8. Chapter 4
Chapter 4
Nikolai
T he faces around me drown in the purple lights of the club.
“You look pissed off.”
Viktor Sidorov sits across from me, his huge, muscular body taking up my vision.
“Clubs are loud, and the drinks are weak.” I say.
“Then get a new supply. You own the place.” Viktor grumbles as he passes a drink over to me.
We clink glasses and down the shots. Viktor’s eyes glaze over the people around us as if he’s searching for someone.
“Where’s the Pakhan?” I ask.
“Alek is dealing with business. He wouldn’t tell me more than that.” Viktor shrugs and downs another shot. I glance down at the three drinks he’s brought over for himself. When will he admit he has a problem?
“That one’s new.” I nod at the bruise on his brow.
He shrugs again, his features stony and silent.
“What’s new is you being here. I heard rumours you’d been visiting bars on the other side of Righteous Cove.” Despite the alcohol in his system, Viktor always carries the threat of a predator in his eyes. “The man who told me,” he downs another drink, “I broke his nose… After your past, I couldn’t let them disrespect you like that.”
His eyes hold mine for a moment longer, then he gulps down some whisky and cracks his neck.
“The past is the past, Viktor.”
Not that the past would leave any of us alone. We’ll only be free of it when we’re all buried six feet under. Why pretend our souls can be saved when we all know the truth? The Sidorov Bratva are cursed. Viktor drinks it away, Aleksander stews in his silence, Damon died with his secrets, and I bear the scars.
Viktor stews in my words as the lights go down and a spotlight turns towards the small stage at the back of the bar. The girl who manages the bar for me convinced me to open up entertainment. She seems to think the bar is more than a front for money laundering. Still, I admire her ambition.
Viktor’s eyes leave mine, trailing over my shoulder and following something behind me. His body tenses and his eyes narrow.
“Nikolai, who’s the singer?”
I shake my head. “How would I know? I don’t keep track of every singer who performs at my clubs.”
I glance over my shoulder. Then I take a double take. Then I turn my chair and lock my eyes on her as she takes her place on the stage.
No fucking way.
Heels, long legs and a short red skirt. A pierced belly button, a black crop top… Her dark hair down in curls around her face. Her ears are pierced, and so is her nose, the hints of silver adorning the determined expression on her pretty little face. She looks like a totally different person, but those striking blue eyes are unmistakable.
A chuckle escapes my lips as I imagine Don Leonardo seeing his daughter’s wild side. That chuckle dies away as I realise every other bastard in this room is drooling over her with the same predatory gaze as Viktor.
What the fuck is she doing here?
The daughter of the Italian Don, singing in a known Bratva bar. Is she trying to get herself killed? I snatch one of Viktor’s drinks and down it in one, ignoring his grumbled complaints and locking my eyes on Isabella.
I’ve seen the other side of Don Leonardo’s perfect princess before. I found her in a half empty bar, singing to an absent crowd. She sneaks away there after almost every performance at the Opera. But I never imagined her doing it where prying eyes are watching.
She catches my eye as she adjusts the mic, freezing in my dark gaze for half a moment. She can’t know who I am, yet the pause in her body makes me wonder. Why are you putting yourself in danger ? Our eyes lock across the room, the purple light dancing across the curve of her cheekbones.
Isabella De Rossi grips the mic, nods to the bar for the backing track, and sings Amy Winehouse like she’s written Tears Dry On Their Own herself. The bubbling chatter dies away as everyone fixates on her. She holds the room in the palm of her hand and plays us all like puppets. There might have been a dozen Bratva foot soldiers, all spellbound by her.
If she wants attention, she fucking has it. Every bastard with a cock between his legs will be scrambling over her after that. The song ends to applause, cheers, and drunken fists banging tables.
A loud thud from behind me snatches my attention. Viktor’s glass lies shattered across the table. He doesn’t know his own strength when he’s drunk. It’s like having a drugged up tiger following you around.
“Look at her, Nikolai.” He snarls.
“She’s gorgeous.” I agree, meeting his eyes.
“ Look at her . That’s Don Leonardo’s daughter.”
I glance back at her nonchalantly.
It’s not worth it. Anything I do now is only going to lead to trouble. She wants to play the fool, let her. It’s not my fucking job to save her. Any stupid fantasies end here. Don Leonardo has kept her hidden enough that the foot soldiers won’t recognise her. I just need to keep my mouth shut and this will blow over.
“No, it’s not. You think Don Leonardo would let her dress like that? Don’t be a fucking idiot, Viktor. You’re drunk, and you have shit eyesight.”
Viktor’s eyes flicker between me and Isabella. They settle on Isabella.
“Viktor!” His eyes snap back to me, a little shock washing over them in response to the aggression in my voice. “Drop it. We’re not going to harass my entertainment because you’re drunk and she looks a little like Isabella De Rossi.”
“They could be twins.” Viktor’s jaw tenses with the rest of his body. He mutters something under his breath and leans back. “Whatever.”
I don’t let him catch the relief wash over me as his attention moves from Isabella to a girl walking past him.
My heart slows down, and I commit to never thinking about Isabella De Rossi ever again. This was way too close. What if I got involved? In front of everyone? It would paint a huge target on my back, bright red letters spelling traitor .
A loud crash thunders from behind me. Viktor looks over my shoulder, following the noise, a little smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.
Fuck.
I follow his eyes and see two foot soldiers barging into Isabella’s space. Viktor’s eyes burn into my back, judging my every movement, holding the past over me like an executioner’s axe.
I won’t get involved. I don’t even know her. She means nothing to me. It’s not worth the trouble. We watch as Isabella and the two-foot soldiers argue, all of them getting more animated with every passing second.
The taller foot soldier gets animated, throwing around hand gestures as he speaks. Back off, you bastard, don’t make me get involved . Isabella shouts something and the foot soldier snatches her wrist to pull her into him. The moment he touches her, my brain disengages and my body takes over. I shoot to my feet, an overwhelming desire to mark her as mine screaming in my chest.
I take three quick steps towards them before shock makes me hesitate. Maybe it’s because she’s a mafia princess, but I expected the tough girl act to fade away the moment things got serious. So, when a loud crack echoed through the club as Isabella’s fist collided with the guy’s nose, it surprises me.
Everyone falls into silence, apart from the whining foot soldier cradling his bloody nose, his comrade growling curses in Russian, and Viktor bursting out laughing from behind me, clapping as he watches on.
“Bring her every week.” Viktor yells from over my shoulder.
The other foot soldier winds up for a punch, but he never finishes it. I snatch his wrist in mid-air, twist it, and use his weight against him to pummel him into the floor. His friend with the broken nose goes for me but stops as he recognises me.
“Nikolai Ilyin?” Wide eyes and a look of disbelief settle across his features for the split second before I crack his temple with a vicious hook. He crumples to the floor in a heap at my feet.
I look up to see every Bratva member in the room staring at me (except Viktor, who’s still belly laughing like a madman).
Great. Now I’m fucked.
“Mind your fucking business.” I bark, and all those heads swivel away from looking at the scene in front of them.
Isabella snatches my attention again as she pushes past me to kick the guy with the broken nose while he lies on the floor. I pull her back, locking her into my vice-like grip. I cage her in, pinning her in my hands and forcing her to meet my eyes.
“What the fuck are you doing? You could get yourself killed.” I hiss.
I expect at least a speck of regret. Instead, she meets me with fury, as if I’ve just told her I'm repossessing her home.
Isabella
I don’t know exactly what I was expecting when I walked into The Tsarina. Maybe to lock eyes with the monster from the shadows and instantly know him, then march over to his table and slam the note he’d given me into his chest. At first, I’d been lost in a sea of hungry eyes, scanning and re-scanning the crowd for a spark of recognition. I’d almost lost hope when I saw them. Two men sat at a private table, glaring at me. Both tall, broad, and obviously powerful. When other men, spurred on by Tsarina's famous vodka, searched for someone to fight, their eyes skipped over that table in fear. What I didn’t expect was for some drunk assholes to harass Bianca. Or to lose my temper and punch one of the said assholes hard enough to break his nose (cool rings aren’t just for fashion). Or for one of the tall, broad, obviously powerful men to rush over and ruin the other guy.
“What the fuck are you doing? You could get yourself killed.” The voice that’s been haunting my thoughts reprimands me like I’m a bad student.
“He grabbed Bianca’s ass! She’s outside crying because of that bastarda . What he said to her deserves more than a bloody nose.”
I explode with Italian curse words at the unconscious foot soldier before lunging at him for one more kick to finish his chances of grand-kids. I jerk forward, but a firm grip from an enormous pair of hands locks me in place. When I try again, he pins my arms against my waist and lifts me into the air like a child. Jesus, how strong is this guy?
“Calm down and stop with the Italian, unless you want everyone in here to know who you are." He’s talking to me, and it’s sending shivers across my skin, but I can’t take my eyes off the unconscious creep. De Rossi’s have a temper, and that asshole needs one more kick. “I’ll take care of him. Trust me.” Trust me. His words shatter the anger in my chest into a tension I’m not used to.
He lifts me up so our eyes are level, his nose brushing against mine as a strand of my curly hair drops between our faces. I meet his gaze for a moment, but it’s too heavy and I find my eyes glued to the stubble on his jaw. The last time someone lifted me up like this I was a little girl, and I don’t remember my heart thundering in my chest then like it is now.
We hover in the silence, as every eye in the room creeps back on us. The purple light swirls around us, holding us in our own private world. This isn’t how things played out in my head.
“Who are you?” I breathe, forcing my eyes back up to take in his face properly.
Deep green eyes, as if he’s looked into the forest for too long, sharp features, and dark hair. He smells like a bad decision, one that won’t leave you alone until you make it.
My lips part, and his eyes flicker down to lock on them. It has to be him. He’s the watcher. The monster in the shadows.
“I’m nobody.” He drops me to the floor, and I land with a painful thud.
Asshole!
“Ow! Fuck!”
“You’ve got a mouth on you, princess.” Another mafia man concerned with my language, great . I scramble to my feet, redirecting my kicking intentions from the unconscious asshole to the tall one, sending the butterflies in my stomach into a frenzy.
“Fuck you! You dropped me! I had that handled until you butted in.”
He shoots me a dirty look. “He’s a foot taller than you, and you’re unarmed.” I put my hands on my hips, waiting for him to get to the part where I didn’t have the situation handled, when he mutters something in Russian and turns his back to me.
“Mind your own business next time.” I yell at him over the music as he walks away. Men on nearby tables watch from the corners of their eyes. He freezes on the spot.
A sane girl would take this opportunity to get out of The Tsarina and thank her lucky stars she got out alive. A petty girl, raised in a household where the last word was only good enough if you doubled down, needs to nail the point home because her temper won’t let her think straight.
“That’s right, run along.” I’m the second girl, apparently.
He spins on his heel, marching into me until I’m backed up against a wall. The thumping music of the club vibrates through my body. “This is my club. These are my men. The moment you walked in here and put yourself in danger, you became my business. Everything in here is mine , including you.”
The frenzied butterflies in my stomach aren’t sure if they’re afraid or excited. I feel an intense urge to avert my eyes, but I manage to muster a sharp laugh to throw him off. “I don’t belong to anyone.” I hiss back.
His knee subtly pushes between my legs as he leans in. I don’t think it’s purposeful because the look in his eyes is one of pure contempt. He cages me in against the wall with his thick arms and drawls in a low, deep voice, “would your father agree?”
My jaw clenches, but I won’t let threats force me down.
“He knows I’m here.”
Even I’m not convinced.
I pull my head back until it’s pressed against the wall, and avert my eyes. Why does he smell so intoxicating? I take in a deep breath, wishing the air around me wasn’t poisoned with his disarming scent.
“He sent me to find a Bratva spy. Think you could help me out?”
Our eyes meet, but his face remains calm. Totally still, unimpressed, even.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He drawls, the air of control oozing from every syllable.
“Get a new line.” I snap back before pausing, a devious thought swirling in my mind. “Does anyone else know about your visits to the Opera?”
He tries to hold the unphased mask, but his jaw tenses for half a moment. Gotcha . He cocks his head while he looks at me, like he’s trying to decipher the meaning behind an art piece, and licks his full lips.
“Did he send you here to find the spy all alone? Risky business when you’re an unarmed girl,” he brushes the dangling strand of curly hair back behind my ear, leaving a spark of heat dancing across my skin, “alone in a part of town you don’t know.” He leans forward like a monster, deciding the fashion in which he’ll ravage his victim. My breath catches in my throat, and I hold it as his eyes pin me. “You should leave, princess.”
“Make me.” It explodes out of my lips before I can stop myself.
He arches an eyebrow, the hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. I don’t even dare to think what might be running through his mind.
This is getting too much. I should have taken my chance to get out when I had it. I suck in a deep breath to yell for help — when in doubt, cause a scene and run away in the chaos. Before I can get out the first word, his hand clamps over my mouth as if he’s read my mind. I narrow my eyes and go to sink my teeth into his hand when he scoops me into his arms in one smooth movement. Before I know what’s happening, he’s slung me over his shoulder and is marching me out of the club. All the eyes that have been holding their attention elsewhere lock onto me, and I feel my skin flush with embarrassment.
“I tried to play nice.” He growls.
He stalks to the door as I kick and scratch like a wildcat, then he stops to turn back and glare at all the men watching. They all avert their gazes, apart from the gigantic man who’d been at the same table as my stalker, who only chuckles into his drink from the back of the bar.
He takes two steps out of The Tsarina before we clatter into a man entering the club.
“ Otyebis . Watch where you’re going.”
“Nikolai, what are you doing?” Nikolai. His name is Nikolai. But I can’t focus on the discovery of my stalker’s name because I recognise the other voice, and it’s the last one I want to hear.
Shit.
“Pakhan…” begins Nikolai.
Panic mounts in my throat. I have to get away from here before he sees me.
“Put me down!” I yell, making my voice deeper to try to hide it, and add a new level of fire into my punches up and down his back.
“This is forward for you, Nikolai.”
Nikolai’s grip loosens for a second and I use the momentary pause to wriggle my way out of his grasp. I land as gracefully as someone in heels can, ruining any momentum I might have had. I look up and see Aleksander Vasilev. The Pakhan of the Russian mafia. My dad has kept me from the mafia life as much as possible, but he made sure the other bosses knew my face and I knew there’s.
Aleksander’s smile drops the moment he sees my face.
“Isabella De Rossi?” The anger in his voice picks up with every syllable. He glares at Nikolai. “Nikolai… tell me this isn’t as bad as it looks.”
This can’t be happening. If my dad - no, when my dad - sees me like this, with piercings, and a short skirt, and finds out I snuck out to a Bratva bar, he’ll kill me. He might kill everyone.
“I told you to stay away.” Those were the exact words on the note Anastasia scrunched into my hands. Stay away, princess . But who could resist that?
Nikolai growls it under his breath, as if this is entirely my fault. Sure, I shouldn’t have given in to curiosity, but he shouldn’t have stalked me either!
I stamp on his foot with my heel, because I’m already screwed, so I might as well vent some anger.
“Okay, where is he? I’m ready now. Where is that asshole?” Bianca storms around the corner with mascara streaking down her cheeks, clutching her heel like a dagger. She takes in the scene in front of her and stops in her tracks.
The heel clatters to the floor, and I breathe out a long sigh.