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

I stop rubbing at a kink in my neck when the faint ring of a cell phone sounds through my ears. Certain it’s coming from my bedroom, I commence my hunt. It takes shuffling through the mammoth load of paperwork sprawled across my bed before I find it under the photographic evidence from Nikolai’s attempted murder charge.

My pulse quickens when my eyes drop to the screen, and I discover who is calling. With everything that happened this morning, I forgot to return Mr. Fletcher’s call as promised.

Riddled with guilt, I swipe my hand over my screen and push my phone in close to my ear. “Hey,” I greet him, “sorry I forgot to call you back; things have been a little hectic here.”

Although my statement is honest, there’s a smear of dishonesty in my tone. Things were more than hectic at the start of my day, but the past five hours have been very somber. I haven’t seen Nikolai since our exchange in the kitchen this morning.

When I approached his room to seek clarification on some notes documented by a detective on scene, Roman advised me Nikolai didn’t want to be disturbed, and that any messages I wish to give Nikolai would need to be directed through him from now on.

I’m not going to lie. I’m peeved. Although our argument was brutal, I shouldn’t be the only one left searching for crumbs to piece back our attorney/client relationship.

I sigh softly. If I were being honest, I’d admit, I’m not just seeking a way to fix our professional relationship. I also want to spend time with Nikolai.

When I interviewed for my internship at Schluter & Fletcher, I was asked why I wanted to be a defense attorney. I answered the same way every intern does, “I want to protect the innocent.” It was only after my argument with Nikolai did I realize innocence doesn’t just extend to people guiltless of a crime; it also reflects the men, women, and children who don’t have a choice.

Nikolai doesn’t have a choice. He was born and raised to serve his lifestyle. He knows no different. And if I hadn’t seen snippets of the man he could be this weekend, I would have believed he had no chance of rehabilitation. Now. . . now I think he just needs someone to believe in him. That’s precisely what I’ve been trying to do the past five hours.

On paper, Nikolai presents as a ruthless and coldhearted leader who rules the Popov entity with an iron fist. But I believe the man who woke up in my bed this morning is the true Nikolai Popov. The angry, gruff mobster he displays in front of his crew is a persona he created to survive the ruthless life he was born in—I’m certain of it. And I believe I know why.

With Nikolai’s parting statement still fresh in my mind, my search of his personal records delved a little deeper than a standard examination. It took several hours, but my dedication was awarded in a way I never expected.

A medical record from when Nikolai was eight discloses that his blood type is AB positive. His father’s is O negative. Although there’s a slim chance they’re still related, Nikolai’s confession early this morning leaves me with doubt.

Nikolai plays the part well, but I’m beginning to wonder if he truly is a Mafia Prince.

My focus snaps back to the present when I hear my boss calling my name. “Justine? Are you there?” His cell phone beeps when he pushes on the buttons.

I lick my parched lips before mumbling, “Yes, sorry. I spaced out.”

Mr. Fletcher’s chuckle eases the swishing of my stomach. “Glad to hear I’m not the only one dropping the ball this morning. Let’s hope your frantic morning was more worthwhile than mine. Have you unearthed any flaws in Nikolai’s case that will aid in the dismissal of his charges?”

“Not yet.” Disappointment echoes in my tone.

“I’m close though,” I lie when his disappointed huff sounds down the line. “The DA is presenting this case as if Nikolai assaulted the complainant without cause, but the evidence doesn’t corroborate that. A portion of the surveillance footage Trent uploaded yesterday morning shows Nikolai and the complainant had a brief exchange an hour before the incident. After pleading with the owner of the club, I’ve been granted access to their security feeds. I’ve been backtracking through old tapes the past few hours, hoping to discover if Friday night was truly their first encounter. Although I can’t swear on a Bible, I have an inkling they’ve met before.”

My intuition could be wrong, but just like I’m sure Nikolai and Mr. Fletcher have met previously, I’m highly suspicious of the complainant’s claim that he was attacked by a stranger. Nikolai’s rap sheet is extensive, but I doubt even he would stab a man with a beer bottle all because he bumped into him during transit to the restroom.

“Okay. That’s good. If we can establish a relationship between the complainant and our client that he failed to disclose during testimony, we have a good chance of having his statement stripped from the DA’s evidence,” Mr. Fletcher replies, sounding impressed. “Forward all your notes and the access codes for the security monitoring to Trent. I’ll have him run their faces through our facial recognition software. It will be a quicker process than viewing the tapes firsthand.”

“Alright. I’ll do that now.” I pause to contemplate a way to articulate my next question without sounding rude. It’s a waste of time when I blurt out, “Why does Trent need my notes? They’re not required for facial recognition.”

My heart slithers into my guts when Mr. Fletcher sighs softly, a sigh that relays I won’t like what he has to say. “You’re off this case, Justine. If we secure Nikolai as a client, we have an immense opportunity to extend the handshake to other men in his industry. This is a goldmine for Schluter & Fletcher. We can’t risk losing this opportunity if you fail to have Nikolai’s charges cleared.”

“I’m not going to fail.” My words come out in a flurry. “I’m giving this case everything I have. You know this arrangement is just as important to me as it is to you, Mr. Fletcher. I will not mess it up for anything. Or anyone.” I scarcely whisper my last guarantee.

I grind my teeth together when my voice reveals I am on the verge of tears. The only thing keeping them at bay is the anger boiling my blood. Except for his little slip up during our first meeting with Nikolai, Mr. Fletcher has not once treated me like I’m a worthless commodity, so I am shocked by his sudden belief I am incapable of doing my job.

“This decision wasn’t made lightly, Justine. I appealed the board’s verdict with just as much grit as you’re displaying now. The matter is out of my hands. The board’s vote was unanimous.” Even hearing the truth in Mr. Fletcher’s voice doesn’t lessen the impact of his words.

Not willing to back down without a fight, I continue pleading, “Did you tell them this isn’t what Nikolai wants? He requested I be the lead counsel on his case. If I don’t continue, he may seek alternative arrangements. . .”

The remainder of my sentence is lost when Mr. Fletcher discloses, “Nikolai is aware you’ve been removed from the case. Consent was given over two hours ago.”

Disappointment roars through my body, blemishing my skin with a vibrant red hue. “Then I guess everything is settled,” I snicker, my pitch snarky. “I’ll forward the online documents to Trent now, then I’ll arrange for a courier to collect the rest once our call ends.”

The whooshing of multiple emails being forwarded nearly drowns out Mr. Fletcher’s reply, “You know this isn’t a reflection on your work standards, Justine. It’s just—”

“Business. I know. It’s fine.” I inwardly smile, grateful I sound put-together when I feel anything but.

After jotting down the address Mr. Fletcher wants my paperwork couriered to, I disconnect our call, cutting off his farewell mid-sentence. The papers scattered over my bed crinkle when I flop onto my back. I fight with all my might not to let disappointed anger envelop every inch of me, but it’s just not possible.

Before I stop to consider my actions, I scamper off my bed and race across the living room separating my bedroom from Nikolai’s. My determination to confront Nikolai grows when I notice Roman is no longer standing guard at his door.

“You’re a complete and utter idiot.” I fling open Nikolai’s bedroom door with force. “I know we’ve said stupid things, done stupid things, and acted stupidly, but I am a professional, Nikolai. Nothing said or done would have ever affected my representation of you in court. Your inability to trust has just cost you five to seven years of your life, because what Carmichael said Friday was true. I’m not just the best attorney Schluter & Fletcher has seen, I was your only chance of having your charges dismissed. Because I see you, Nikolai—the real you—I would have defended your honor until my last breath.”

Nikolai peers up at me from the bed he is sitting on. The bleakness in his eyes is fierce, the coldest I’ve seen.

The reason behind his lifeless gaze comes to light when a thick Russian accent says, “Is that so, Ahren? You see the real Nikolai?”