Nikolai: Mine to Protect (Russian Mob Chronicles #4)

“He asked like that? In front of everyone?”

When Justine nods at Blaire’s question, Blaire’s shining eyes rocket to Rico. She glares at him with her blonde brow raised, her large smile weakening her angry sneer.

“What?” Rico chokes on his whiskey, as incapable of harnessing his body’s response to his wife’s smile tonight as he was years ago. “You barely remember the night we got married, Kitten, much less the words we spoke before it happened. For all you know, I could have delivered a speech much more heartfelt than his.”

His Russian accent is more pronounced as his urge to hunt grows rampant. Just like me, Rico is a natural born killer. Unlike me, the only person he hunts these days is Blaire—his wife.

I give Rico a cocky wink when his narrowed eyes swing my way. It rubs salt into wounds I wish he didn’t have, but he’ll get the fuck over it. I thought I’d see my death bed before being awarded a noble look from his little kitty, so I’m going to milk it for all it’s worth.

Justine’s eyes flare when Blaire leans forward to press her lips to Rico’s. With her body overrun with hormones, she adores the sickening lovey-dovey stint Rico and Blaire have been working the past four hours. I swear she’s had love hearts in her eyes half the night.

If I chopped off my cock, I could understand her eagerness. Her past year has been surrounded by men who treat women how I used to: as disposable whores. Although I’ll never be ashamed of my men’s barbaric ways—they work hard, so they deserve to unwind any way they see fit—I’m glad Justine is seeing another side of the coin.

She’s fought a good battle, but I know she’s struggled with jealousy the past twelve months. It hasn’t been all bad, though. I assumed the day I was crippled by a pussy would be the day my reign would topple. I was so far off the mark, I’m beginning to wonder if it was just my heart Justine stole when she waltzed into my life with the core of a fighter hidden by the face of an angel.

She and her insatiably greedy cunt have kept me so entertained, not a feather has ruffled when my men rib me on fucking the same pussy for the remainder of my life. If given a choice, I’d sign up to be Justine’s cunt’s slave for eternity. She is a drug I crave more than anything, one hit never enough.

My nostrils stop flaring from the thrill of the chase when Blaire snickers, “I remember the good points from our wedding night.”

Through a shit-eating grin, Rico swallows a mouthful of his drink before placing an empty coffee mug on the table. “Uh-huh. Like your ability to make balloon animals with condoms?”

Blaire’s hand slaps her eyes as embarrassment reddens her cheeks. Unfortunately for her, she doesn’t need to see our smiles to know of their arrival. She can hear them in the laughter bouncing around the room.

The heat on her face turns blistering when I snicker, “Oh, Kitty, I knew there were devilish thoughts hidden in you somewhere. With a little more practice, maybe you can change those kiddie tricks into more entertaining ones.”

A dishcloth smacks me upside the side of the head at the same time Rico whacks my chest. His hit is soft enough to advise it was a cautionary hit, but strong enough to steal some of the air from my lungs.

“What?” I give him another wink, switching the leftover mirth on his face to full-blown anger. “Better to be the wolf than the sheep who hides from him.”

Rico looks seconds from starting what we didn’t finish years ago, but his retaliation is halted by Justine propping herself between us. “Tonight was a lot of fun. We should do this more often.”

After issuing me a warning glance to behave, she stands to her feet to help Blaire clear away dessert plates smeared with cheesecake crumbs. Her suggestion sounds good in theory, but I don’t see it being viable. For one, Rico and Blaire live in Ravenshoe—thousands of miles from Vegas. And two, I’m not a dinner party type of guy. Although I enjoyed myself tonight, I’m only here because Justine’s agreement to become my wife put me in a good mood.

That and the fact we fly home tomorrow.

My curve in protocol hasn’t come cheaply, though. I have three men in the hall, four monitoring the street, and Roman faking a placement with the security firm that monitors the surveillance devices planted around Rico’s apartment building.

Speaking of Roman, I haven’t heard from him since he swept Rico’s apartment hours ago. Although ordinary men see silence as gold, it’s unlike Roman to maintain radio silence. He knows how pedantic I am about Justine’s safety, so he keeps me thoroughly updated. He has always run with the same motto: it is better to know than assume, just as it is better to ask than imply.

With that in mind, I dig my phone out of my pocket.

It’s barely halfway out when Rico growls, “Thanks for that, Eli. Kitten won’t let me live down my half-assed proposal for weeks, if not months.”

I try not to smirk at his annoyed tone, but the high curve of my lips reveals a true smile.

“It’s about time I did something better than you. I’ve only been waiting thirty years.”

Rico struggles to accept my praise as much as I strive to disregard it. Compliments are not given in our industry. . . and neither are dinner parties.

“Do you do this often? Floral teacups and homemade cheesecake?”

The waggle of my brows lessens the sting of my scorn. I never thought I’d be envious of any man living a humble, meek existence. Rico is proving me wrong. I don’t want to emulate his life, but I’m glad he’s found peace in the tumultuous world we were born into.

My smile stretches from ear to ear when Rico mumbles, “If it makes my kitten purr, sign me up.”

He takes a hefty gulp from his recently replenished drink, the tingling of my lips the only indication he swapped the brown liquid in our cups for something more tempting than brewed leaves while Blaire wasn’t looking.

When he sets down his once again empty cup, I notice a baby monitor on the side table next to his chair. I nearly rib him about cutting the apron strings—Eli is four, making the need for a baby monitor pointless—but I hold back my jeering.

I know as well as anyone how hard it is for old habits to die. I struggle every day remembering Vladimir is gone, and up until last week, I only had Justine to protect.

Rico has so much more to lose.

Years ago, he made a decision no boy his age should have been forced to make. He paid for his bend of the rules in the cruelest way, so I have no doubt he’ll stop at nothing to ensure his son isn’t prosecuted under the same laws.

As I will for my child.

I stop peering at the swinging kitchen door, craving a quick glance at Justine to weaken the knot in my gut, when Rico murmurs, “I’m proud of you, Eli. I’d prefer you step away from the industry altogether, but I understand that isn’t something you’re likely to do.”

I halfheartedly shrug. “You got the kitten. I got the tiger.”

I’m not looking to start a fight. I’m just reminding Rico why it’s easy for me to stay. I have a woman strong enough to stand at my side. If I didn’t, who knows where I’d be right now.

“Your girl has been good for you.” Rico’s comment proves he understood the gist of my remark, but that doesn’t mean he’ll tread lightly with me. “She must see something in you no one else can.”

I laugh, taking his comment as he intended: playfully. “Every good person has a bit of bad in them. I’m just a bad guy who has a little bit of good.” My tongue peeks out between my teeth as I struggle to hold in my shit-eating grin. “Thankfully, Justine has the ratios mixed up.”

Any reply Rico is planning to give is snuffed by a hushed whisper. The low, thigh-quaking tone isn’t responsible for his frozen stance. It is the words the man is singing in Russian: “Send the angel to the devil’s bed, hold her, cherish her, then cut off her head. She danced with Satan and now she is dead, all for lying in the devil’s bed.”

The dessert we consumed an hour ago rushes to the base of my throat when panic makes itself known in my gut. Only one man sung that song to us during our childhood. He was killed by my knife twelve months ago today. It was our father, the man who sent us to hell long before he groomed us to be as evil as him.

With his heart beeping in his neck, Rico charges for the room his son is sleeping in. I bolt toward the kitchen just as fast. The nursery rhyme came over the baby monitor, meaning the threat is in the opposite direction of Justine, but I can’t help but move for her first.

Eli is my family, but Justine is my everything.

“Get Eli to safety while I grab the girls.”

Rico’s nod barely registers before he’s lost in the darkness of a long hallway. I was impressed by the size of Rico’s home when I first arrived. Now I fucking hate it. I should have never allowed so many steps between Justine and me. My gut has been twisted up in knots all week, and right when I should be more vigilant, I let my guard down.

I’m a fucking idiot.

My feet stop stomping the floor boards when Justine exits the kitchen on the heels of Blaire. She stares at me in shock, stunned by the lack of color in my cheeks. “Nikolai—’

A loud ricochet rolls through Rico’s apartment, shredding my eardrums of anything but Justine’s panicked squeal.

“Get down!” I roar while diving for Justine.

I only just reach her when a big blast lights up the servants’ entrance to Rico’s kitchen. The explosion of the grenade-like weapon is so strong, it propels Justine forward at a faster rate than I can shut down. She lands in the dining room with a thud, the sound of her torso hitting the tiled ground haunting me more than real-life nightmares.

Pop. Pop. Pop. Gunfire rattles around me as men swarm through the demolished reinforced door. With the accuracy of a madman, I take down a front runner with my knife. As the life in his eyes vacates, I clamber across the floor littered with metal shards to reach Justine, lying still and face down.

Like something out of a police rescue show, I drag her behind the dining table before upending it as if it’s weightless. The thick wooden material hides her from the men swarming Rico’s apartment, while also giving me the opportunity to assess her for injuries. Her shirt has holes the size of dimes in it from wood and metal shards pelting across the room during the blast, but her injuries appear superficial. Thank fuck.

Grabbing her cheeks with my hands, I lower my forehead to rest on hers. The assurance in my eyes that I’ll never let anything happen to her helps quell the violent shakes hindering her tiny frame. She presses her trembling lips to mine, acknowledging my oath with as many words as I used to deliver it. Her strength inspires me. It also ensures nothing is below me when it comes to protecting her.

After mouthing to Justine to keep her head down, I remove the gun strapped to my ankle. I don’t usually carry a weapon, but Dimitri’s warning earlier this week convinced me to step outside the box. Once again, thank fuck.

A monster awakes inside of me when Justine asks, “Where’s Blaire?”

Keeping my surveillance on the downlow, I do a quick headcount. There are at least a dozen men racing up the servants’ stairwell in Rico’s kitchen, and another half a dozen lying in wait in his kitchen. Three men lie lifeless within touching distance of a motionless Blaire curled in a ball halfway into the living room, proving I’m not the only one packing heat.

Even with a white picket fence and a humble family life, Rico has kept his gun safe well stocked.

When I catch the quickest glimpse of Rico’s murderous eyes as he rains gunfire on the men threatening his very existence, I know what I must do. I break into a sprint without a second thought, knowing without a doubt he’ll protect my ahren as fiercely as I’m endeavoring to save his kitten.

While Rico covers me with the heavy discharge of a fully automatic 9mm Glock, I drag Blaire behind the table Justine’s back is propped against, praying the heaviness of her body is because she and Rico have been trying for baby number two the past six months, and not the result of a bullet.

When Blaire remains motionless, I slap her cheeks. “Come on, Kitty. It’s time to play.”

The sting of my palm reddens her lifeless cheeks, but it barely rouses her. Not willing to give up without a fight, I begin CPR. My compressions are hard but necessary. I don’t like rough-handling my brother’s wife, but if it gets her out of here alive, I’ll use any tactic necessary.

Within seconds, a gurgling noise sounds from Blaire’s throat. Unsure if it’s the right response—I’ve only ever taken lives, not revived them—I lean back on the balls of my feet. The gagging sounds continue as the color spreading across Blaire’s cheeks reveals her silent fight.

“She’s choking.”

With a gusto I didn’t know she had, Justine tilts Blaire’s head back, props open her mouth, then shoves two fingers down her throat. I stare at the chunk of chicken Justine extracts, praying it isn’t one of many, when the noise of a woman fighting to stay alive breaks me from my trance.

With the gasp of a woman seconds from asphyxiation, Blaire’s back arches off the tiled floor. Her wide-with-panic eyes stare up at me for several long seconds, as if confused why my eye coloring doesn’t match her husband’s.

Although I’d love to relish in her shock for a few seconds longer, now is not the time. She may be breathing, but we are far from safe.

“Watch her?”

Justine agrees to my request without pause, strengthening my beliefs she was born for this role. She’s shaking like a leaf, but that could be her body’s only defense to cool the fire in her eyes. My queen is rising from her throne, ready to defend it as readily as she is me.

“Three on your right.” I’m yelling, but I doubt Rico can hear me. There is too much gun power being exchanged between us and the balaclava-clad men overwhelming us eight to one.

Bang. Bang. Two men approaching Rico’s right fall victim to my wrath, the gush of blood running over their eyes the only pops of color in their all-black outfits.

I’m about to take down the third when Dimitri enters the living room. His dark hair is slicked with sweat, and he has a gun in his hand. I’m about to fire at him when he takes down a man sneaking up on Rico unaware.

His aim is so precise, his bullet crinkles the man’s brows. After watching him fall at Rico’s feet, Dimitri swings his wide eyes my way. “They’re swarming you from all angles. You need to get into the open before they kill you all.”

He spins on his heels, his second life claimed with a murderous grin that shows he’s not happy his turf is being overrun by Russians. He slices the perp’s chest so viciously, it appears as if he’s prepping him for open heart surgery. Just like Rico and me, Dimitri was born for his role. He’ll also die for it.

After slicing the tendons on the knee of an unnamed assailant, Dimitri devotes his attention back to me. A year ago, his job was to do anything and everything to take me down. Now he only has one task on his mind: getting us both out of here alive.

It doesn’t ease the hostile waters between us, but it does award him my trust.

“Take them.”

After clearing the living room of the men crossing it, I thrust Justine toward Dimitri. She’s so stunned by the turn of events, she doesn’t realize who has ahold of her until I shout, “Go with Dimitri. He’ll keep you safe.”

She’s frightened, but she still manages to nod her head.

Just as I’m about to launch Blaire in their direction, I spot a man charging for Justine. He has a machete in his hand and the face of a murderer.

With a roar, I line up the barrel of my gun over Dimitri’s left shoulder then fire. When the perp’s eye meets his brain, the blood splattering from his mouth adds to the vibrancy of Justine’s hair.

It also shreds the confidence from her eyes.

Screaming, she crouches down to cover her ears with her hands. She’s not bowing in fear; she’s striving to avoid the numerous bullets being fired her way.

Her drop saves her from injury; Dimitri isn’t as lucky. He spins in a circle, the bullet rocketing through his shoulder responsible for his ballet move. Although he’s been bitten by a bullet, he manages to take down an additional three assailants before a second bullet to the stomach silences his fight.

I watch him fall to the ground, cradling his stomach before peering over my shoulder. Bullet cases litter the ground where Rico once stood, but he is nowhere to be seen.

It is now me versus an army.

My life or my Ahren’s.

When forced to pick one or the other, you can be certain only one decision will ever be reached. I’ll kill a thousand men before I’ll let anyone hurt Justine. I’ll even die if it guarantees her safety.

With my heart hammering my ribs, I push off my feet and sprint in the direction Justine is crouched. Another three mens’ eyes blacken with death before an empty magazine changes my crusade from a gun battle to an all-out brawl.

The death toll from my hands is as high as my knife and gun combined, meaning another two men lie lifeless on the floor in Rico’s kitchen by the time I get within an inch of Justine, but my endeavor comes too late. A man has her by the hair, his hold so tight, her tippy toes struggle to scrape the ground.

The knife piercing the tender skin on her neck has me on edge, but the numerous red dots lighting up her shirt are the biggest cause of my panic. The fear in her eyes makes my anger so white-hot, even with them locked on me, I still snap the neck of the man kneeling in front of me. I hate her seeing me like this, but I need the men swarming her to be on guard. Because

There is only one difference between a madman and me.

The madman thinks he is sane.

I know I am mad.

–Salvador Dali

As I step over the man’s lifeless body, the tick in my jaw grows as frantic as the pulse in Justine’s neck. “You have to the count of five to let her go, or I’ll hunt down every member of your family, gut them like dogs, then hang them throughout your hometown as a warning of what happens when you disrespect me.” My voice is one I haven’t heard in years. It was last used the day I realized I was only a boy living the life of a man. “Five. Four. Three—”

“You can’t threaten a man who is an orphan. You should know that better than anyone, Niki.”

The interrupter’s mocking scorn didn’t come from the man clutching Justine’s hair. It came from my left, from the direction Rico was once standing.

After assuring Justine with my eyes that she has nothing to worry about, I swing them in the direction the voice came from. Although the man’s face is covered with a thick balaclava, I know who he is. I thought his voice was the voice of reason when I admitted to killing his father, but tonight’s exchange isn’t just teaching me to always trust my gut; it’s reminding me why I should never show mercy.

I spared Maxsim’s life when his father orchestrated a takeover bid on my compound, believing he had nothing to do with it. He won’t be so lucky this time around.

“My warning is not just for your goon. It is for every man in this room. Don’t make the same mistake your father did, Maxsim. Stand down, then I’ll only kill you instead of your mother, your brothers, and your sisters. I may even spare the bitch you call your wife.”

Realizing his cover has been blown, Maxsim tugs off his balaclava. He has the same deadly cat eyes his father had and the same abhorrent sneer. He’s just twenty years younger and a lot more reckless.

He moves closer to me, his steps much too haughty for a man minutes from death. “Sansi was nurtured to be just like you. Born into a broken, violent marriage, he was raised by a monster to kill on command and show no mercy.” He smiles a lopsided grin when his eyes absorb the clutch his beast has on Justine. “A snap of my fingers will have your queen slumped at your feet before you complete an entire blink. You like killing pretty little white women, don’t you, Sansi?”

The brute fisting Justine’s hair laughs a mocking, unremorseful chuckle. It isn’t the snicker of a sane man. It’s similar to the sound I made when I was beaten to within an inch of my life. It proves the man standing before me isn’t a man. He’s merely a shell for the monster hiding inside of him.

“There are rules you cannot cross, centuries of guidelines that protect her from men like you.” I suck in a grateful breath when the fear surging through my body isn’t heard in my voice. I shouldn’t be surprised. I don’t bow for anyone who isn’t my queen.

Maxsim’s chest thrusts as recklessly as mine, his sneer just as violent. “Rules you broke when you slit my father’s throat.”

He doesn’t sound heartbroken. Far from it. If anything, he seems pleased his father’s rule was ended by my blade. Still, I shake my head, denying his claims.

“Alexei broke the rules first. He came onto my turf to kill my man and take my woman. I was well within my rights to kill him. He knew the rules; he knew the consequences of playing outside of them, so he knew his penalty would be his life. Just as you do.”

Maxsim smiles a seedy grin. It barely conceals the panic igniting in his eyes. I can smell his fear, taste it on my tongue. He came in heavy because he thought I’d back down without a fight. He vastly underestimated me.

“It wasn’t the first mistake my father made—”

“But it can be your last.”

My heart drums into my ribcage as I struggle to keep a rational head. I don’t negotiate. I conquer. I maim. I kill as I was taught. Talking never entered the equation, but I’m willing to try anything if it stops fear from overtaking Justine’s usually impenetrable smell. The scent I was intoxicated by last week is barely recognizable as terror engulfs her.

“Tell your men to leave. I’ll let them walk out of here alive. Then we will settle this like men.”

Maxsim laughs as if his life isn’t hanging on by a thread. “You’ll let them walk? Newsflash, Nikolai. You’re no longer running the show.” His wide eyes stray to the hall he’s in the process of exiting. “He is.”

I expect his goon to bring a bludgeoned Rico onto the playing field, so you can imagine my shock when the eyes match the ones I’m expecting, just several decades younger.

A man as wide as Rico has Eli pinned to his chest. A gun is pinching his temple, and the dark material of his pajamas is incapable of hiding his fear. He shouldn’t be ashamed about his response. Alexei pissed his pants when I ended his life, and he was the mafia boss of over a thousand men. But if it makes him feel any better, Maxsim is about to follow his legacy. I’ll make him bleed from every orifice, ensuring the viciousness of his death deters men in our industry from a takeover bid for years to come.

His father got off easy. Maxsim won’t be so lucky.

The flare of my nostrils doubles when Maxsim quotes, “In the wake of my death, I, Anatoly Popov, founder of the underworld association known as the Popov entity, request all my residuary estates, including any corpus that may fall after my death, be divided into one part with the sole beneficiary to be a direct descendent of my bloodline.”

He folds up a tattered piece of paper before raising his eyes to me. “A direct descendent. As in someone with Popov blood.” He snatches Eli from his goon’s clutch. His brutal rip sends Eli’s tiny cries bellowing around the dead quiet room. “It could have been Rico, but I knew he’d never come willingly. This little guy, on the other hand, he’s young enough to train and will soon be old enough to kill.”

The gleam in his eyes matches the evil glint Vladimir’s got when sending soldiers into a rigged battlefield. “You should have seen the way his eyes lit up when I stabbed his father in front of him. If you had a drop of Popov blood in your veins, I would have said he picked up a few traits from his uncle, but we both know that would be a lie, don’t we, Niki?”

His question stumps me for all of two seconds. There are only a handful of people who know my true lineage. One of those people’s wife is damaging my hearing with her frantic screams as she struggles to free herself from a goon stopping her from reaching her crying son. Another is staring at me without fear, even with her hair being wretched from her scalp, because she knows I’ll never let anything happen to her. And the other is most likely bleeding out in the security office I demanded he station himself at.

Besides Rico, Justine, and Roman, only one other man knows my secret: Carmichael-I’m-Going-To-Gut-Him-Alive-Fletcher.

Needing to end one fight before starting another, I say, “Anatoly’s rules were rewritten months ago. They’re no longer valid.”

When confusion washes over Maxsim’s face, a mocking grin lights up mine. “Really, Maxsim? Do you know me at all? As my ahren likes to say, ‘modern men need modern rules.’” I take a step closer to him, confident I have him by the throat. “Anatoly may have founded the Popov entity, but I rule it. A scrap of paper won’t gain you the respect of my men. It won’t secure you the ties I founded through years of negotiations, nor will it see you taking my place. All it will award you is a price for your head and centuries of fear for your descendants as they peer over their shoulders, waiting for my inevitable revenge.”

Maxsim’s face lines with anger as he snarls, “At least I have descendants.” He glances over my shoulder before jerking up his chin. “It’s more than you’ll ever have.”

Anger. Fury. Hate so black I can barely see through the cloud bombards me when the goon clutching Justine’s hair throws his fist into her stomach. His hit is so fierce, Justine skids across the floor like a limbless ragdoll.

“No!”

Roaring like an animal, I charge for the man who’s going to die a death more painful than a thousand deaths. I see nothing but red during my sprint, colored with both anger and blood. They can stab me, shoot me, and beat me until I’m hanging as lifeless as I did on a warehouse floor years ago, but they’ll never slow me down.

My acrobatic routine matches my leap into the air to free Justine from the noose wrapped around her neck twelve months ago, except this time, I’m not aiming for her. I have my sights on the man responsible for her fetal curl six feet away from me, for the one striving to end my life without siphoning blood from my veins.

My fists land on the laughing hoodlum’s jugular, collapsing his windpipe. I stab my foot into the back of his kneecap, forcing him to topple to the ground in a heap. His drop is too simple. I want him to howl in pain, to experience half the hurt shredding me into pieces.

He does no such thing. He squeals like a child learning to ride a bike for the first time before steading himself back onto his feet. Even my unnatural twist of his neck doesn’t dampen his smile.

When Sansi swats me off him like I’m a fly, I don’t give in. I’m back up in his face in an instant, my fists raining down on him as relentlessly as the bullets flying past my head.

I want him to cry for forgiveness.

To beg for his life before I end it without mercy.

I want him to suffer.

It seems as if my wish is about to come true when Sansi howls in pain two seconds later. I want to say my fists have done the job they’re trained to do, but that would be a lie. He’s not buckling solely because of my wrath; his rib caught a bullet intended for my head.

Taking advantage of the situation, I jab two fingers into his gushing wound. I scissor them, mimicking the movements Justine’s legs do any time she catches my heated gaze. His pained wails are the equivalent of angels serenading me, his fall to the ground the icing on the cake.

With Sansi double my size, it will take everything I have to snap his neck, but I give it my all, my anger not even half-depleted. As the beast inside me rises from the ashes he was buried in twelve month ago, I feel the cervical vertebrae in Sansi’s neck compressing, dangerously close to slicing the spinal cord they’re there to protect. He is moments from death, yet my punishment is only beginning.

If he has harmed my baby, his death will be a blessing. Every man in this room will feel my wrath for years to come before my focus switches to their families. I won’t hurt them or make them cry. I’ll only kill them with the silent pain currently ripping through my heart. Hell hath no fury like a man scorned.

Even in a room full of noise, I hear Sansi’s final breath leave his body. . . but I somehow miss the bullet fired to kill me.