Chapter 21 #2
I watched the man across from me slice into a rare filet—he'd changed into a fresh black dress shirt, sleeves rolled up, but faint tape marks still lined his knuckles.
"You're sitting here with a busted lip, drinking a bottle of wine that costs more than five years of my rent." I finally broke the silence, stabbing at the truffle on my plate and raising an eyebrow. "You know how insane you look right now, boss man?"
Nikolai paused, knife and fork hovering.
He glanced up, storm-gray eyes locking onto me through the wavering candlelight, bloodied mouth curving into a lazy smirk.
"I can think of crazier things. Like a romance novelist who watches a man get his jaw shattered and instead of screaming and calling the cops, gets so turned on she comes twice against a metal locker, head full of her next chapter. "
My face went up in flames. I nearly choked on my wine.
"That was—that was a creative response to extreme stimuli!" I shot back, ears burning. "And you're the one who pinned me to that locker!"
"True. My fault." He chuckled low, chest rumbling, eyes raking shamelessly over my collarbone. "Next time I'll fuck you until that smart mouth can't argue back."
I bit my lip and decided not to engage further on this dangerous topic. I set down my glass and leaned forward slightly, meeting those dark gray eyes.
"Seriously, Nikolai. Why?" I dropped the teasing tone, voice soft. "You're already the king of Washington's underworld. People shake at the sound of your name. You sit at the top of the pyramid. Why the hell do you still go into that filthy cage and fight like you've got nothing to lose?"
The room went quiet. Only the mournful cello drifted through the air.
Nikolai didn't answer right away. He turned toward the window, toward the Potomac, and the predatory edge in his gaze softened into something deeper—something weathered by blizzards and time.
"In the brutal Moscow winters, power and titles don't buy you bread, Vivienne.
" He turned back, voice steady. "The race for Pakhan started when I was still a kid.
And it was uglier than you can imagine. When I was twelve, I got my ribs broken with a rusty pipe over control of a gambling den.
I lay in the snow for an entire day and night. "
My heart clenched. I stopped breathing.
"That day I learned the only thing this world respects—especially the Bratva—is raw violence.
" He lowered his gaze, absently turning the stem of his glass.
"Now I wear custom suits and ride in bulletproof cars.
But I have to keep reminding myself that my bones are made of street blood.
The rust in the cage, the sound of fists breaking bone, pain, blood—that's the only thing that makes me feel like I'm still a living wolf and not some corpse puppet-stringed by family interests and fake rules. "
He looked up, eyes burning into mine. "That's the only way I feel real."
I stared at him, frozen. In that moment, all those terrifying titles shattered.
I didn't see the ruthless Pakhan. I saw a lone soul who had to grow fangs just to survive the frozen wasteland.
"What about you, firecracker?" Nikolai reached across the table naturally, thumb brushing over the back of my hand. "You're obsessed with your keyboard. You'd rather fetch coffee and take scraps of pay at some publishing house that only cares about clicks and cash than give up writing. Why?"
I looked down at his large, rough hand wrapped around mine. A wave of confession rose up, fueled by wine and warmth.
"Because I want to prove I'm not disposable." I smiled bitterly, voice rough. "Derek used to mock me. Said my typing was a waste of time. Said my stories about gangsters and love were worthless. My editor treated me like a free janitor and typist. They all thought my words would never matter."
I took a breath and squeezed his hand, meeting his gray eyes head-on.
"But when I type 'V.C. Night,' I'm free.
In my words, I'm not some broke girl who can barely pay rent.
I'm not a failure. I'm God. I control life, death, love, hate—everything.
I want to build a kingdom in this fucked-up world that's completely mine. "
Nikolai watched me in silence. No pity. No mockery. Only absolute recognition and respect that shook me to my core.
"Your battlefield is the keyboard, Vivienne.
" He spoke slowly, deliberately, every word searing into my soul.
"And you're a damn good soldier. The people who deny you?
Their souls are too barren to carry the power in your words.
Remember—'V.C. Night' doesn't need anyone's charity.
And she sure as hell doesn't need validation from trash like Derek. "
He raised his glass, elegant gesture suspended in midair.
"To the future bestselling queen."
Two crystal glasses kissed with a clear, delicate chime.
I watched his throat work as he drank, watched the flame in his eyes burn only for me. My eyes stung without warning.
He didn't just understand my madness and ambition. He'd built a fortress around my battered pride.
In this moment of soul-baring honesty, I heard the last wall inside me collapse completely.
After dinner, he walked me out to the riverside promenade.
The early summer breeze felt good against my face, carrying the damp scent of the Potomac. We walked side by side in silence, but the air between us was thicker and hotter than ever.
Then—a sharp whistle. A streak of blinding light shot into the black sky.
Boom. A brilliant golden firework exploded directly over the Potomac.
I blinked and turned instinctively toward the man beside me.
Nikolai stood with one hand in his pocket, expression calm, as if the fireworks show loud enough to wake all of Washington was just another rainstorm. He glanced down, gray eyes reflecting a sky full of color, and said quietly, "Look up."
Firework after firework burst open, painting the river red. Through the chaos of light and sound, he leaned close, lips brushing my ear, voice soft beneath the explosions.
"Happy birthday, Vivienne."
Birthday.
God. I'd been so buried in outlines and mafia chaos I'd forgotten. Today was my twenty-fourth birthday.
I stood beside him, shoulder pressed to his broad, solid frame, breathing in his scent—cedarwood and faint gunpowder.
Fireworks climbed and exploded.
And my heartbeat—it pounded wildly, relentlessly against my ribs. No—it had been pounding since that bloody fight in the cage. It hadn't stopped since.
I stood still, head tilted back, watching the last blue firework fade into glittering stardust.
I knew it clearly now.
I was done for.
This man, Nikolai Volkov, had seized my soul completely. In twenty-four years, I had never, ever loved anyone this madly, this hopelessly.