Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Nikolai
The adrenaline was still screaming through my veins when I dropped back into my seat.
I flipped open the financial magazine on my lap, but my eyes didn't linger on the boring merger data for even a second.
In my peripheral vision, the woman beside me sat rigid.
The flush hadn't completely faded from her cheeks, her messy chestnut curls still seemed to carry the damp heat from the lavatory, but her spine was straight as a rod.
She pulled down the tray table, flipped open that laptop covered in cheap stickers, and her fingers started hammering the keyboard like a woman possessed.
I lowered my lids, my gaze drifting without trace to my right hand resting on the leather armrest. On the knuckle of my ring finger, several faint red scratches throbbed with a dull ache. Her masterpiece, carved in the moment she'd lost all control.
I'd seen every kind of woman. Those who tried to climb into my bed, tried to grab a piece of the Volkov family power pie—they were either plastic perfection built from silicone and starvation or toys who'd sell their souls for cash.
But this woman sitting next to me, whose name I didn't even know, was different.
She'd just been through a humiliating betrayal, but in that lavatory mirror, when she'd bitten down and taken my thrusts with those broken yet feral whimpers, I'd felt something rare—a compulsion to strip her open and see what made her tick.
I listened to the crisp clatter of her keystrokes, the corner of my mouth lifting in an imperceptible curve. She was trying to use this laser focus as camouflage for the madness we'd just shared. Smart, but transparent as hell.
I didn't call her out on the act. I pulled that military-encrypted black phone from my inside pocket, connected to the cabin's satellite Wi-Fi, and typed out a command with one hand.
"Find out everything about the woman in seat 3D on flight AA405. I want her complete file. Before tonight."
Message sent.
The screen went dark. I tossed the phone back in my pocket, closed my eyes, and let that mixture of her sweet vanilla scent and my own gunpowder cologne fill my nostrils.
The plane scraped out an ear-splitting screech as it hit the runway at Washington Dulles.
The second the seatbelt sign dinged off, the woman beside me bolted up like a startled rabbit. She didn't even glance my way—just shoved her laptop in her bag, yanked down that busted wheeled carry-on from the overhead bin, and fled the cabin like her life depended on it.
I stayed put, watching her panicked silhouette disappear down the jetway. I didn't try to stop her.
I don't play chase. If I want something—or someone—she could run to the other side of the planet and I'd still pluck her right back into my palm.
Once the cabin cleared out, I stood, straightened my suit jacket, and walked out into the terminal.
Washington's morning sun was sharp and cold. Outside the VIP corridor, a bulletproof black Escalade SUV was already waiting.
Sasha stood ramrod straight by the door. He wore a nondescript black suit, his face—hard as granite and eternally expressionless—hidden behind sunglasses.
As my most loyal lieutenant and former special forces, the lethal aura he carried made ordinary people instinctively give him a wide berth.
"Pakhan." He dipped his head slightly as I approached and pulled open the door.
"What's going on?" I ducked into the spacious back seat, my voice dropping back into the absolute ice that belonged to the head of the Volkov family.
Sasha slid quickly into the driver's seat and started the engine. The SUV merged smoothly into traffic.
"The Vegas pipeline is fully operational.
The Italians agreed to give us a thirty percent margin on the arms route.
" Sasha's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, his delivery rapid but crystal clear.
"But while you were away, the Marchetti family started testing boundaries on our south side.
They hacked the books at two of our clubs. "
I let out a cold laugh, my fingers automatically stroking the black onyx crest on my cuff. "Carmine Marchetti, still so impatient. He thinks because I went to Europe, Washington's his playground now?"
"Want me to send someone to knock some sense into them?"
"Not yet. Let the bullet fly a while." I watched the scenery blur past the window, my eyes darkening.
Just as our vehicle was about to merge onto the highway toward downtown, two black Lincoln Navigators suddenly cut in from a side access road, boxing our Escalade against the shoulder in a brazenly dangerous maneuver—one in front, one behind.
The shriek of tires scraping pavement tore through the air.
Sasha's reaction was pure muscle memory. He slammed the brakes, his right hand already flashing to the Glock holstered under his arm, barrel aimed forward. The temperature inside the vehicle plummeted to absolute zero.
The Lincoln's door swung open. Several hulking men in black suits climbed out. Leading them was Yuri—my father's most loyal, most annoying lapdog.
Yuri walked up to my window and rapped his knuckles against the bulletproof glass without ceremony.
Sasha didn't lower the window. Instead, he stared him down with those emotionless eyes, his finger already on the trigger.
"Easy, Sasha," I spoke quietly and pressed the window control.
The bulletproof glass lowered an inch.
"Sir." Yuri's meat-packed face squeezed out a fake smile, even dropping the basic title 'Pakhan.' "Mr. Volkov heard you were returning today. He's very pleased. He hopes you'll come to the estate immediately to see him. The car's already prepared for you."
This wasn't an invitation. This was a naked ambush.
Sasha's face turned ugly instantly. He cracked his own window slightly, his voice like an ice-dipped blade. "Pakhan has his own schedule. If you don't know how to make an appointment in advance, I don't mind teaching you some manners right now, Yuri."
"I'm just following orders, Sasha." Yuri lifted his chin provocatively, hand on his waist holster. "Mr. Volkov's orders—in this family, does anyone dare disobey?"
Fucking bastard.
Rage surged through me. But now wasn't the time for a showdown.
That didn't mean I'd swallow this asshole's provocation.
I looked at Yuri's smug face and curved my lips.
"My father wants to see me. As his son, I suppose I owe him that much." I pushed open the door and stepped out, my long legs hitting the ground, towering over Yuri.
I was a full head taller. When the terrifying pressure of the Pakhan unleashed without restraint, Yuri's fake smile froze instantly. He instinctively took half a step back.
I didn't even look at him, didn't acknowledge the Lincoln door he'd pulled open. Instead, I walked straight past him and yanked open the back door of my own Escalade again.
"But I'm particular about cleanliness, Yuri. I don't sit in leather seats that smell like dog." I settled into the car and delivered my final words to Yuri's livid face. "Lead the way. If you drive too slow, I don't mind having Sasha roll right over your roof."
The window rose slowly, sealing off the outside world completely.
"Find out." I leaned back against the seat, eyes closed, my voice carrying bone-chilling murder.
"Only a few people in the inner circle knew my exact flight details from Vegas.
For Yuri to intercept me precisely at the highway exit means we've got one of the old man's eyes inside.
Dig out that mole. Bring him to the basement alive. "
"Understood." Sasha gripped the steering wheel and asked in a low voice, "But Mr. Volkov went too far this time. Even though he nominally handed over power, this kind of test..."
"He wants me to know that even though I'm sitting in the Pakhan's seat, the family's foundation is still shaking. The remnants of his power haven't been completely dismantled." I opened my eyes, my gray pupils devoid of warmth. "He's forcing me to make a move. But the time isn't right."
I needed a legitimate reason and opportunity to strike.
Half an hour later, the car pulled into the massive, opulent yet blood-stinking Volkov estate in the Maryland suburbs.
Through corridors hung with classical oil paintings and heavy crystal chandeliers, I entered the dining room thick with cigar smoke and expensive cognac.
My father, Peter Volkov, sat at the far end of that redwood table that could seat twenty. His graying hair was combed to perfection. Though time had carved deep ravines into his face, his hawk-like eyes still gleamed with cunning and ruthlessness.
"Nikolai, my son." The old man set down his wine glass, revealing an extremely phony paternal smile. "Is the Las Vegas air fresher than Washington's?"
"The entertainment there is certainly excellent, Father.
" I took a seat at the opposite end, as far from him as possible.
A servant immediately poured me a third of a glass of Bordeaux.
"But if I hadn't come back, I wouldn't have known you've started tracking airline flight schedules so closely.
Your intelligence network is even more efficient than mine, the Pakhan's. "
I smiled, but the undercurrent in the air could shred any ordinary person.
The old man cut a piece of bloody steak and put it in his mouth, chewed twice, and laughed dismissively. "As a retired old man, is it wrong to care about my son's safety? Besides, your foundation isn't as solid as you think, Nikolai."
"Whether my foundation is solid doesn't need to be tested by having a pack of ill-mannered dogs intercept me on the highway." I swirled my wine glass, ruthlessly piercing his pretense. "If you're bored, you could go play golf in Florida instead of overreaching."
Peter's face darkened instantly. He slammed down his knife and fork—porcelain clinking sharply—but he had to maintain surface peace.