36. Nikolai
36
NIKOLAI
I stand at the window of our suite in the Castellano mansion, phone pressed to my ear as Erik updates me on Boston operations. “The Chinese deal needs your attention,” he says. “When are you coming back?”
My eyes track Sofia crossing the courtyard below, noting how she moves with newfound authority. “Soon. One last thing to handle here.”
I can practically hear Erik’s frown. “The Castellanos?”
I smile darkly. “They tried playing puppet masters. Now they’ll learn what happens when you try manipulating a master manipulator—and his queen.”
Below, Sofia pauses to examine a statue, her fingers trailing over the marble. Even from here, I see the calculation in her movements, the way she catalogs every detail. She’s embraced her true nature, becoming more dangerous than Antonio ever imagined.
“The dock shipments are delayed,” Erik continues. “Dmitri suggests?—”
“Tell him to handle it. I trust his judgment.” My attention remains fixed on Sofia as she speaks with a guard, her posture radiating quiet command. Pride swells in my chest. She’s transformed from the gallery owner who caught my eye into someone who makes even hardened soldiers straighten their spines.
“You’ve changed,” Erik observes. “She’s changed you.”
“She hasn’t changed me.” I watch as Sofia disappears into the villa’s entrance. “She’s completed me.”
The line goes quiet for a moment. “People are asking questions. About her true role.”
“Let them ask.” I adjust my cufflinks, platinum catching the light. “They’ll understand soon enough.”
I end the call and turn to the documents spread across my desk. Each piece of evidence was carefully collected, each thread of deception now exposed. I lift Antonio’s medical records, pristine forgeries that would fool most eyes. But Sofia’s expertise in authentication exposed the subtle flaws—paper aging that didn’t quite match, ink consistencies that wavered.
Beside them lies the trail of Mario’s machinations. Hotel bookings, flight manifests, gallery shipping records. A masterclass in manipulation, creating the perfect storm to drive Sofia back to Florence. The old man orchestrated every detail, from the timing of art acquisitions to the “chance” encounters with Castellano associates.
I trace my finger over a document showing Mario’s substantial donation to the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, made just weeks before their curator “spontaneously” reached out to Sofia about authenticating several Italian pieces. The timing wasn’t subtle, at least not to those who knew where to look.
They thought themselves puppet masters, using illness and heritage to force Sofia’s hand. But they failed to see what I recognized instantly—that Sofia’s talent for manipulation runs deeper than mere genetics. She doesn’t just authenticate art; she reads people like priceless manuscripts, seeing the flaws and forgeries in their facades.
My phone vibrates against the mahogany desk. Sofia’s message lights up the screen:
Grandfather’s calling a family meeting. Time to begin.
I gather the documents, sliding them into a leather portfolio. The old men wanted Sofia to embrace her Castellano heritage. Now, they’ll see exactly what happens when you try to force a natural predator into a cage. She hasn’t just embraced her heritage—she’s transcended it.
I walk to the formal living room, adjusting my cuffs as I enter the opulent space. Marble columns frame the gathering of Italy’s most dangerous family, but my attention is focused solely on Sofia. She commands the center of the room in a black designer dress that whispers power, her honey-blonde hair swept up to expose the elegant line of her neck.
Mario gestures as he speaks, his weathered hands painting pictures of family legacy and duty. Sofia nods at precisely the right moments, her expression a perfect mask of earnest attention. But I catch the predatory calculation beneath—the way her eyes catalog every reaction and expression around the room.
“The future of our family requires strong leadership,” Mario declares. “Fresh vision combined with respect for tradition.”
Sofia leans forward, concern etched on her features. “Of course, Grandfather. The weight of such responsibility...” She lets the words trail off, and I suppress a smile at her masterful manipulation. The old man practically preens at her apparent deference.
Antonio shifts in his chair, clearly uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. His gaze darts between his daughter and father, sensing something he can’t quite grasp. He should be worried.
When Sofia’s eyes meet mine across the antique furniture and gathered Castellanos, that slight curl of her lips sends heat through my veins. In that little expression, I see everything—her satisfaction at their ignorance, her anticipation of what’s to come, her acknowledgment of our shared power.
The Castellanos wanted their prodigal daughter to return and take her rightful place. They succeeded beyond their wildest dreams—just not how they intended. They made her their perfect heir, never realizing they created their own destruction.
I take a slow sip of scotch, savoring the burn and the show before me. Sofia continues her performance, every gesture and response calibrated for maximum effect. The queen I chose. The queen I created. The queen who will help me burn it all down.
I lean against the doorframe, savoring every word as Sofia dismantles the Castellano empire’s leadership structure. Her voice carries the perfect blend of respect and steel as she addresses the gathered family.
“While I’m deeply honored by your faith in my abilities,” she says, “Leonardo has demonstrated the vision and capability this family needs.”
Mario’s face contorts in shock. “But you are the direct heir?—”
“Which is precisely why my endorsement of Leonardo carries such weight.” Sofia’s smile could cut glass. “Unless you’re suggesting my judgment is somehow... flawed?”
I suppress a proud smirk as Antonio shifts uncomfortably in his chair. The manipulation they used to draw her here now serves as her weapon against them.
“The documents supporting Leonardo’s qualification are extensive,” Sofia continues, spreading papers across the antique table. “His management of the Milan galleries alone shows remarkable innovation while honoring tradition.”
The gathered family members lean forward, examining meticulously prepared evidence. I recognize my influence in her methodology, which leaves no room for argument.
“This was your plan all along?” Antonio’s voice cracks.
Sofia’s eyes meet mine briefly, a flash of triumph passing between us. “I learned from the best, Father. You taught me the importance of family legacy. Now I’m ensuring its survival, just not how you imagined.”
The devastation on their faces is exquisite. They wanted an heir they could control. Instead, they created something far more dangerous—a queen who learned to play their own game better than they ever could.
I gesture to Sofia, and we leave them to absorb their defeat. Leading her to the rooftop terrace, Florence spreads before us like a glittering canvas. Perfect for what comes next.
How fitting that this city, which gave birth to both artistic genius and political cunning, should witness our moment.
“Marry me,” I murmur against her ear, wrapping my arms around her waist from behind. Not a question—we’re far beyond such pretense.
“Rule with me, malishka . In Boston.”
She turns in my embrace, those bewitching green-gold eyes alight with triumph and desire. “Are you asking or telling, Daddy?”
I withdraw the ring I’ve carried since Boston—a marquise-cut diamond. “I’m offering you an empire, Sofia.” My thumb traces her lower lip, savoring her sharp intake of breath. “Though we both know I’d wage war across continents if you said no.”
Her laugh rings out, equal parts delight and wickedness. “Good thing I’m saying yes, then.” She extends her hand with imperial grace. As I slide the ring onto her finger, she adds, “Besides, can you imagine the chaos if you tried taking Florence by force?”
“I’d burn cities for you,” I growl, claiming her mouth with mine.
“I know,” she whispers against my lips. “That’s why I love you.”
My ring glints on her finger, a promise of everything to come. Sofia’s eyes sparkle with the same fierce intelligence that first ensnared me. Still, now it’s pointed squarely at me—ready, willing, eager even, to take on the world together.
“You always did enjoy setting things on fire.” Her hands slide up my chest, tracing patterns that ignite every nerve ending. “It’s one of the many things I adore about you.”
“One of many?” I nuzzle her neck, inhaling her scent. “Be more specific, malishka .”
Her hands clutch my lapels. “You know exactly what I mean, Nikolai.” Her body presses against mine, the invitation clear. “You can’t possibly need more flattery.”
“You have no idea the depths of my ego,” I murmur. “It’s insatiable.”
She laughs, and the sound, bright and true, sinks into my bones. “I should’ve guessed. Arrogant devil.”
“Devil?” I tilt her chin up, flashing a wolfish grin. “You make me sound like some mythical creature.”
“Aren’t you? A cold, ruthless...” Her words trail off as my thumb brushes her lower lip, “Mmm, yes?”
“You haven’t even touched the surface, angel.” I tangle my fingers in her hair, drawing her closer. “But I intend to show you.”
Our lips fuse together, burning away the last vestiges of uncertainty, fear, and any doubts we might’ve harbored. Sofia’s mouth is my salvation and my addiction. My hands roam her body, committing every curve to memory. Her response is urgent, our rhythm instinctual as we shed the last remnants of restraint.
I lift her onto the nearby table, eyes never leaving hers. Her ankles lock behind me, her laughter turning to a moan as I rub my straining dick against her pussy through her panties and my slacks.
I tear at her delicate panties, needing to feel skin against skin. She arches into me, her hips a silent plea. I don’t deny her, ripping the lace and tossing it aside, a trophy for later. My slacks are quickly unfastened, and my cock springs free, throbbing with anticipation.
“Now, Daddy,” she demands, her eyes glittering with challenge.
“Patience,” I whisper, though my body echoes her urgency.
Teasingly, I brush the head of my cock against her slick entrance. Watching her eyes flare as I slowly fill her, inch by inch, until we’re fully joined. She hisses at the intrusion, her head falling back as she clings to me. I give her a moment to adjust, reveling in the feeling of being enveloped by her heat.
“Move,” she begs, her fingernails digging into my shoulders.
I withdraw almost entirely, then thrust deeply, hitting that perfect spot that makes her see stars. Her nails bite into my skin, and I revel in her reaction. I set a relentless pace, driven by her cries and the feel of her tightening around me. Her back arches, offering herself completely as I pound into her. Her pleasure becomes my pleasure, each sensation magnified by her responses.
I suck a mark into her skin just below her ear. “Mine,” I growl.
Words of surrender spill from her—urgent, frantic. The sounds only fuel my hunger, each plea and demand pushing me harder. I savor how she meets my every thrust, her body welcoming the onslaught.
Her fingers dig into my shoulders, marks that will linger.
“Call me Daddy,” I command.
The words drip from her lips then, unlocking a primitive need. My pace quickens, driven by her need, my need to give her everything she craves and more. “Always, malishka . Say it again.”
“Daddy,” she pants, her voice thick with pleasure.
My possessiveness knows no bounds, nor does my protection of her. Her body bows under mine. I crave her submission, and she gives it freely, matching my fervor. Her cries echo off the terrace walls, and I savor each one, knowing they’re meant only for me. Her release shatters her, and I follow, my name on her lips, our hearts pounding in unison.
We’re both breathless, sweat-dampened skin and tangled hair. I smooth her hair back, gazing into eyes that hold the universe. “You’re mine, Sofia. Now and forever.”
A beat of uncertainty passes through her, barely perceptible. “And you’re mine.” I stroke her cheek, etching her features into my memory. “Every predator has a territory they’re willing to defend. You’re mine, Nikolai Ivanov.” Her finger traces the scar on my brow, her touch claiming me with the fierceness that first lured me in.
My thumb brushes her damp cheek. “I belong to you, and you to me. Always.”