17. Nikolai
NIKOLAI
Morning light fills the kitchen of the townhouse in clean, quiet shafts. Nikolai sits at the wide oak table with a double espresso in front of him, the dark surface of the coffee still and yet strong as ever.
Across from Nikolai, Theo cradles his own cup, both hands wrapped around the warm ceramic.
Between them, propped carefully against a small saucer, sits the boy’s cherished stuffie, an unofficial mascot to the work at hand.
A tiny espresso cup—purely ceremonial—rests in front of Maximus as if he too is part of the morning briefing.
Theo glances at the stuffie and then at Nikolai, a soft, almost shy smile touching his mouth.
“Thank you for picking him up from my place on the way back last night,” Theo says. “I know it was out of the way.”
Nikolai takes a slow sip of his coffee. “Anything for you, mylashka.”
The words settle easily. The rage that had driven Nikolai to the edge of the city the previous evening has not vanished, but it has changed temperature. It is colder now, more precise, directed outward at the unseen client rather than at the boy sitting opposite him in one of his shirts.
Nikolai sets the cup down and shifts into the tone he uses when the personal must yield to the necessary.
“Contact Tracker. Tell them you are safe. Tell them you have managed to gather nearly all of the financial details they required.”
Nikolai keeps his eyes on Theo as he speaks.
Theo nods once. He opens the laptop already waiting on the table, fingers moving quickly across the keys. Nikolai watches the screen from his side as the encrypted message is composed and sent.
The two of them sit in silence afterward, the only sounds the quiet tick of the wall clock and the occasional soft shift of Maximus’s ear when Theo absently adjusts him.
While they wait, Theo’s voice returns, quieter…
“I’m truly sorry for how this started,” Theo says, a note of regret in his voice. “I don’t know if I can ever forgive myself for the way I came into your life.”
Nikolai studies the boy’s face—the genuine regret, the lingering fear that the previous night’s mercy might still be revoked. He answers without softening the truth, but without cruelty either.
“Our beginning was unusual,” Nikolai says, a little smile at the corner of his mouth. “But it was the only way we could ever have met. In that sense, it simply had to happen. Our destiny was to be together, even if it wasn’t exactly… regular.”
Theo’s mouth curves into a small, real smile. He looks back at the laptop, refreshing the encrypted inbox every few seconds.
Nikolai leans back in his chair and lets his own thoughts drift for a moment. He wonders, almost idly, whether Maxim and Milo had needed such a twisted introduction—betrayal, revelation, near-execution—before they found whatever steady ground they now occupy.
The comparison is useless, yet it lingers.
Nikolai is broken out of his thoughts though as Theo’s posture suddenly changes.
“He’s responded,” Theo says, tension in his voice.
Nikolai rises and moves behind Theo’s chair, one hand resting lightly on the back of it as he reads the short message over his shoulder.
TRACKER: Perfect. Payment will be made in cash. Location details to be sent later. I knew you wouldn’t let me down, Theo.
The words are clean. Professional. And wrong.
Nikolai feels the familiar cold prickle along the back of his neck, the same instinct that has kept him alive through more than one carefully laid trap.
Cash.
A later location.
No mention of the usual layered transfers or the verification steps that serious buyers insist upon when the sum is large enough to matter.
“This isn’t right,” Nikolai says.
Theo glances up. “Clients often pay in cash, Nikolai. Or at least in part. Especially the careful ones.”
“Perhaps.” Nikolai’s voice stays even, but the calculation behind it has already accelerated. “But I am still very unsure. I haven’t lived this life for so long and not learned how to smell bullshit and betrayal. Or how to spot a trap.”
Nikolai returns to his seat, finishes the last of the espresso, and reaches for his phone.
The situation with Tracker can no longer be allowed to drift.
If the client is connected to the Rossinis—as Nikolai increasingly suspects—then every hour of delay is an hour the enemy can use to prepare the next move.
Theo is now openly under his protection. That fact alone changes the board.
A meeting with Maxim is required. Not another round of careful, open-ended discussion but an agreement, there and then.
Time is no longer a luxury any of them can afford, Theo most of all.
Maxim’s private members’ club occupies the top two floors of a discreet limestone building overlooking the older commercial quarter of the city.
The entrance is unmarked, as to be expected. You either get an invite here, or you don’t come. It’s a simple as that in Maxim’s world.
Inside, the lighting is low and deliberate, the wood dark, the carpets thick enough to swallow footsteps. It is a place designed for conversations that never appear in any official record.
Nikolai arrives with Theo at his side and Xander a half-step behind.
Maxim is already waiting in the main lounge, Milo seated gracefully beside him. The two men exchange a brief, measured nod. No unnecessary warmth, no wasted words.
“The boys can keep themselves amused,” Nikolai says.
Maxim gives Milo a quiet look. He rises at once, offers Theo a small, genuine smile, and the two boys move together toward a quieter side salon that overlooks the water.
Nikolai watches them go for a second longer than strictly necessary. Then he turns back to the business at hand. Xander takes a position slightly to the side, present but silent.
Nikolai and Maxim sit opposite each other in deep leather chairs. A bottle of clear vodka and two heavy glasses already wait on the low table between them. Nikolai does not reach for his yet...
Instead, Nikolai lays out the situation without embellishment: the original contract against his financial structure, Theo’s role, the compromise of his identity, the cash-payment message that smelled of a trap, and the growing certainty that Tracker is either a Rossini cut-out or something close enough to make no practical difference.
When Nikolai finishes, the room feels tighter. It’s now or never as far as Nikolai is concerned…
“I will ask this only once,” Nikolai says.
“Will you handle the Tracker situation with us, knowing full well it is almost certainly the Rossini family behind it? We all know what that would mean. We know it would bring death. But we also know what it could mean for both our futures to have this matter resolved.”
Maxim lifts his glass, takes a slow sip, and does not answer immediately.
Nikolai can see the evaluation happening behind the older man’s eyes—the weighing of risk against long-term advantage, the calculation of how much blood and capital a joint operation will cost, the quiet assessment of whether Nikolai’s current position is strength or exposure.
Tension settles across the table like a third presence before Finally Maxim sets the glass down.
“Are you certain you can trust the boy?” Maxim asks.
The question lands cleanly. Nikolai feels the old, sharp surge of emotion rise: possessiveness, residual fury at the original betrayal, the newer and more complicated need to protect what he has claimed.
His right hand closes into a fist against his thigh hard enough that the knuckles ache.
For a moment the control Nikolai lives by threatens to slip.
But Nikolai forces it back into place and answers with absolute clarity.
“The boy is mine. Forever. He has proven his devotion to me. Of course I can trust him.”
Maxim studies him for another long second, then nods once.
“Very well. I will work with you on this. Understand, however, this is not a lifelong pact. Once the immediate situation is dealt with, we will sit down and properly renegotiate a longer-term agreement on territory and terms.”
“Agreed,” Nikolai says. “And I commend your integrity for stating it plainly.”
They raise their glasses and drink. The vodka is cold and clean. Xander steps forward at the signal…
“I’ll contact our best generals on both sides,” Xander says. “Quiet mobilization. No noise until we are ready to move.”
Nikolai gives a short confirmatory nod.
The decision is made. Tracker and the Rossini clan are going down, and the timeline has just compressed from eventual to imminent.
Across the lounge, through the open archway to the side salon, Nikolai can see Theo and Milo seated together near the window.
Their conversation appears easy; Milo is showing Theo something on his phone, and Theo’s expression has softened into the first unguarded smile he has seen on his face since the motel.
The sight settles something deep in Nikolai’s chest.
Maxim follows Nikolai’s gaze and speaks without turning.
“The right boy always helps a Pakhan to be strong.”
Nikolai nods. For the first time the future arranges itself with unexpected clarity: Theo not as a vulnerability or a redeemed liability, but as an integral part of the life he intends to keep building.
The softer hours and the harder ones both.
The loyalty already proven and the loyalty still to be tested.
Now it is simply a question of removing the two obstacles that stand in the way: Tracker and the Rossini family, before either can strike first.