Nikolai: A Mafia Prince Romance (Russian Mob Chronicles Book 1)
Nikolai: A Mafia Prince Romance: Chapter 11

“Good?”

Nikolai tears off a chunk of grilled steak from his plate before popping it into his mouth. With my steak knives confiscated by the sheriff’s department, we’ve resorted to using our hands to shred the succulent meat. Mercifully, it’s so tender, we don’t look like scavengers from the stone ages.

Nikolai’s wintry blue eyes twinkle with content when he locks them with mine. The sexual tension bristling between us nonstop the past hour grows exponentially when he answers my question with a wink.

Although his knowledge of kitchen equipment is as basic as they come, we worked side by side preparing the lunch we’re in the process of finishing. Well, I worked while Nikolai distracted me at every available opportunity.

Although our conversation never veered far from flirty comments and steamy teases, I did learn exciting facts about Nikolai that hours of research would have never disclosed. It’s a thrilling experience seeing the man behind the paperwork. Not very often can a defense attorney say they truly know their client, but I don’t feel that is true for Nikolai and me anymore.

Our time together exposed a side to him I never expected to see. He is commanding and direct with his crew, but the loyalty he shows his family is exponential, to a point it’s nearly obsessive.

Just like the veins of law enforcement run blue, the veins of mafia personnel have their own unique coloring as well. Nikolai is so deeply imbedded in his lifestyle, I truly don’t believe he knows an entire world exists outside of it. He was born a mafia prince, and he will die one as well.

‘The marinade on the steak? What is it?’ Nikolai asks, distracting me from my disturbing thoughts.

If I weren’t stuffed to the brim from a generous helping of braised steak, mashed potatoes, and steamed veggies, I’d slap his hand from stealing the leftover food on my plate. But since I’m on the verge of a carbohydrate coma, I push my half-consumed plate to his side of the table.

He shows his gratitude with a tap of his knee against my thigh. “I’ve only tasted one thing more delicious than this steak.” The lust in his eyes completes his unfinished reply.

When the quickest flash of heat creeps across my cheeks, he groans. “Fuck, Ahren, I love the way you blush.” Pure heat sizzles over my skin when he adds on, “If there weren’t cameras watching my every move, I’d be spreading you out on this table and eating you for dessert.”

My eyes pop open in surprise as my lips part for air. My shock doesn’t derive from his crude statement. It’s from his admission the cameras are watching him. I thought they were installed for me.

Taking advantage of my gaped mouth, Nikolai scoots across the seat, filling the minute portion of air between us. He twists a lock of my fiery red hair around his index finger. His laid-back composure is a stark contradiction to the hammering of my heart. He appears carefree and without worry. It’s only his eyes revealing he’s aware of his momentary lapse: he didn’t mean to disclose the cameras are here for him; he just blurted it out before he could stop himself. I don’t know why, but I get an immense amount of satisfaction knowing I’m not the only one struggling with half a brain in our odd dynamic.

“You can trust me, Nikolai,” I assure him, speaking on behalf of both my brain and my heart for the first time in years. “Anything you say won’t leave this room.”

His lips quirk in the corners, his smile not genuine. “If only that were true,” he whispers ever so quietly. He moves in closer to me, swallowing my entire face with his. “I don’t trust anyone, Ahren. The devil was once an angel too.”

I forcefully swallow when he locks his eyes with mine. The demand in them leaves no room for misinterpretation. Our brief conversation on trust is now over.

“Now tell me about the marinade on the steak before I spend my afternoon hunting for a much more succulent recipe,” he requests, his voice quickly reverting to its previous level and tone.

I wait a beat to settle the nerves in my stomach before saying, ‘If you want my Nonna’s secret recipe, I’d first have to kill you.’

I choke on my spit, suddenly mindful my playful threat might not sit well with a man like Nikolai. His entire childhood was filled with menacing threats and prosecution, so I’m mortified I blubbered out one as a joke.

My concern is proven unwarranted when he chuckles. “Nonna? So you’re Italian?”

“Yes,” I reply with a lazy smile, amused by the swift change in our conversation. The air has gone from being stifled with tension to lightheartedness in under two seconds.

His brow quirks, his interest undeniable. ‘Then where did you get your red hair and pasty skin tone from?’ He tugs on a strand of my hair, sending a bunch of curls toppling down my shoulders.

“My dad is Italian, but my mom is Irish.” I don’t stand a chance of holding in the smile radiating in my tone.

I love my parents. They were high school sweethearts who married a month after their graduation. Everyone told them they were crazy, and their marriage wouldn’t survive them attending college six hundred miles apart. My parents proved them wrong. They’ve been married forty years this summer.

My teeth graze my bottom lip before I disclose, “I look very much like my mother, but I have the personality of my father. Probably doesn’t help that I have four older brothers, so I’m a little bit of a tomboy.”

“From what I’m seeing, you’re all woman, Ahren.”

Adrenaline heats my blood from his throaty response.

“You wouldn’t be saying that if you saw my childhood pictures.” The wittiness in my voice hides my excitement from his compliment. “I wore boys’ clothes and even had a boyish haircut.”

Nikolai acts surprised by my revelation, but his eyes aren’t relaying the same sentiment as his pursed lips. He has the same look in his eyes my brothers and I get when my grandmother retells stories from her childhood.

“But you already know that, don’t you?” My words are rife with suspicion.

He scrapes a napkin over the stubble on his chin before locking his pulse-quickening eyes with mine. “I know many things, Justine, but I prefer hearing them directly from the source. You’ll never believe how quick a fact becomes a lie when it’s passed through many lips.”

His reply sets my nerves on edge, but it doesn’t stop me from asking, “Exactly how much do you know about me?”

Grinning a smile that tightens my core, he digs his hand into the pocket of his jeans to secure a pack of cigarettes. He taps on the box, releasing two white sticks from their tight confines. After placing one between his plump lips, he angles the cigarette pack to me. I shake my head. Other than an occasional slip while drinking, I prefer my veins nicotine-free.

After taking a sizeable drag off his cigarette, Nikolai says, “How’s this for knowledge? You’re the youngest of five siblings. You were born and raised in Hopeton. Your mom works as an engineer, and your father is a pilot. Unlike three of your older brothers, you didn’t follow your parents’ footsteps. You first branched out into the world of architecture, but your third year in college saw you changing your career path to the corrupt and dangerous world of law. Your peers were shocked by your decision. All they saw was a shy little mouse. No one thought you would grow into the woman you have become. Not even Dimitri.” His last sentence comes out in a growl.

I sit muted, stunned by his awareness of my personal life. When I asked my question, I assumed his knowledge would center around fluff pieces written about my family in the local papers in the months following my brother’s incarceration. I had no clue it would extend this far. He didn’t just disclose common facts about my life; he exposed that he knows my brother’s secret. But that isn’t the reason I’m left gasping. I’m stunned at how calm he is. I anticipated a much more wrathful response, not for him to look at me like he did when we first met. The heat. The passion. It’s all still there. It’s as if nothing changed.

The blood from my face drains when he asks, “How long have you known Dimitri Petretti?” Although his tone is soft, his eyes are murderous.

His response isn’t shocking. The Popov and Petrettis have been rivals longer than I’ve been born. I don’t know what instigated their mutual disdain, but it’s been well-documented the past three decades.

My lips quiver when I begin to speak. “I’ve known Dimitri all my life. But we only became acquainted a few years ago.”

Dimitri and I were born in the same hospital; we attended the same school, and knew the same people, but I was invisible to him until my first year of college. Not wanting to get drenched in an afternoon downpour the weekend of Thanksgiving changed all that. I thought he was a charming gentleman offering to shelter me under his umbrella. I had no clue he was a sheep in wolf’s clothing.

My brothers warned me to stay away from Dimitri, but years of being the ugly duckling saw me sweet-talked by his interest. If I knew the consequences of accepting his flattery, I would have never considered his invitation to dinner, much less accepted it. I honestly didn’t have a clue about the aftermath that would follow my decision. With four protective brothers, I lived a sheltered, naïve life—one I’d give anything to return to.

“Dimitri has always had a fascination with redheads, so I’m not surprised you caught his eye. I just can’t work out why he’d ever let you go,” Nikolai discloses, drawing my focus back to him.

“It wasn’t his choice,” I stammer out, loathing the moisture looming in my eyes. “A man can voice his interests all he likes. It doesn’t mean his feelings will be reciprocated.”

Nikolai scoots even closer to me, bringing our shoulders to within touching distance. “That’s not the way things work in this industry, Ahren. When we say jump, you’re supposed to ask ‘how high?’ It isn’t about what you want; it’s about what we crave.”

I feel my anger rising from my gut to my face. Fortunately, he continues talking, saving me from reprimanding a man raised believing he’s bigger than God. “Your brother saved you from Dimitri. He fell on the knife to remove you from Dimitri’s radar.”

You could construe his statements as questions, but his tone doesn’t allude to that. They were facts—very accurate facts.

“Yes,” I mumble, almost breaking into a sob. “But I don’t have proof. Maddox won’t talk. He refuses—”

‘He will die if he talks. If not by the hands of a Petretti member, by one of my own crew,’ Nikolai interrupts, his words without remorse.

‘The Petretti’s are rivals of the Popov’s; why would you side with them?’ I retort, sending my loud voice shrilling off the whitewashed walls.

‘A snitch is a snitch; he belongs to no team.”

His nonchalant reply stokes my anger to a point I can’t contain. I push my chair back from the table, sickened beyond belief.

“Maddox didn’t do what he is accused of. He’s innocent.”

Nikolai stares up at me, his eyes revealing he doesn’t appreciate the surge of tension in our exchange. Just as quickly as the tension was snuffed from our conversation, it has returned stronger than ever. ‘He may not be a murderer, but he is not innocent. When you play with fire, you risk getting burnt. He got burnt.’

The fear of his wrath does nothing to lessen my campaign. ‘Maddox is in jail because a man as vile as your family didn’t understand the word ‘no.’ He didn’t play with fire. He protected his baby sister from a monster! Wouldn’t you do the same for your sister?’

His face reddens as the anger brewing in his gut extends to his cheeks. “That is not the way things work. Everyone in this industry has a place, and the predicament of one woman should never fracture the order.”

I balk, beyond stunned. The anger in my throat now pounds in my temples. He can’t be serious, can he? What man would believe such an atrocity? Apparently, one raised without morals.

‘Your mother should be ashamed she raised such an abhorrent, heinous, worthless man—’

“My mother is dead.” His words are as hot as the rage engulfing my face.

“Lucky her!” I retaliate, speaking before thinking.

Nikolai stands from his chair so quickly, it sails back, smacking into the drywall with a thud. He stands next to me with his fists clenched as tightly as his jaw. His glare is brutal, the very definition of a killer stare.

“If you were anyone else, you’d be suffering the consequences of a bitter tongue,” he warns, his tone as dangerous as his icy gaze.

“You don’t think I’m already suffering, Nikolai?” I tug on the collar of my shirt, exposing the bite marks he traced last night. “Two weeks after saving me from being mauled by a dog on the Petretti compound, my brother was arrested for murder. Nothing you could do would ever pain me more than that, so rest assured, Your Highness, I’m already suffering.”

After grabbing our dishes off the table, I move to the sink and throw them onto the dirty saucepans and grill. My anger is so intense, I don’t even flinch when the porcelain cracks from my brutal blow. I clutch the counter, breathing through the guilt that feels like it’s crippling me.

When the hairs on my nape prickle, announcing Nikolai’s closeness, I keep my head hanging low, preparing for the backlash. Nikolai surprises me by simply muttering, “Your brother may be in jail, Ahren, but he’s more free now than he would have ever been in the Petretti crew.”

Stealing my chance to reply, he stalks out of my kitchen. His steps sound as heavy as the weight sitting on my chest.

Only when the music booming around my living room drifts into my ears do I permit my first tear to fall.