Chapter 42
Nikolai
Istumble out of the bar, my third or fourth stop of the night, and into the alley. Frigid air bites my clammy skin, and I shudder. Didn’t I wear a jacket?
The door shuts behind me, muffling the music still hammering in my skull. I take a step, and the world tilts. My stomach heaves. Everything comes up at once—the liquor, the beer, the self-loathing.
I vomit onto the concrete, acid scorching my throat. The alcohol burns twice as bad coming up as it did going down, and I retch again, eyes watering, knees threatening to buckle.
“Jesus Christ, man,” a deep voice says from the street. “You good?”
The bouncer—Marcus, or Mike, or something—splits in two then stitches back together, his massive frame outlined by the blurry neon-pink sign at the front entrance.
I blink to clear my vision and wipe my mouth on my sleeve. “Fucking fantastic.” I spit the last of the bile onto the cement and try to straighten but careen sideways instead.
“You on something? Need me to call your brother?” He strides into the dim alleyway, boots scuffing through the dirt and grime, and leers at me with thinly veiled hostility.
“He’s gonna have a field day when he sees you, holy shit.
Probably’ll take away your allowance. Didn’t you already lose your Mercedes? ” His words drip with mockery.
Memories of the night I lost my car flicker through my drunken mind: the snow, the shouting, a corner taken too fast, the sickening sound of crushing metal and shattering glass as the vehicle rolled.
Paxton’s head colliding with the window, his motionless body hanging there, his face smeared with blood. I was sure I’d killed him.
I’ll never drive again—not because my brother took my keys, but because I can’t. I can’t bring myself to get behind the wheel.
“Fuck you.” I brace myself, one hand on the brick wall, and thrust my middle finger in the air. The gesture feels strangely heavy, like my arm is pushing through swamp water.
His lips pull back into a sneer, deepening the pockmarks on his cheeks. Under the weak light above the door, his teeth gleam a sickly yellow.
“You’re a real piece of work, Rossi. This how NHL prospects act these days? Oh, wait…” He pauses for dramatic effect, the smirk never leaving his face. “That ain’t you. Sorry, my bad.” He laughs, head thrown back, Adam’s apple bobbing under the patchy stubble on his thick neck.
I stagger toward him, the ground pitching beneath my feet. “You don’t know shit about me.”
He’s right, though. No matter how good I am on the ice, they won’t move me up—because off the ice, I’m a fuck-up, a liability. I’m the black sheep of the Rossi family.
“I know enough.” His palm slams into my chest and shoves me back. “You’re lucky to have that last name. Your grandfather practically built this neighborhood. Otherwise, I’d stomp your skull in and leave you in the gutter where you belong.”
Something in me snaps—the same fury that makes me lethal on the ice, the same fury that ignites when someone mentions my family name, as if it’s the only thing about me that holds any worth.
I lunge forward, seize his shirt, and drive him into the brick. “You think I give a fuck about my name?” I snarl in his face, my vision swimming. “You know nothing about what it’s like to—”
His fist connects with my jaw. Pain explodes across my cheek, and I taste blood.
“Fucking wasted punk,” he spits.
“That all you got?” I swing with blind rage, connecting with his temple, his mouth, his nose. My knuckles scream in protest, but the pain feels good—feels real, something I can focus on besides the hollow ache in my chest.
He ducks my fourth or fifth punch and rams his shoulder into my gut. We crash to the ground, and air leaves my lungs in a violent rush. My back slams into the pavement, and my head bounces off the concrete. Stars burst behind my eyelids, and my limbs go limp.
“Is this what you want?” He straddles my waist. “Someone to put you out of your misery?”
His fists move in a blur. The crunch of bone echoes in my skull, my nose broken. Blood flows down my throat and fills my mouth. I can’t breathe; I’m drowning in it.
I try to buck him off, but his weight pins me. A punch strikes my temple, and my vision narrows to pinpricks. I can’t lift my arms. He rains down blows, and my head rocks back and forth. Through the haze of pain and alcohol, I realize I’m fucked. I’m too intoxicated, too dazed to defend myself.
“Fucking…worthless…trust fund…piece of shit…” Each word is punctuated with another punch, each one harder than the last.
I’m fading, darkness creeping in. This is it. Nikolai Gabriel Rossi, beaten to death in an alley beside a gay dive bar in Staten Island. How poetic. My father will be proud.
The click of a gun cocking breaks through the bouncer’s heaving breaths and pounding fists.
“Get the fuck off my brother before I paint these walls with your fucking brains.”
I know that ice-cold voice better than my own. Alexei. My savior. My nightmare. The perfect son, older than me by almost seven years.
Through swollen eyes, I make out the gleam of metal pressed to the temple of the man above me. My brother stands there, his face a mask of controlled rage, his gun steady in his hand.
“A-Alexei,” Marcus—or Mike, or whatever the hell his name is—stammers. “He started it. You know I would never—”
“I don’t give a fuck who started it.” Alexei digs the barrel deeper into the man’s skull. “Get. Off. My. Brother.”
The weight eases off my torso. Air rushes into my lungs. I cough, and blood sprays from my mouth, covering my shirt.
My brother’s deadly calm demeanor falters momentarily. “Shit, Niko. You okay?”
I try to respond, but only a wet gurgle comes out, my throat blazing. I roll onto my side and spit blood onto the pavement. My ribs scream in protest. Everything hurts—my face throbs with each labored breath, as if my head had been fed through a meat grinder.
“Open your mouth,” Alexei orders the guy on his knees, hands raised beside his ears.
“Please, man. I wasn’t—”
“Open. Your. Fucking. Mouth.”
He stares up at my brother, eyes wide with terror, body shaking as Alexei shoves the barrel between his lips.
Metal scrapes his teeth, and tears stream down his cheeks, glistening in the faint light.
Alexei twists the gun, thrusting it deeper, and the bouncer whimpers and gags.
Sirens sound in the distance, growing closer.
“Alex…” I push myself up on one elbow. Pain lances through my side. Definitely a bruised or cracked rib or two. “Don’t.”
He doesn’t so much as glance my way, his focus laser-sharp on the man sniveling before him.
“You work for a Rossi, live in a building owned by a Rossi.” His tone is terrifyingly soft, so quiet, it barely carries above the bass thumping from inside the bar.
“You had one job—to keep my brother safe—and I find you beating the life out of him? You call that loyalty?”
Alexei’s lip curls, his face carved from stone, bloodlust simmering beneath the surface—the same bloodlust in every Rossi.
“Don’t,” I manage, more forcefully this time, stumbling to my feet despite the agony that tears through me. “Alexei, stop.”
His gaze locks with mine, dark and fathomless, still holding that murderous intent. The gun doesn’t waver. “Why? He could have killed you?”
His finger twitches on the trigger, and the bouncer sobs, snot oozing from his nose.
“Please, Alex. Not here. Not now.” More sirens, even louder. Half this city loves us, the other half hates us. There’s no telling what will happen if he’s arrested. “For me. I can’t lose you too.”
His eyes soften, but only slightly. He shoves the barrel so deep in the guy’s throat, he falls over backward, legs underneath him.
“You’re lucky my brother has more mercy than I do.
” He yanks the pistol from Michael-Marcus’ mouth and aims it at his forehead.
“You no longer have a job. You have until morning to vacate my building. If I see you again—I’ll burn you alive.
” He holsters the gun at his side. “Get the fuck out of my face.”
The bouncer scrambles away on all fours like a terrified crab, never taking his wide gaze off us. When he’s at a safe distance, he clambers to his feet and bolts, leaving behind the stench of piss.
The smell churns my stomach. Vertigo hits me, and my legs become rubber.
Alexei catches me by the waist. “You’re a goddamn mess, Niko. Took me two hours to get here.”
I loop an arm around his neck. “I didn’t need you. I was about to make a comeback.” I laugh, but it turns into a wet, painful cough.
He part carries, part drags me toward the street. “Sure. Sure, little brother.”
Snowflakes spin in my vision, and I briefly close my eyes to settle the dizziness. “Where were you?”
“Rocco’s. He has me watching a woman he’s obsessed with.”
“Really?” I ask, my tone elevated with surprise. “Is she at least hot?”
“You’re stupid.” He rounds the corner of the building, and his car comes into view, parked at the end of the block, flashers on. “She’s not bad. Blonde. Quiet. Been through hell. Got a little boy. I’m going to be traveling with her, so I need you to get your shit together.”