be something more.
The gifts are all I can give her for now. A way to touch her life without exposing her to mine. A reminder that no matter where she is, no matter how far apart we are, she’s always with me.
I close the notebook and finish my vodka in one long swallow, the burn a poor substitute for her heat. The first package will go out in the morning. Just the beginning of a conversation without words—a story told in silk and steel, leather and fire.