Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Nikolai
Five in the morning. Just me and my breathing in the private gym.
The air reeked of old leather, sweat, and disinfectant. I loved this hour. No tailored suits, no "Pakhan" weighing on my shoulders, no old bastard droning in my ear about arranged marriages and family interests. Just pain. Just the pure rush of pounding every frustration into the bag.
I worked the heavy bag with combination punches. Left hook, right hook, uppercut. Each strike made the tape on my knuckles scrape against the rough canvas with a grating sound.
The heavy iron door slammed open with a clang.
Didn't need to turn around. I knew that shuffle—a limp from three years back in Kiev, souvenir from taking a bullet meant for me.
"Look at this asshole," Kostya's voice scraped through the empty gym like sandpaper. "Sun's not even up, and you're already losing your shit. Who pissed you off this time? The old man?"
I didn't stop. Slammed my fist dead center into the bag. The whole frame groaned. "Kostya, if you're here to run your mouth, get the fuck out. If you're here to get your ass kicked, glove up."
He let out a dry, humorless laugh. Limped over to the other side, yanked a pair of red gloves from his bag—his old Cleaner gear.
"Sure thing, Pakhan." He dragged out the title mockingly, wrapping his hands slow and deliberate. "Let's see just how pissed off you really are."
We touched gloves. Ritual over.
Fight on.
Kostya might've had a bum leg, but he'd been one of the family's deadliest killers. His defense was solid as stone. I came at him hard, every punch meant to twist his head clean off.
"You're hitting thirty percent harder than last week," Kostya muttered through his guard, words slurred around his crooked mouth. "The old man shove another woman at you? Or did Derek piss you off again?"
I threw a vicious left hook that grazed his ear, the wind alone stinging his cheek. "Shut up and focus on blocking."
"Touched a nerve?" He dodged my straight punch, eyes glinting with mischief. "Guess I nailed it. Old man pressures you to marry, so you trash someone's gambling joint. Classic Nikolai. Violence over conversation. Every damn time."
"Conversation?" I sneered, hammering my fist into his arm guard with a dull thud. "With a corpse who only speaks money and leverage? That's a waste of time."
"Maybe." Kostya panted, then suddenly ducked low and sent an uppercut straight for my chin.
I tilted my head, dodged it, caught his wrist, twisted hard, and slammed him against the ropes. They bounced and squeaked under the pressure.
"But you've been off lately." Kostya's face pressed into the ropes, voice muffled. "Sasha said you had someone dig up info on a woman. Met her on a plane? That's not like you. Who is she? Worth using the core intelligence network for?"
I stared into his bloodshot eyes and pressed down harder.
"Nobody important." My voice was ice. I let him go. "Some hothead little writer. Mildly entertaining."
"A writer?" Kostya adjusted his mouthguard, eyes studying me. "What kind of writer gets your attention—you, the guy who sleeps with one eye open? Some romance-novel princess?"
"The kind of lunatic who screams her head off at an airport wearing a pink dick headband." I corrected him, tone edged with something I didn't quite recognize. Mockery, maybe.
Kostya froze. Then burst out laughing, doubled over clutching his ribs. "A dick headband? Ha ha ha! Nikolai, you've got fucking taste! And you ran a background check on her? Don't tell me you want to—"
"Add her to my kill list?" I cut him off, eyes sharp as blades. "Don't be ridiculous. I just hate noise on my flights."
"Right, right." Kostya raised his gloves in surrender, but the grin stayed. "But seriously, if you think she's interesting, keep her around. At least it'll shut those idiots up. I don't want to be cleaning up your messes when you're old and—"
"Enough!" I roared and charged.
This time, no technique. No training. Pure survival instinct. I poured everything into my fists—my hatred for the old man, my contempt for Derek, and that bizarre itch those green eyes left under my skin.
Kostya stopped holding back. Two men tearing into each other like animals. Fists connecting with flesh, sweat flying.
Finally, Kostya landed one on my ribs. I blocked most of it but still staggered back two steps. Before I could counter, he panted and waved me off. "Stop! Stop! I'm done. You psycho, you're actually trying to kill me."
I stopped, chest heaving, sweat dripping off my chin onto the floor. The fire still burned. But my knuckles throbbed from the assault. Not enough. Nowhere near enough.
That's when the satellite phone in my bag buzzed. Sasha.
I walked over and picked up, didn't even bother wiping my face.
"Pakhan." Sasha's voice was steady as always. "We got the rat. He's in the safe house downstairs."
"Handle it." Standard protocol. Usually, I'd let Sasha or another guy take care of this kind of dirty work.
Silence on the other end. Sasha understood. Sometimes I didn't like delegating these jobs.
"Understood," Sasha said. "Anything else?"
I glanced at Kostya on the platform, drinking water, looking relaxed. Then down at my still-trembling hands. The violence churned through my veins like lava.
"No." I changed my mind. "I'll handle him myself."
I hung up. Turned to Kostya. He leaned against the ropes smoking, smoke curling around his weathered face.
"If you really think this little firecracker works," Kostya exhaled a smoke ring, squinting at me, "give it a shot. I don't want to be wiping your ass when you're old."
I ignored him. Works? I didn't believe anything "worked" in this world. I threw on my jacket and walked out without looking back. Love was poison, marriage was a grave. My mother proved that with her life. I'd never make the same mistake.
Back at my base by the Potomac, the basement carried the faint, lingering smell of old blood.
The rat sat tied to a chair, face white as paper. One of Yuri's men. Short-sighted fool.
I said nothing. Just walked up, picked up the blade we used for traitors. The edge caught the dim light, reflecting my cold face.
"Does Yuri know you ran your mouth?" I asked. My voice was terrifyingly calm.
He shook, teeth chattering, the rag stuffed in his mouth reducing him to muffled whimpers.
I had no interest in begging. I raised the knife. No hesitation. Sliced off his left pinky with precision.
Blood sprayed from the severed joint like a fountain, spattering the cold concrete floor. His scream was muffled by the cloth, but his body convulsed violently.
Next, the index finger.
I picked up the still-bleeding digits and dropped them into a velvet box I'd prepared. A gift for the old man. Pain delivered by my own hand spoke louder than words ever could.
"Tell your boss," I wedged the blade back into the collar of his shirt, locking it in place, "if he reaches into my business again, next time I'll mail the box to whatever mistress's bed he's hiding."
I turned and left. Didn't want another look. The violence I'd been carrying since the gym finally eased—just a little—with those two severed fingers.
Sasha followed behind me, tablet in hand.
"Pakhan," Sasha reported, "per your orders, we've been hitting several of old Volkov's associates.
The Seventh Street underground casino, the smuggling warehouse at the docks.
We didn't touch their core operations, but we cut off a few revenue streams. They've gone quiet. No one's making moves for now."
"Not quiet enough." I adjusted my cuffs, the black onyx cufflink cold against my skin. "Keep eyes on the old bastard. And Derek. Before the wedding, I don't want any surprises."
"Understood." Sasha swiped the screen, frowning slightly. "One more thing. About the woman you had me look into."
My steps stopped. "Go on."
"When I traced the card transactions, I found something interesting." Sasha handed me the tablet. "The woman, Vivienne Cole. She's not just a writer."
I took the tablet. An encrypted file filled the screen.
"She's Derek Volkov's ex-fiancée." Sasha read the name, his tone carrying a hint of hesitation. "Your half-brother's. The civilian girl he was supposed to marry."
My breath hitched—just barely.
"What did you say?"
Derek's ex-fiancée.
Fuck. She was Derek's unlucky ex?
The screen showed her profile, including a photo. Younger, more naive, leaning head-to-head with Derek, flashing an eight-tooth smile at the camera.
Nothing like the woman in the ridiculous pink dick headband screaming into her phone.
"Keep going." My voice dropped low.
"She received an invitation to the wedding." Sasha scrolled. "Her employer, Urban Style Magazine, assigned her to cover it."
I flipped to the last page. A copy of the official wedding invitation. The guest list. Media section. There it was, printed clear as day: Vivienne Cole, Urban Style Magazine.
I stared at that line and started laughing.
How absurd. How perfect.
The world had too many damn coincidences.
Derek dumped this woman for some bony supermodel. And I—Nikolai Volkov—just fucked her and gave her money to get revenge.
Now she'd use my money to attend the wedding of the asshole who dumped her.
And I, the current Pakhan, Derek's brother, the man who had her begging against a bathroom mirror...
How could I miss this show?
I looked up at Washington's gray sky through the window. My smile widened, deepened.
"Sasha."
"Yes, Pakhan."
"Make the arrangements." I forwarded the file to my personal phone.
"Arrangements for what?"
"Tell my dear brother I'll be attending his wedding." I turned, eyes gleaming with predatory excitement. "And I want the best seat in the house."
This was going to be one hell of a show. A fitting performance for Derek's stupidity.