Chapter 67
Nikolai
“This fucking family.” I watch as Enzo’s fuck-ass Maserati disappears down the driveway, my girl swallowed by the darkness. The cold night air clings to my coat, my breath ghosting white in front of me.
Maksim is at my side before the thought can finish burning in my mind, followed by Adrian stepping out with that permanent smirk.
“So… does this mean our princess doesn’t love us anymore?” Adrian taunts.
Rage folds me in half. I drive my fist into the exact spot where I know the scar sits.
He doubles over with a sound that’s half laugh, half curse.
“I’ll shoot you again, little brother,” I growl.
It isn’t a threat I enjoy; it’s a promise.
He chokes out a laugh, wiping his mouth. “If she didn’t love you,” he wheezes, “she wouldn’t look at you like you hung the fucking moon.”
Maksim snorts. “Not helping.”
Adrian shrugs. “Just saying. The girl looked ready to claw her way back to him through the car window.” He hesitates a moment. “I guess it could’ve been targeted towards me.” He nods once, eyebrows raised—almost convincing himself.
But we both know that’s ridiculous so I ignore him and push deeper into the crowd.
Dante is gone.
The circle that had held our empire’s polite violence is suddenly empty of the man I came to find. The chandeliers above the ballroom spill pale light across silk, laughter, and the clink of crystal, all trying to pretend everything is fine.
My chest rises and falls, and I can feel the room responding. Conversations stutter. Laughter dies mid-breath.
Someone near the bar murmurs, “Don’t look at him—just don’t.”
Another voice whispers, “He’s going to kill someone.”
People start drifting—not running, but repositioning.
“Where is he?” I ask into the noise, and the question snaps the room taut.
Viktor gives me the most careful, polite shrug he can manage.
“I told him about you and your brother’s attachment.”
His words are clinical, and the edge of my jaw flexes, the only outward sign of the storm coiling under my skin.
Adrian shifts at my side, eyes flicking between Viktor and me—irritation playing on his face.
The two Russian men behind Viktor are statues of muscle and patience, and their presence sits on my shoulders.
“He wanted to kill the slut himself,” Viktor adds.
“I’ll fucking murder everyone in this room.”
Viktor’s grin widens. “There he is. The real Nikolai. I wondered when he’d show up.”
My hand slides to the gun at my hip. The metal is cold and familiar under my palm, but before I can pull it, at least fifteen barrels are aimed back at me—eyes hard, fingers trembling on triggers.
“Careful, Nikolai. Don’t show you’re so easily played. You are not in charge—yet.”
I felt the itch to end it all, the clean burn of a single bullet, the satisfaction of irreversible consequence. I could kill him.
I’d die for it.
But there’s no point living in a world without my princess anyway.
I stare into my father’s eyes, Viktor’s gaze holding mine for a long, impossible beat—long enough for threats to pass unsaid between us. Then, deliberately, he turns and walks away. No words. No flourish. An order by omission.
Adrian catches my hand mid-step, sliding a folded slip of paper into my palm with the neutral expression of a man who’s practiced hiding emotion his whole life.
His eyes flick to Viktor’s shadow stretching along the marble. “He thinks he’s the only one playing the game.”
He lets go of my hand, stepping back like nothing happened.
“But you taught me better,” he adds under his breath. “And you’re more dramatic about it.”
Then he turns on his heel and follows Viktor, expression blank, shoulders straight, a perfect soldier pretending loyalty.