Nikolai: Taking Back What’s Mine (Russian Mob Chronicles Book 2)
Nikolai: Taking Back What’s Mine: Chapter 4

I’ve barely finished cleaning the mess I made in Justine’s snug canal when the sound of a doorbell ringing shrills into the bathroom. Justine stiffens as her eyes rocket to the door. Her nervous response puts me so on edge, I reach for my knife instead of my clothes. Most men think guns are the best defense in any war. But they aren’t.

You can’t prepare for an attack you don’t see coming. More times than not, my knife is pressed against my target’s jugular before he even knows I’m in the room. That’s why I’m called The Snake. You’ll never hear me coming, and my strike is deadlier than a cobra’s.

Justine sucks in a sharp breath when I snap open the blade of my trusty knife. I’ve had this knife for years. It’s seen me through many battles.

“What are you doing, Nikolai? It’s probably just Ms. Aaronson startled by my screams,” she theorizes as her wide eyes bounce between me and the open bathroom door.

I nearly laugh at her innocence, but not wanting to scare her before I’ve fully acclimated her to my lifestyle, I store away my laughter along with my knife before shadowing her into her living room.

I won’t lie, my lips arch high from Justine’s wobbly steps. If I had it my way, she wouldn’t be walking upright for a week, but with Vladimir’s suspicion already rife from the removal of the surveillance cameras he had installed in Justine’s apartment, I don’t have a week to spare. I need to act quickly, but I also need to be smart. Vladimir doesn’t trust his own sons, so what chance do I have of catching him unaware?

With Justine’s apartment being one of the smallest I’ve resided in, we reach the foyer in no time at all. Her guest hasn’t even knocked for a second time. She waits for me to pull my jeans up my thighs before she curls her hand around the door handle.

“Ms. Aaronson, sorry about the noise,” she says with a grimace, slowly prying open her door. “I promise to keep it on the down low from now on.”

“No fucking chance,” I murmur under my breath.

I wasn’t lying when I said Justine is more potent than any drug I’ve sold. Her screams give me more of a high than any substance I’ve taken. I don’t care if she wakes up the entire continent, I’d rather be buried in a shallow ditch than have her hold back the power I have over her body.

After issuing me a sneaky stink eye, revealing she heard my mumbled comment, Justine finishes opening her door. My brow bows into my hairline when the blemish on her knees amalgamates to her cheeks. She fumbles out an awkward good morning before gesturing with her hand for her unexpected guest to enter.

My fingertips skim the coolness of my knife in my back pocket when the cuff of a black business suit exposes who Justine’s visitor is before he enters the foyer. Carmichael I’m-Going-to-Gut-Him-Alive Fletcher.

“Mr. Fletcher. Hi,” Justine greets him, tugging on the hem of her skirt, suddenly mindful she’s missing her panties.

The spasm in my jaw grows tenfold when Carmichael runs his eyes down Justine’s body as he steps into the foyer. His eyes possess the same arrogant assuredness they held when he confronted me in the holding room four days ago. He thinks he is close to dipping his fingers into Justine’s pie. Little does he know I stole the pie out of the oven before it even finished baking.

Justine may be a fumbling ball of nerves in Carmichael’s presence, but her stammering composure has nothing to do with excitement. She’s wary of my reaction to his unannounced arrival. She doesn’t need to worry. As much as I’d love to march up and show Carmichael exactly how under my spell she is, I can’t. I’m not worried about Justine’s position being compromised by a relationship—there is nothing legal about an attorney and a client having a sexual connection—I just can’t run the risk of my family replaceing out about us. Until all my cards have been dealt, as far as anyone is concerned, Justine is part of my defense team—nothing more.

Carmichael’s long strides into the living room falter when he spots me standing at the side, glaring at him. He greets me with a dip of his chin before his eyes drink in the drooping candles Justine lit last night when her apartment was plunged into blackness. When his slit gaze stops on a puddle of wax sitting in the middle of the living room floor, the smug grin on my face grows.

Justine and I made good use of that hot wax last night. Fuck—I’m hard right now just thinking about how delectable she looked with wax dripping on her skin. Justine is a beautiful woman, but when she lets go of her inhibitions, she’s an absolute knockout.

The more Carmichael’s eyes absorb the erotic-smelling space, the more his eyes slit. He knows I achieved in days what he couldn’t do in months. I stole the girl he wants from right under his nose, and there isn’t a fucking thing he can do about it.

When Carmichael returns his eyes to Justine standing at his side, she mumbles, “Ah… we had a power outage last night.” Her usually smooth voice is throaty, exposing I’m not the only one recalling fun memories.

Carmichael’s lips crimp as he faintly nods his head. He isn’t buying Justine’s excuse for the heady aroma of lust hanging thickly in the air, but my warning glare stuffed his reply into his throat before he could issue it. His mute response isn’t shocking. He knows from experience that one wrong word will render him void of a tongue. He was lucky he left our last tussle still breathing. He won’t be as fortunate a second time around.

“What do you want, Carmichael?” I ask, aspiring to move our conversation forward. The more quickly he reveals why he has arrived at Justine’s apartment unannounced, the faster he can leave and never return.

Folding his coat over his forearm, Carmichael enters the living room. “It took a bit of wrangling, but I secured you an in-chambers hearing with Judge Marco at eight AM,” he advises, his tone remarkably strong considering how hard his jaw is set. He is as unhappy about my presence in Justine’s life as I am about his.

“Bennett Marco?” I ask, wanting to make sure we are on the same page.

I don’t trust Carmichael as far as I can throw him, so I’ll always add an extra level of protection to our conversations. If he hadn’t arrived with Justine in tow on Friday, his name would never be associated with mine. Hate is a strong word—but it is one I can use without hesitation when describing Carmichael.

When Carmichael nods, confirming my suspicion, a glint of recognition sparks in Justine’s eyes, revealing she is aware of judge Marco’s infamous reputation. Bennett Marco is a very wealthy man. None of his capital was amassed legally. He’s been an acquaintance of my father’s for longer than I’ve been born. Their friendship has generated more business opportunities the past thirty-three years than the entire alumni of Dartmouth College’s renowned school of business.

“Who organizes an in-chambers hearing outside of official court hours?” Justine questions, moving to stand between Carmichael and me, her tone rife with suspicion.

Carmichael doesn’t need to answer Justine’s question. The deep exhalation of air out his nose tells her everything she needs to know. This deal is as shady as a used car salesman.

Justine’s wide eyes rocket to mine when I ask, “What terms is he requesting?”

I swear dollar signs flash in Carmichael’s eyes as he replies, “That we arrive in his chambers no later than eight AM.’ His tone is way too showy for my liking. I’ve heard him use this tone once before. It didn’t end well for me. ‘He is announcing his retirement before preliminary hearings this morning. He wants all his loose ends tied up before then.’

Justine sighs heavily, confirming she heard Carmichael’s statement the same way I did: Judge Marco’s retirement is being funded by me.

“You don’t have to go, Nikolai,” Justine mumbles, slinging her eyes to me. She takes a step closer to me, wordlessly announcing whose side she is on. “You are well within your rights to follow the schedule appointed during your arraignment. You just need to advise your attorney of your wishes.”

When Carmichael attempts to interrupt Justine, she slices her hand through the air, stopping him mid-sentence. “Our client has rights. I’m ensuring he is aware of what they are.”

My chest puffs high, proud as fuck at the confidence in her tone. I was worried Carmichael’s arrival would snuff the fire glowing in her eyes. It hasn’t—not in the slightest. She looks more determined now than she’s ever been.

Spurred on by Justine’s grit, I ask, “What happens if I don’t accept Bennett’s terms? Worst-case scenario.”

Carmichael throws his head back and laughs, as if it is ludicrous I’d consider facing my charges in a non-corrupt way. Usually, my response would mimic his, but for some reason unbeknownst to me, I’m not amused. I’m too overcome by shock to do something as pitiful as laughing. I’ve never considered manning up to my responsibilities before, but one glance into Justine’s eyes has me throwing caution to the wind. I’m not pussy-whipped. I’m just. . . ah. . .

Fuck! I’m totally pussy-whipped.

Carmichael’s hearty chuckles simmer when he’s subjected to my angry snarl. Although my anger comes from discovering I’m being led by my dick, he’s the closest man I can project my fury onto, so he must bear the full wrath of my anger.

Carmichael’s Adam’s apple bobs up and down before he says, “Worst-case scenario, you’ll serve fifteen years in a high-security prison.”

“Fuck!” I drawl out in a long, violent roar. His reply wasn’t the one I anticipated. I honestly feel like I’ve been sucker-punched.

Stepping closer to me, Carmichael adds on, “Your best-case scenario isn’t much better than that, Nikolai. If you don’t accept Judge Marco’s terms, you’ll serve a minimum of seven years.”

“That’s not true. Not all the evidence has been processed yet. We still have witness accounts and surveillance tapes to process. Circumstances could change,” Justine interrupts, her voice lowering with each syllable she speaks.

Carmichael shakes his head. “You’ve seen the evidence firsthand, Justine. You know as well as I do that Nikolai will not walk away from this charge without a set of handcuffs shackled around his wrists.”

Justine’s mouth twitches, preparing to recant Carmichael’s statement, but not a word spills from her lips. I am guilty of assaulting my accused. I know it. Carmichael knows it, and so does Justine.

“I’ll take the deal.”

Justine’s eyes snap to mine, the moisture in them tripling.

“I’m not doing seven years. I can’t.”

I stare into her eyes, allowing them to express what my mouth is failing to articulate. I’m facing an uphill battle protecting her as it is; I don’t need more obstacles placed in my way. I can’t defend her if I’m in a four by four concrete cell—I also can’t touch her. Fuck that. That is never going to happen. I only had her crumbling beneath me minutes ago, and I’m already craving another hit. I won’t survive seven years without touching her—no chance in hell.

“I’ll get you off your charges, Nikolai,” Justine promises, peering at me with begging eyes. “I just need time to work through the evidence.”

“We don’t have time,” Carmichael interjects, his tone leaving no room for argument. “The deal ends at eight AM.” His eyes stray to the clock on the wall displaying it is seven thirty AM. “When that clock strikes eight, the deal is gone. You’ll be processed like every other prisoner.”

Scrubbing my hand over the stubble on my chin, I silently contemplate. I don’t like disappointing Justine, but I can’t risk a seven-year jail term. My entire life has been one long-ass death sentence, and at the exact moment I decide to take back what is mine, I could lose the opportunity. I’m not going to let that happen. Nothing will take this away from me. Corruption is my life—the sooner Justine learns that, the better we’ll be.

“How long does it take to get to the courthouse from here?” I ask Carmichael, my voice one I haven’t used the past two days. It leaves no doubt who Justine and Carmichael are dealing with. I am once again Nikolai: Russian Mafia Prince.

“Twenty, maybe thirty minutes depending on traffic,” Justine answers on Carmichael’s behalf.

She folds her arms over her chest and returns my turbulent stare. She knows I’ve made my decision. She’s not happy about it, but she recognizes no amount of arguing will change my mind. I’m a stubborn motherfucker when I want something. Justine knows that better than anyone.

Pretending I can’t feel my heart beating at an abnormal rhythm, I lock my eyes with Carmichael and say, “I don’t care what you need to do; get me to that meeting on time.”

Within five minutes, I’m dressed in clothes suitable to face attempted murder charges, shackled, and bundled into the back of a blacked-out SUV. With two armed guards flanking me, and Justine’s mentor sitting next to her, the possibility of speaking to Justine during our commute is practically impossible. But that doesn’t mean I can’t watch her.

Just like our first ride in the sheriff’s transportation vehicle, the air is thick with lust but isn’t as strong as usual. Don’t get me wrong, attraction is still in abundance, but the despair clouding Justine’s eyes diminishes their vibrancy, and don’t even get me started on her boss monitoring our interactions with an eagle eye.

I drop my gaze to the floor, doing everything in my power to calm the anger surging through me. Oddly, my anger doesn’t rise from the circumstances of my arrest. It is knowing Carmichael is as determined as me when he wants something. He just hides his ruthlessness with a tailored suit and a hundred-dollar haircut.

He shouldn’t bother dressing up. Justine is as smart as she is beautiful. She saw straight through his façade as quickly as she did mine. That’s why months of prep work never saw him stepping up to the plate to wield the bat. Justine saw the man he is behind the shield—the one whose soul is as black as mine.

My focus diverts from haunted memories when I hear my name being called. Carmichael is balancing on the edge of his seat, holding out a piece of paper and a pen for me. Justine is seated next to him, her face wearing the same mask it had during our first meeting.

I wait for Justine to acknowledge my heated gaze with a smile before accepting the items from Carmichael. I’m not shocked to discover the document is a long list of monetary transactions scheduled to be transferred within five minutes of me entering Judge Marco’s chambers. Just like every exchange my family has negotiated with Bennett, he is coming out of our arrangement with a lot more digits in his bank account than he woke up with this morning.

“How much are you getting out of this deal?” I ask Carmichael, scribbling my signature on the bottom of the form.

Justine’s eyes lock with Carmichael’s, her interest as intense as mine.

Carmichael slips the paper worth nearly a million dollars into the breast pocket of his suit jacket before lifting his eyes to mine. “Nothing,” he answers, his tone as shocked as his facial expression. “I. . . umm.” He rubs his hands together as he contemplates how to say his next statement in a way that won’t piss me off. His pause for contemplation is utterly pointless when he says, “I made a mistake, Niki. I’m hoping this will repair the error I made. Clean slate, so to say.”

The tick in my jaw turns dangerous. There are only two men in my life who call me Niki. If I have it my way, neither of them will be breathing by the end of the year. In a traditional industry, nicknames are seen as terms of endearment. In my industry, they are insults.

Niki was the name I was called when informed of my brother’s untimely death. It was the name Vladimir shouted when he demanded I leave my mother’s lifeless body on the dirty, blood-spilled floor where she’d taken her life. It was also the name used when they told me my biological father had been killed by my brother. I’m only called Niki by men determined to break me. The weasel of a man who left me defenseless at the age of sixteen doesn’t have the right to call me Niki.

Before I have the chance to show Carmichael my displeasure at his shortening of my name, a singsong voice forces me to halt. I shift my eyes to Justine and arch my brow, pretending I didn’t hear her whispered request.

“The pen,” she murmurs again, her eyes dropping to the silver-tipped writing instrument I’m clutching so firmly my knuckles are a pasty white. “I need to finalize some forms before we arrive in chambers, and I forgot my pen.”

She shakes her head at Carmichael when he attempts to hand her a spare pen from his briefcase, her eyes never leaving mine. “I want that pen, Nikolai.” She glares into my eyes, letting them speak the words she can’t articulate.

Fuck—now I know why I lost my mind to this woman in less than a second. She knows what I’m thinking before my brain has even formulated the entire plot. I told you she sees straight through me. No one has ever seen me as Justine has. Not even my mother.

“Give me the pen, Nikolai,” Justine requests, her voice not wrathful or worried. “We’ve just got this last hurdle to jump, and you’ll be scot-free.” Her eyes express way more than her mouth ever could. She didn’t say I have one last hurdle to jump; she said “we.” We’re doing this together.

Smirking a grin that reveals her body will pay restitution for my obedience, I hand Justine my pen. It’s the cruelest battle I’ve ever endured not to pull her into my lap and ravish her succulent lips when she nods her head at the silent demand in my eyes. The only reason I don’t is because I can’t afford to be weak. Not now. Not with the eyes of the devil watching my every move.

I was so entranced by the lust detonating in Justine’s eyes, I failed to notice we’ve arrived at the courthouse. My father is standing mere feet from my idling transport van, wrangling his way through the media. Even with the court not officially opening for another hour, the media contingent is out in full force. They’d rather walk the planet like zombies than miss out on seeing a king rule his kingdom.

Although Vladimir’s presence is unwanted, it is expected. The family always shows a united front in public. The stronger we appear, the less likely we’ll endure an attack. Although it’s been a few years since Rico’s death, Vladimir won’t take any chances. Our competitors are weak, villous men, to say the least, but they’ve been in our industry long enough to garner our respect. Does that mean I wouldn’t slit their throats at the first opportunity presented? No, it doesn’t. But just like my plans for Vladimir, my tactics for handling them must be methodically planned before they’re executed. Every man knows that preparing for battle is half the fight.

“Niki,” Vladimir greets me when I’m ushered out of the transport van by the two armed guards. He leans in to press his lips to each of my cheeks. The clicking of reporters’ cameras capturing his charade nearly drowns out his next murmured comment. “She looks just how I imagined she would after being thoroughly fucked.”

He shifts his eyes to Justine, his stare desolate enough for my back molars to grind together. Anger seeps from my pores as my body physically shudders with rage. I don’t know what is angering me more: my father’s comment on Justine’s appearance, or Carmichael guiding her away from me with his hand on the small of her back. Considering my molars were gnawed into tiny buds during my last confession, I’d say it is the latter.

“Move aside,” my father demands when the paparazzi hover in close, eager to snap a rarely seen sight: a king and a prince in the same realm.

His command is so authoritative, even the armed guards move out of his way. We walk the stairs of the courthouse in silence. This isn’t unusual. Vladimir isn’t a talkative man. He prefers actions over words. Even when a simple sentence could erase a lifetime of torment, he swallows his words and uses his fists.

“Are you done with her?” Vladimir asks when we join Carmichael and Justine in the foyer of the courthouse. “Did you fuck her out of your system? Put your needs to rest?”

He speaks as though forgetting a woman like Justine is as easy as failing to recall what you ate for dinner the night before. I know every word he utters is untrue. Vladimir is a heartless man, but he wasn’t always that way. He gave his heart to a woman years ago—his one true love.

She was killed by my father.

That is why Vladimir raised me the way he did. I was the ultimate representation of his revenge. I was to confess my real identity to my father in the minutes before I killed him. I was so fucked in the head, I planned to execute Vladimir’s plot to the most stringent detail. I was born a killer, and I was going to honor the title before my brother beat me to the task.

The life expectancy in this industry is already well below national averages, but mine is even shorter than that. I’ve been living on borrowed time the past four years, my days only increased by shadowing Vladimir’s reign. That’s why I’ve lived my life so carelessly, without constraint or worry. I’ve been cramming eighty years into thirty, knowing my life could be snuffed out in an instant.

I always assumed my lights would be switched off by Vladimir. I had no clue it would be done by a woman. The instant Justine walked into my life, my view of the world changed. It wasn’t just the thrill of the hunt renewing my heart with blood, it was her eyes.

Although Justine was issued her death sentence years after mine, the burden on her shoulders was just as substantial. But instead of letting her potential demise rule her decisions, her willpower has fed off it. Justine believes her attack rendered her half a woman, but she is wrong. Can you imagine the immense amount of strength it takes to sit across from the men who caused your family’s demise and not flinch? That is what Justine did. She sat beside her attackers every day of her brother’s trial with her head held high. If that wasn’t courageous enough, when her brother was sentenced to life without parole, she looked her attackers straight in the eyes and told them she had no intention of backing down, that she would continue fighting no matter what the cost.

Half a woman would never have the courage to do that, but Justine did. She is stronger than she realizes, and with me by her side, she’ll learn nothing is out of her reach. I’ll give back what my father stole. I’m going to give her back her life.

“Niki.” Vladimir’s deep Russian rumble drags my focus back to the present. “Are you done? Have you finished with her?” he repeats, his voice more demanding than earlier.

“Yeah, I got what I needed,” I reply, nodding my head. “I made the most out of a bad situation. Can’t blame a man for that.”

I struggle to keep anger out of my voice. Usually, I’m the calm, controlled one who can kill a man without flinching, but talking about Justine as if she is nothing more than a whore bombards me with emotions I’ve never handled before. She is making me weak, but in a way I can’t help but encourage.

Vladimir takes a moment to gauge any dishonesty in my eyes before muttering, “Good.” He leans into my side, the twinkle in his eyes one I’ve rarely seen. “Malvina flew in late last night. She’s very much looking forward to seeing you, son. She’s warming your bed as we speak.” His volume rises during his last sentence, ensuring I’m not the only one to hear his confession.

Pretending I can’t feel Justine’s confused gaze boring a hole in the side of my head, I shadow my father into Bennett Marco’s chambers, preferring to end one battle before commencing another.