Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Nikolai
Dawn hadn't broken yet.
The quietest hour in the manor, caught between night and morning. Even the security patrol's footsteps in the hallway seemed lighter than usual, as if the whole building was holding its breath.
I woke first.
Not startled awake by any sound. My body just opened its eyes at a certain point. This had been happening for years—my nervous system had long stopped allowing me to sleep too deep or too long. A habit forced by this line of work. Or maybe instinct.
But this morning, I didn't get up right away.
I leaned against the headboard. A steady, warm rise and fall pressed against my chest. Vivienne curled like a cat who'd finally dropped all her defenses, her whole body nestled in my arms.
Her chestnut curls spilled wild across my chest and those vicious old scars. One smooth leg claimed my waist with absolute authority.
I looked down at her lips, slightly parted in sleep.
Last night's loss of control—like a hurricane with no warning.
For twenty years, my bed had been just a tool for brief recovery. A loaded Glock always under my pillow. I was used to waking at the slightest disturbance, used to guarding against the whole world.
But last night, after that clash that nearly burned both our souls to ash, I'd fallen into deep, defenseless sleep in her warmth.
Against every instinct.
I lifted my hand, achingly slow and controlled, sliding down the curve of her bare spine.
I'd always seen emotion as a fatal weakness. Poison. But now, feeling her pulse beat, that cold void in my chest—the one that had been leaking ice for years—filled with something that made my heart stutter.
I didn't want to examine what the hell this feeling was. I only knew one thing—she was mine.
This body.
This soul.
Completely mine.
I carefully freed myself, tucked her leg back under the silk covers, pulled on black suit pants, and left the bedroom bare-chested.
The study air carried a lethal chill.
Sasha already stood by the desk like a shadow without temperature.
"Situation." I walked to the bar, poured myself ice water, my voice returning to the Pakhan's absolute cold.
"Mr. Volkov smashed every antique vase in the ancestral estate study last night.
" Sasha's voice scraped like sandpaper. "Ms. Cole's words at dinner—he took them as a direct declaration of war against the Volkov family's legitimate authority.
He thinks you've been completely brainwashed by a civilian woman. "
I snorted, tilting my head back to drain the ice water. "A piece of rotting wood who can barely keep his teeth wants to talk about war? What about Derek?"
"Dead silence." Sasha's brow furrowed slightly. "Since leaving last night, no moves. Even his guys running the New Jersey territory haven't received new orders."
"A quiet snake's more dangerous than one that hisses.
" I slammed the glass down hard on the desk.
"Derek's a vindictive little shit. After Vivienne tore his face off in public, no way he's going to swallow that.
Raise the security level around Vivienne another notch.
Inside and outside the manor—not even an extra fly gets in. "
"Yes, Pakhan."
The faint sound of a turning doorknob cut through the quiet study.
Sasha and I both turned.
The heavy walnut door pushed open a crack. Vivienne stood barefoot in the doorway.
She wore my white dress shirt from last night, the one I'd tossed at the foot of the bed. What fit me perfectly hung on her like a dangerously sexy mini-dress, barely covering the tops of her thighs.
She rubbed her half-open blue eyes, yawned, hair a complete mess.
"Nikolai? Why are you up so early..."
Damn.
She came out dressed like that?
Sasha reacted fast. Within half a second of the door opening, he'd turned with precision, his gaze locked hard on the bookshelf spine, not daring to let his peripheral vision stray an inch.
I set down my water glass. Didn't answer her question. Just strode over, pulled her whole body into my arms, blocking the spring scene spilling from her neckline.
Vivienne startled at my sudden move, instinctively trying to step back.
"Firecracker, seducing me first thing in the morning?" I bent to her ear, my hand sliding under the shirt hem to grip her waist.
The woman in my arms stiffened briefly. But then, instead of retreating, she brazenly lifted her head.
Those blue eyes still carried the lazy moisture of sleep, but her mouth refused to lose an inch.
"Don't flatter yourself, boss man." She yawned, her finger jabbing my chest without mercy. "I was cold. Grabbed the first thing I found on your carpet. And if I was actually trying to seduce you, I wouldn't be wearing this damn shirt at all."
At her shameless, fiery provocation, my Adam's apple rolled hard. I punished her with a pinch on the soft flesh of her waist.
She made a muffled sound. Those restless hands climbed up, circling my waist with complete naturalness. She buried her face back in my chest, nuzzling lightly.
Sasha ghosted out of the study.
Now just the two of us. I didn't speak. Just tightened my arms, chin resting on top of her head.
This feeling of keeping her completely inside my territory, letting no one glimpse even a fraction—addictive as hell.
"You didn't answer me." Her voice came muffled against my chest, fingers unconsciously picking at the edge of my pants. "What are you doing hiding in the study so early? Up to something behind my back?"
"Dealing with garbage trying to ruin my mood." I lowered my head, nose brushing her neck, making her shoulders scrunch with a small laugh. My palm squeezed her soft waist. "Go wash up. Put on something pretty. Taking you out to survey the territory."
Evening. Obsidian bar in downtown Washington.
Deafening bass pounded the air so hard even the heart in your chest resonated with it.
On the surface, a playground where DC's trust fund kids and nouveau riche burned through their hormones. Underneath, the nerve center of my intelligence network controlling this city.
I wore a black suit, one hand around Vivienne's waist, cutting through the writhing bodies on the dance floor.
She'd worn a dangerously hot black slip dress today. Red lips like blood.
From the moment we walked through the door, sticky male gazes clung like flies—until they caught the death in my eyes and Sasha behind us, then jerked away in fear.
Just as I was about to take her upstairs to the exclusive VIP room, I stopped.
In a dim booth in the corner sat someone who had absolutely no business being on my turf.
Carmine Marchetti.
That old fox held a martini, his perpetually fake smile especially sinister in the strobe lights.
Seeing me, he actually stood up like some long-lost friend, carrying his drink toward us.
Every muscle in my body went taut. Combat-ready.
I shifted Vivienne behind me.
"Nikolai! Never expected to run into you here, my old friend." Carmine's smile squeezed wrinkles around his eyes, his narrow gaze snaking up my body, over my shoulder to Vivienne.
His smile deepened. "This must be the famous fiancée who's got the Pakhan head over heels. Reputation doesn't do you justice. I heard about that little 'trouble' at the charity gala the other day. Been meaning to apologize in person—you know how it is, young people don't know the rules yet."
His "trouble"—naturally referring to the three scouts I'd disposed of.
The old bastard was openly provoking me.
"My territory stays clean, Carmine." I stared at him coldly, not a trace of warmth in my gray eyes.
"Occasionally, some cockroaches wander in that don't know any better.
Just crush them, toss them in the trash.
No need for your apologies. You should worry more about watching your own sewers—keep that dirty water from flowing where it shouldn't. "
Carmine's fake smile froze momentarily, but he quickly recovered that nauseating expression, raising his glass. "Of course. The Volkov family's efficiency has always been admirable."
"Excuse us." I didn't bother with even surface courtesy, forcefully steering Vivienne by the waist. "My fiancée can't stand cheap cologne."
I gave him no chance to respond. Just took Vivienne upstairs.
The second-floor VIP room was absolute privacy wrapped in one-way bulletproof glass. I had Sasha clear everyone who'd originally booked this space tonight. Just us two.
Sealed off from the deafening music downstairs, the room went instantly quiet.
The moment Vivienne settled into the leather sofa, she wrinkled her nose like a dog catching danger.
"Nikolai." She looked up, sharp light flashing in those blue eyes. "That old guy. Something was really off about his smell."
I sat beside her, arms casually draped on the sofa back. "What did you smell?"
"Not cheap cologne. A really pungent smell with a sweet edge, chemical. Kind of like... industrial solvents I read about researching crime novels."
Appreciation flickered in my eyes. This woman's instincts were sharper than the most precise detector.
"Trichloroethylene," I spoke the word coldly. "Industrial degreasing solvent."
Vivienne blinked, caught up fast. "Why would he smell like that?"
"Carmine used to run a massive solvent chemical operation around DC.
Core of their family's money laundering and contraband production.
Two years ago, I personally dismantled it piece by piece.
" I sipped the liquor on the table, eyes narrowing dangerously.
"He's been trying every way to restart that pipeline.
This concentration of smell only sticks to expensive suit fibers if you've been to the refinement site. Spent serious time there."
"Which means he not only restarted the underground operation, but showing up here tonight was definitely no damn 'chance encounter.'" Vivienne's mind spun fast, hitting the core.
"Exactly." I pulled out my phone, firing off an encrypted message to Sasha. "Find out who leaked tonight's location to Marchetti. Dig out the mole."
Done with that, I tossed my phone on the glass table, turned to Vivienne.
The room lighting was dim. Only weak neon from the dance floor below flickered across her face. All that family warfare, gang violence—the soundproof glass seemed to wall it completely outside.
A server brought two drinks.
Vivienne curiously picked up the clear liquid with just a lime wedge floating in it. "What's this?"
"Samogon. Russian moonshine vodka." I leaned back on the sofa, watching her test it like a cautious hamster. "My favorite drink in Moscow."
She took a big sip without hesitation.
Next second, her face scrunched completely, tears nearly choking out, tongue out fanning wildly with her hand. "Holy shit... this is straight industrial alcohol! It's burning my throat!"
I chuckled low, pulled the lethal drink from her hand, pushed it to the table edge, then pressed a mild fruit cocktail into her grip. "Don't show off if you can't handle it."
She pouted, carried her cocktail to the railing by the bulletproof glass, leaning over to look down. The crowd below moved like puppets controlled by alcohol and bass, bodies thrashing wildly.
I walked up behind her with my drink, naturally placing one hand on the railing beside her, boxing her completely into my space.
Neither of us spoke.
I watched her profile reflected in the glass.
Twenty years, my nerves stayed taut as steel wire, always ready for betrayal and killing.
But now, breathing the faint cherry scent from her hair, listening to her steady breathing, I felt something unprecedented. Almost luxuriously... peaceful.
"Want to dance?"
"Dance? No, I don't like this kind of..."
"Boring old relic."
She suddenly turned, back against the railing, those blue eyes flashing sly fire in the dim light.
She poked my tie with her fingertip. "The mighty Pakhan doesn't even know how to dance modern, does he? Only those stuffy ballroom numbers?"
I raised one eyebrow, my gaze instantly darkening. "You're provoking me, firecracker?"
"Just stating facts." She lifted her chin brazenly, grabbed my tie, and yanked me down hard. "Come on, old man. Show me if the mob boss is as dominant on the dance floor as he is in bed."
She gave me zero chance to refuse. Just dragged me toward the private room's small exclusive dance floor.
The bass pounded through the floor beneath our feet.
Vivienne turned, kicked off her heels, and moved that perfect hourglass body to the rhythm with absolute fire.
No technique whatsoever. Limbs following the music freely. Wild, unbound—like flames ready to ignite anyone nearby.
She turned her back, pressed against my chest, shamelessly grinding against my hips with the beat.
The thread of reason snapped.
I grabbed her waist hard and slammed her back into me with force.
I lowered my head, almost biting as I kissed her neck, feeling her pulse hammering, moving with the music rhythm in rough, suggestive thrusts.
"You're insane, Vivienne." My rough voice got swallowed by the bass. Only she could hear.
She tilted her head back against my shoulder, releasing a string of wild, intoxicating laughs.
I looked at her stunning face in the strobing lights, felt the heat she gave me without reservation. In this moment, all reason turned to ash.
Family pressure, Marchetti's probing, Derek's schemes—all of it meaningless in this instant.
Only her, burning in my eyes.