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

The sound of hysteria booms into my ears when Viktor cranks open my apartment door. The chaotic scene unfolding in my living room is even more ghastly than the midday sun that pelted my shoulders as we trekked the two blocks from a parking garage to my apartment building. Parking has always been an issue in my location, but with it being the first day of a long weekend, it’s even more unbearable than normal.

As I gingerly enter the crowded foyer on the heels of Viktor, my eyes go wild. The handful of Popov crew members we left lingering in my kitchen this morning has dramatically grown in size. Every surface in my living area has a backside on it. Unfortunately, not all of them are male. A small selection of women are nestled between the men, most void of essential clothing.

When two heavy-breasted ladies spot Viktor standing at my side, they squeal loudly before prancing over to greet him with sloppy kisses. I grunt when a paper bag brimming with groceries is thrust into my chest.

“Thanks,” I mumble, happy to use the over-stacked bag to deflect the numerous heavy-hooded gazes eyeing me with zeal.

Smoke burns my eyes as I enter my hazy living room. Even with the bottles of alcohol lining my coffee table, which reveal that my unexpected guests have expensive taste, I keep my purse shoved under my arm, not wanting to lose the stash of cash I have hidden inside, much less more important personal belongings.

My trek through my crowded living room gains me the attention of several pairs of eyes. The most notable: a pair of icy blue irises peering at me from across the room.

Nikolai has his shoulder propped up on the doorframe of my spare bedroom. His tattooed arms are braced in front of his chest, and his feet are bare. My brows stitch when I notice his hair is drenching wet, as if he has just showered. He showered this morning, so why would he need to bathe again so quickly?

A knot twists in my belly when a pretty petite brunette with dazzling chocolate eyes and flawless skin walks out of the door Nikolai is blocking. Although she is dressed more respectfully than the other females, I can’t control the awful thoughts plaguing me.

With my school years spent hiding from vicious bullies, then my college experience filled with unwanted attention, I can’t testify that it’s jealousy plaguing me, but I’m fairly certain that’s what it is. I feel clammy and hot, even though I’m shivering, and I have a ridiculous desire to yank the brunette away from Nikolai. If this isn’t jealousy, the Pope isn’t Catholic.

When the unknown brunette balances on her tippy toes to whisper in Nikolai’s ear, I wish my love of language extended to lip reading. He bequeaths the occasional nod to her hushed statement, but his eyes remain locked on me. His attentive stare douses the violent fire brewing in my gut, but I’m left wondering if she is the reason he needed two showers before it even hits midday.

The turmoil making my skin a clammy mess grows when the brunette beauty presses a kiss to Nikolai’s cheek. Compared to my exchange with Nikolai in the foyer of my apartment last night, their exchange is as innocent as the kissing booth at the annual state fair, but it can’t settle my despair.

Even the pleasant smile the brunette flashes me while exiting my apartment doesn’t dull the feverish heat scorching my veins. I don’t have a claim to Nikolai, but it seriously feels like my entire world just upended.

Clearly, lust doesn’t just make me irrational; it makes me believe bad intentions are noble.

When my front door closes with the brunette on the other side, my eyes drift back to Nikolai. I try to simmer the disdain crossing my face. It’s a pointless endeavor. Jealousy isn’t called the green-eyed-monster for no reason.

Confused by my odd expression, Nikolai slants his head to the side and quirks his brow. My jealousy is set aside for anger when his lips tug into a boyish grin not even two seconds later. I don’t know what he thinks is amusing. I’m anything but entertained.

I try to let go of my anger. I think back to my dad’s laid-back attitude, his carefree nature. Before unanticipated events altered my life course, I was just like my dad. Life was good. Life was easy. I’d give anything to go back to that life right now. Adulthood is already daunting, but when it thrusts you into an unknown world, daunting is too tame a word to describe it.

Everything changed with a simple smile. Not just for me, but my entire family. It’s frightening how one humble mistake can cause the biggest ripple. Four years ago, it was a smile. This weekend, it was the accidental misplacement of an address. Both blips just as significant as the other.

With a huff, I push off my feet and head for my kitchen. When Nikolai attempts to follow me, I shoot him a vicious sideways glare, pinning him in place. If my anger wasn’t so barefaced, I’d do a little jig, pleased my stare is wrathful enough to make a mafia prince freeze mid-stride.

I push through my kitchen door with aggression. I don’t know what is angering me more: Nikolai’s crew treating my private abode like a cesspool of desecration? Or the sick jealousy playing havoc with my thoughts? Considering that the churning of my stomach ramped up during my last confession, I’d say it’s the latter, which is utterly ridiculous since I have no claim to Nikolai whatsoever.

It’s days like today I wish I didn’t get the smallest slice of my mother’s personality. She is the risky rule breaker, the one who believes all rules have room to be bent. Although, I doubt even someone as unpredictable as her would have acted as unstable as I have so far this weekend.

After dumping the bag of groceries onto the kitchen counter, I pivot around. My heart rate spikes when I notice how deserted my kitchen is. Not slightly empty compared to my bursting-at-the-seams living area. Deserted—deserted. The heat of so many bodies crammed into one space must be disgusting, so why aren’t Nikolai’s guests taking advantage of every area available?

“Because they can’t fuck in a kitchen, Justine,” I grumble to myself.

Striving not to let angry jealousy get the better of me, I set to work unpacking the items I purchased. With it being my first trip to the market in nearly a month, I have a lot of items crammed into one bag.

I’ve nearly packed away all the groceries when a deep voice asks, “Did you get bacon? Nikolai loves bacon.”

I clutch my chest, startled someone snuck up on me unaware. I’ve been accused many times of having eyes in the back of my head as I’m notoriously vigilant.

Once I settle my irregular heart rate, my eyes drift from the fridge to the only entrance to my kitchen. The gentleman seated beside Nikolai this morning is standing inside my swinging door. His extensively veined arms are hanging loosely at his side, and a shy smirk is etched on his face. Although his eyes don’t house the same arrogance of his associates partying in my living room, his aura alludes that he is not a man to be messed with. I honestly can’t tell if he is a friend or a foe.

When he stares at me, promptly reminding me that I failed to answer his question, I jingle a paper parcel in my hand, allowing the deli-wrapped bacon to answer on my behalf. I’d like to articulate a better response, but with jealousy still clutching my throat, words are eluding me.

As I close the fridge door, the unnamed man proceeds further into the kitchen. “My name is Roman; it’s a pleasure to meet you, Justine,” he greets, offering me his hand to shake.

I accept his gesture cautiously. His eyes are soul-baring, showing he’s a man who has lived many lives in one, but they also reveal that not all his memories are pleasant. Roman is a handsome man I’d guess to be mid- to late-fifties. His dark hair has a sprinkling of gray weaved throughout, and his worldly eyes are green in color. He presents as a man who values fitness. Even the loose fit of his collared shirt can’t hide the ridges of his chest and stomach.

I brace my back on the kitchen cabinet. “Hi.”

Roman returns my greeting with a dip of his chin before advising, ‘Nikolai has requested for you to stay in the kitchen or your room during festivities.’ His facial expression is more forgiving than his austere tone.

My spikes hackle as anger overwhelms me. “Why?” I blurt out before I can stop myself. “Is he afraid I’ll interrupt him and his posse of women?” The viciousness of my tone leaves no doubt I’m enraged by jealousy.

Roman shrugs, sending my annoyance to an all-time high.

“Tell Nikolai he has no cause for concern. I have no intentions of participating in the festivities.” Or ever speaking to him again.

Spotting the scorn creeping up my neck, Roman asks, “If you could pick, how would you prefer to be seen by Nikolai? As a housemaid or a whore?”

The horrified expression on my face doubles as my stomach churns in contempt. He asked his question without remorse, as if it’s perfectly normal to sanction women in those two groups.

“Is there another option? Because those choices suck.”

I grimace, suddenly mindful I’m unleashing my anger on the wrong person. Although I’m disturbed by how women are viewed in the Popov family, Roman isn’t the cause of the anger boiling in my veins. It’s the devil with the tempting blue eyes and even more sinful body.

Thankfully, Roman doesn’t flinch at my snippy comment. He takes it in stride, not the least bit affected. ‘Not in this industry, there isn’t.” His tone is flat and void of emotion. ‘But I’m not here to argue the rights of women; I’m here to pass on Nikolai’s request.’

I roll my eyes, appalled by his nonchalant response. “Rights? They would have to have rights for us to argue about them,” I grumble under my breath, my annoyance too strong to contain.

“Love it or hate it, whores belong out there; housemaids belong in here,” Roman retorts, nudging his head to my swinging kitchen door, his tone simmering to a slight sneer.

Following his gaze, I realize what he is saying is true. It might be unjust and vile, but I don’t belong out there. None of the women in my living room are appropriately dressed, and the ratio of men to women is one to five. I didn’t survive a second in that environment years ago. I don’t see it ending any differently this time around.

My attention strays back to Roman when he adds on, “Besides, no one will be game to touch you in this domain, so it’s safer for you to stay here.”

“What if I want to be touched?” I snap before I can leash my spiteful tongue.

I’m far from wanting any form of contact, much less a sexual exchange, but the bitter jealousy scorching my veins spoke before I could shut it down.

I’m not expecting Roman to reply to my snapped comment, so you can imagine my surprise when he says, ‘Then I suggest you choose wisely, as any man you touch will be buried in a shallow ditch within minutes of your exchange. Nikolai has never placed dibs on a woman before you.’

If he’s hoping his statement will fill me with gratitude, he needs another tactic. I’m more ropeable now than when I was plagued with horrible thoughts on the many ways Nikolai and the brunette entertained themselves while I was away. Being treated as a commodity was the catalyst of my family’s downward spiral. If I hadn’t attracted the eye of a man who chose fear over respect, my brother wouldn’t be rotting away the best years of his life in a high-security penitentiary.

The hairs on my nape bristle when Roman leans across my body to secure a bottle of beer out of the fridge. ‘If you truly want to get out of this situation unscathed, keep your head down and your ears closed. A blind mute has never had a problem with the mob.”

Stealing my chance to reply, Roman exits the kitchen as stealthily as he entered it.