Nikolai: A Mafia Prince Romance (Russian Mob Chronicles Book 1)
Nikolai: A Mafia Prince Romance: Chapter 6

“Ignore it.”

Nikolai’s annoyance is incapable of being concealed by his short reply. A whimper seeps from my lips when he thrums my clit, confident he can overcome my hesitation with nothing but a flick of his thumb. He isn’t far off the mark. One touch, and the thin line between right and wrong severely blurs.

Unsure if my wobbly legs will tolerate a spin, I crank my neck back to peer at Nikolai. He is watching me, the lust in his eyes persuasive enough to send hot sparks down my spine.

“You want to spin around, but you can’t.” His lips curl higher with every word he speaks.

I shake my head, denying his assumption.

The pegs of Nikolai’s teeth hinder my vision when he disregards my fib with a smile. “The most dangerous lies are the ones you tell yourself, Ahren,” he quotes, not the least bit deterred by my lie.

My chance to remark on his comment is lost when my neighbor, Ms. Aaronson, asks, “Justine? Honey? Is everything okay?” The rattle of my doorknob vibrates on my hip. “I know you are home. I heard you. . .” The heat in my cheeks doubles when an awkward silence replaces the rest of her sentence. “Do you want me to call the police? I saw the men entering your apartment. I’m really worried.”

Ms. Aaronson’s high-pitched voice continues bellowing through the door, but I don’t hear a word she is speaking. I’m too busy controlling the rage roaring through my body from Nikolai’s sudden withdrawal from my panties to handle any more worries.

“Get rid of her,” Nikolai’s tone is wrathful, displeased at another interruption of what he assumes is my reason for bringing him here.

When he steps back, unpinning me from the door, the lusty trance he had on me lifts. I suck in lung-filling gulps of air as a slew of disturbing notions bombard me. I just orgasmed by the hand of a client. If that isn’t bad enough, he isn’t just “any” client. He is “the” client. The one I’ve been striving to lure since I changed my career goals from an architect wannabee to a ruthless defense attorney.

How could I have been so heedless to throw years of determination out the window all for a measly orgasm? It might have been the strongest I’ve ever had, but still, I’m ashamed at the woman I’ve become.

My first thought when released by Nikolai was disappointment, whereas now I am relieved—incredibly relieved.

When Ms. Aaronson knocks for a third time, I arrange my disheveled clothing before unlatching the lock. Since she is leaning on the door, Ms. Aaronson falls forward at a pace faster than her plump frame is prepared for when I swing it open. I drop down low, steadying her tiny four-foot-three-inch height by the top of her shoulders.

“Whoa, careful,” I mumble softly.

Embarrassed by her unexpected tumble, Ms. Aaronson’s hands dart up to ensure her fall didn’t mess her tightly twisted silver hair. Happy everything is in place, she locks her eyes with mine.

“Sheesh. You had me worried, honey. I wasn’t sure if you had company, or if these old girls were playing tricks on me.” She taps on the hearing aids curled around her ears. “It’s been a while since I’ve heard those noises come from this apartment. I honestly couldn’t tell if they were cries for help, or if you were. . .” The waggling of her penciled brows finalizes her sentence.

Her amused gaze rockets to the side when Nikolai’s faint chuckle trickles into her ears. “Oh, excuse me, young man,” she apologizes when she spots Nikolai standing at the entrance of my living room.

She returns her eyes to mine, her pupils wider than normal. “I best let you get back to it.” Her words whistle through her false teeth.

When she pivots on her heels, preparing to exit, I slam shut my door, foiling her attempts to leave. “Oh, no, don’t leave. We’re not doing anything you can’t participate in.”

Ms. Aaronson glares at me, calling out my deceit without a word spilling from her lips.

“I stubbed my toe.” I fumble out the first excuse for my shameful moans. “It really hurt.”

Ignoring Nikolai’s narrowing eyes, I curl my arm around Ms. Aaronson’s shoulders and guide her into my foyer. “We’re long overdue for an official introduction.”

“Are you sure I’m not interrupting something?” she queries as her eyes dart around the confined space, acting as if it isn’t an exact replica of her home next door.

Her response painfully squeezes my heart. With her husband passing away just months before my arrival in Vegas, she’s been hinting for an invitation to my apartment since I moved in, but my strict work schedule couldn’t accommodate—until now. She may be my only chance of deflecting Nikolai’s persistence.

When we enter the living room, my eyes collide with Nikolai’s slitted gaze. His wrathful stare coats my skin with sweat, adding to the mess between my legs. “YA ne terpelivyy chelovek, Ahren. Sdelayte eto bistro,” he mutters under his breath, his eyes rapt on mine.

Unaware of Nikolai’s brewing anger, Ms. Aaronson’s eyes bounce in all directions, confused about what item to take in first: my disheveled living space, the sex toys on my bed, or Nikolai’s impressive stature. I’m not shocked when she settles on the latter.

Even a lady of Ms. Aaronson’s age would have a hard time ignoring the rippling of abs and tattooed pecs Nikolai’s paper-thin shirt is incapable of hiding, let alone the throbbing bulge his jeans are struggling to contain.

“Oh, dear, are you hurt?” Ms. Aaronson breaks away from my side to rush to Nikolai.

Okay, maybe the ogling of Nikolai’s crotch wasn’t Ms. Aaronson.

I stand at the side of my living room, muted with shock when Ms. Aaronson cups Nikolai’s jaw in her hands so she can assess his bruised face more diligently. I expect Nikolai to yank away from her, or at the very least sneer a Russian curse word under his breath. He does no such thing. He remains as frozen as me, too shocked to speak.

“Where’s your first aid kit?” Ms. Aaronson’s worried gaze drifts to me. “If we don’t address his injuries, they may scar.” The blush on her cheeks triples when her attention returns to Nikolai. “We wouldn’t want any nasty little marks ruining such a handsome face.”

She claps her hands, promptly reminding me of her command. I jump into action, charging across my living room faster than the Flash.

“Stubbed toe, hey,” she jeers under her breath.

Having no plausible defense for my lie, I continue with my mission. Nikolai’s eyes track me as I secure the first aid kit from under my vanity in the bathroom, plus the iodine ointment from the cupboard above my fridge.

Considering he has an eighty-plus-year-old lady cradling his face while eyeing him with zeal, I’m stunned the heart-constricting cockiness beaming out of him is as dominant as ever. I thought Ms. Aaronson’s presence would break Nikolai’s hold over me, but I’m only now realizing kryptonite couldn’t weaken his wolfish demeanor.

“Here you go,” I thrust the first aid kit toward Ms. Aaronson.

She accepts it before gesturing for Nikolai to take a seat in the chair he is standing next to. Although her head barely reaches the top of my chin, her command packs a real punch. I don’t know what she did for a living before she retired, but I wouldn’t be shocked to discover it was something ruthless. She has an edge that compels obedience.

When Nikolai’s nostrils flare, displeased at being bossed around, I silently mouth, “Please.”

My eagerness to avoid his wrath didn’t give me time to stop and consider the repercussions of wedging a person between us. My invitation may have dampened Nikolai’s stranglehold on my senses, but it also endangered Ms. Aaronson’s life by placing her opposite a mafia prince.

Riddled with guilt, I offer, “Let me, Ms. Aaronson.”

Not waiting for her to reply, I remove the cotton ball drenched in iodine from her hand, forcefully shove Nikolai into an armchair, then sit on the wooden coffee table positioned across from him.

Nikolai’s eyes remain narrowed, but they’re now more slitted with amusement than anger. Apparently he is happy to be bossed around, as long as it’s done by someone he wants to sleep with.

“Gentle dabs,” Ms. Aaronson instructs when I haphazardly drag the cotton ball across the nasty scratches imbedded in Nikolai’s skin.

“Much better,” she praises when I carefully dab the gashes.

Instinctively, I blow on the area I’m cleansing above Nikolai’s left brow. I don’t want the inch-long wound to hurt any more than it already does. A faint smile stretches across my face when memories of my mom doing the same thing during my childhood spring to mind.

Growing up with four older brothers ensured I had more bumps and bruises than an average Florida girl. Unfortunately, it’s the scars my mom’s love couldn’t erase that caused my family’s greatest sorrow.

The cotton ball freezes halfway across Nikolai’s brow when his hand brushes the skin high on my inner thigh. “Do you know your smile extends all the way down here?” His voice is low enough that Ms. Aaronson’s dated hearing aids won’t pick it up.

I don’t realize how intimately close we’re sitting until my eyes drop down to the area he is referring to. His hand is hovering a few inches above my knee, but the way my body temperature rises even hotter than the midday sun in the peak of summer, you’d swear he was stroking my pussy.

“As does your excitement,” Nikolai adds on when the heat pumping through my veins doubles the unnatural hue of my skin.

Not thinking, I slap him on the chest with the back of my hand. He falls back into his chair, his chuckle more enticing than the lusty glint in his eyes.

“Unless you want these stabbed in your eye, I suggest you sit still.” I clamp the tweezers together to enhance my request.

“Without pain, there’s no pleasure.”

Pretending I’m not on the verge of climaxing from his heavenly gruff voice, I continue dressing Nikolai’s wounds, my hands shakier than earlier.

Thankfully, the tiny shards of glass imbedded in Nikolai’s cuts come out without force. I’ve never been a fan of blood, so the small amount trickling from his injuries increases the wooziness wreaking havoc on me. I’m barely holding it together as it is, so the last thing I need is more recklessness.

“Better cover up the wounds to stop any nasties.” Ms. Aaronson thrusts a strip of Band-Aids toward me.

My eyes lock with Nikolai when he sneers, “I’m not wearing a Band-Aid.” Any playfulness in his voice has vanished, leaving no trace of the man I’ve been interacting with the past thirty minutes. He is once again Nikolai, Russian mafia prince.

“It’s just a Band-Aid.” I keep my tone low, hoping to calm the anger rapidly building in his icy gaze.

“Exactly,” Nikolai drawls out, his word hissed from his mouth like venom. “It’s a fucking Band-Aid. I don’t do Band-Aids.”

“If we don’t cover the wound, it will scar,” Ms. Aaronson assures Nikolai.

She nudges her head suggestively, encouraging me to continue administering care. When I tear open the first Band-Aid, Nikolai glares at me, his gaze warning he isn’t to be messed with. Usually, I’d cower from his wrathful stare, but our exchange in my foyer awarded me with a dash of confidence.

Keeping my gaze locked with Nikolai, I snag a pen from the coffee table and jot down a quick two-word sentence on the offending brown strip. After clicking the pen head back in its spot, I swivel the Band-Aid around to face Nikolai. Although the threat in his eyes remains strong, the anger lingering on his face eases when he spots what I’ve written down.

Bad Boy

“Now it’s not just a Band-Aid; it’s a kick ass accessory any man would be proud to wear.”

My heart stops beating as I wait for Nikolai’s reply. Thankfully, he doesn’t keep me hanging for long. The nod of his head is brief, but long enough for me to spot.

My hands shake when I remove the white adhesive strips from the Band-Aid, then raise it to the wound above his furled brow.

“It’s just a Band-Aid,” I assure again, more to myself than Nikolai.

Once the strip is covering the deep gash, Nikolai slants his head to the side to peer at the mirror across the room. He stares at himself, his face void of any expression.

“Have you never worn a Band-Aid before?” My voice is soft, mindful even the smallest memory can trigger negative thoughts.

A jabbing pain inflicts my chest when he replies, “No, I haven’t. My father believes scars are medals and dressing wounds is for the weak.”

Our conversation stumbles into murky waters when his fingertip traces a scar my slipped blouse exposes on my shoulder. “Is that why you wear these with pride? To prove your strength?”

My mood instantly sours. Although his words were inquisitive, all I heard was disgust. I hate the marks maiming my skin nearly as much as I hate that the man who rescued me from a much worse fate is rotting away in jail during the best years of his life.

“My scars have nothing to do with courage, Nikolai.” I snap the first aid kit shut then stand from my seat. “I have them because a man as hideously misguided as your family wanted to teach me a lesson.”

Ms. Aaronson balks, her shock pronounced. “They were put there against your wishes?” she queries when recognition dawns that my scars aren’t the standard ones every child receives during their trek to adulthood. They’re marks I sustained when mauled by a dog four years ago.

When I briefly nod my head to Ms. Aaronson’s question, her eyes shimmer with tears as her face etches with worry. Her reaction is more pleasant than Nikolai’s. I’m not even looking at him, yet I can feel the fury radiating out of him in hot, invisible waves. It has my temperature rising even more uncontrollably than it did when he had me pinned to the door.

Loathing the sorrow thickening the air, I attempt to dash past a shaky-lipped Ms. Aaronson. Nikolai’s hand darts out to seize my wrist, foiling my endeavor to cowardly hide in the bathroom. You’d think years of sympathetic looks would diminish their impact, but they haven’t. I loathe every one as much now as I did when my skin was patched together by hundreds of stitches.

I lick my parched lips before dropping my eyes to Nikolai. He is barely touching me, but my body responds as if he is gripping my heart with the same intensity his arctic blue eyes are drilling into my soul. He doesn’t speak; he doesn’t need to. His eyes expose the justice he plans to serve on the person responsible for my injuries.

His silent promise is pointless. That person died years ago, so there’s no one left to blame. I was attacked by a dog, but I don’t blame him for my scars. It was the man who thought he was bigger than God. The same man who is responsible for my brother’s incarceration: Col Petretti. I hate him so much, if he weren’t already dead, I wouldn’t be the only Walsh family member incarcerated for murder.

When the tension in the air becomes too suffocating to breathe, I pull my arm out of Nikolai’s embrace, silently requesting to be set free. He relinquishes me from his hold—reluctantly. After issuing him a grimaced smile in gratitude, I hotfoot it to the bathroom where I pretend to return the first aid kit to its rightful place. In reality, I’m just taking a few moments to settle the emotions hammering me.

In the silence of the bathroom, my thoughts soon drift to my family. I know every convict’s family pledges the same guarantee, but my brother is innocent. Even without his assurance, I know he didn’t do the horrible things he’s been convicted of. Maddox was the kind, spirited, dynamic one of our family. He’d never hurt another human being, much less kill one.

After taking a few minutes to calm the erratic beat of my heart, I wash my hands in the sink before exiting the bathroom. Although confident neither Nikolai nor Ms. Aaronson will believe I’ve been using the facilities this long, I refuse to be called out as a liar twice in under thirty minutes.

As I pace into my living room, my eyes categorize the empty space. A man with an aura as distinct as Nikolai’s could never be doused, much less a lady who reeks of nosey-nancying like Ms. Aaronson, so I’m truly at a loss as to where they have gone.

My head rockets to the side when a lock clanking into place booms into my ears. Nikolai is standing in my foyer—all alone. My heart lodges in my throat when I spot Ms. Aaronson’s plump shadow through the sheer curtains in my living room. She completes the trek between our apartments in 2.5 seconds, completely oblivious to the dangerous situation she has left me in. I could barely deflect Nikolai’s interest when she was two feet away from me, so what chance do I stand now?

Nikolai pivots around to face me, his steps as haughty as the gleam in his eyes. “Ms. Aaronson wishes for me to pass on her apologies for the interruption, and she has assured me it won’t happen again. No matter how loud you scream.” A ghost of a smile spreading across his face during his last sentence lessens the severity of it.

“I don’t know where to start, Ahren,” he admits as his eyes drift over my shoulders before sweeping past the budded peaks of my nipples. “At the event we were undertaking before Ms. Aaronson arrived, or the secrets your twenty-minute bathroom break were hoping to conceal.”

My throat works hard to swallow as panic engulfs me. There’s no doubt I am attracted to him, but nothing can come of it. We are from opposite worlds—even more than he realizes.

When Nikolai pushes off his feet and heads in my direction, my well-used flight mechanism kicks in. I scan the room, seeking a solution to my predicament.

The more my eyes examine my dingy apartment, the more my energy drains. Other than the Juliette balcony hanging fifteen floors above the in-ground pool, Nikolai’s six-foot-plus frame is blocking my only viable exit. Although fleeing is against the terms of Nikolai’s bail, sleeping on an outdated couch in the foyer of my building isn’t. It will be a restless three nights, but if it’s the only solution to stop me from making another foolish mistake this weekend, I must take it.

Yes, I inwardly chant when a brilliant idea pops into my head.

Acting as if it isn’t ludicrous for a grown woman to bolt from a prospective bed companion, I sprint toward the couch Nikolai was seated on when I dressed his wounds. My years of track come in handy when I vault over the springless chair, perfectly dismount, then charge for my bedroom door.

“There are spare blankets and towels in the linen closet. Help yourself to anything in the fridge. I’m not hungry. I’m going to have an early night. I’ll see you in the morning,” I blubber out breathlessly as I race across my living room.

My peek-toe pumps lose their grip on the wooden floorboards when I slide to a stop just inside my master suite. Slamming my bedroom door shut, I plaster my back against the thick wooden paneling. I curse my easy-going demeanor when my constant turn of the lock fails to latch it into place. If I had chased down the super, who guaranteed my door would be fixed before I moved in, I’d have more than just a panel of wood between me and a mafia prince.

My chest thrusts up and down when a dark shadow extends past my feet. Although Nikolai is as quiet as a church mouse, I can feel his presence through the door. It’s just as muggy and intense as it was when we were sitting next to each other in the transport van earlier tonight.

Tension develops in the air, motivating me to say, “After my performance in the foyer, I know you have no reason to believe me, but it’s best for all involved if we pretend tonight never happened. I am your attorney, Nikolai; ethically, we can only have a client/attorney relationship.”

When Nikolai fails to respond to my suggestion, my eyes drift to the door handle, expecting it to twist at any moment.

It doesn’t.

It remains perfectly still, not even giving the slightest wiggle in the lead up to Nikolai’s shadow disappearing beneath the door.

My shoulders slump as I sigh softly. It’s more a disappointed sigh than a pleased one.

Just to be safe, I hook my ankle around the wooden chair sitting near my dressing mirror. Its feet scrape across the wooden floorboards when I drag it to stand in front of me. Keeping my weight on the door, I ram the arched back of my chair under the door handle, effectively locking Nikolai out of my room. And myself in it.

After rattling the door to ensure it’s adequately restrained, I saunter to my bed. My steps are heavy, weighed down by the guilt besieging me. Not just from four years ago, but from tonight as well. I’d love to give Nikolai a reason for my contradictory responses, but I wouldn’t know where to start. I don’t think a man as dominant as Nikolai would appreciate the well-used “It’s not you; it’s me” line I’ve given every man I’ve dated the past four years. Even if it’s true, no one ever believes me.

I kick off my shoes before climbing onto my bed. I don’t pull down my bedding, as I have no intention of falling asleep, but the tiresome week overwhelms me before I have the chance to protest.