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

“Richer than God, but with a heart as black as Satan,” Mr. Schluter grumbles, his eyes rapt on Vladimir standing at the stoop of his stairs, eyeballing our car gliding down the driveway. “My mother always said, ‘avoiding temptation is easier than risking it.’ I should have listened to her. With an average man, karma will eventually show its hand, but when you deal with a devil, your misgivings follow you to your grave.”

“You’ve represented Vladimir before?” I keep my tone neutral, hoping my impassiveness will be rewarded in the most significant way.

A brick lodges in my throat when Mr. Schluter swings his eyes to me. He doesn’t need to answer my question, I can see the honesty in his slitted gaze. Today’s visit was one of many.

“When did representation start?” I ask, stunned by my brazenness.

Mr. Schluter’s narrowed gaze relays without doubt he doesn’t appreciate being interrogated. His surly mood grows more volatile with every second we spent in the Popov compound.

Not anticipating a response to my question, my eyes drift back to the scenery rolling past my window. Mr. Schluter startles me for a second time today when he answers, “A little over thirteen years. The firm needed capital; we were one payment from going under. An opportunity presented at the exact moment we needed it. Was it the best decision for the firm? Probably not, but at the time, we didn’t have any other options.”

Returning my eyes to his, I nod, understanding how desperation can push even the saintliest person in a direction they never saw coming. I’ve come close to walking down paths I never expected during my endeavor to have my brother’s conviction overturned, so I can’t judge his decision.

Horrid unease scorches my throat when Mr. Schluter locks his eyes with Nikolai’s file sitting between us. He stares at his record for mere seconds, but it feels like the moon circles the earth three times.

“He only had two years until he became an adult. After everything he had been through, what was another two years?” His weak words are more for his ears than mine.

“Nikolai?” I swallow harshly, soothing my burning throat before continuing, “You represented Nikolai?”

Mr. Schluter glares at me as if I am an imbecile. “Nikolai wasn’t our client. He was the DA’s. We represented Vladimir against charges brought forward by Nikolai.”

“Hold on, what? Nikolai pressed charges against Vladimir? When?” I blurt out before I can stop my words.

I stare at Mr. Schluter, hoping he will answer the questions pumping out of me. He does no such thing. He reverts his focus to the scenery outside, acting like he didn’t hear a word I spoke. I try to fire off a demand for him to answer me; my mouth opens and closes, but not a syllable escapes from my lips. Sick unease clutches my throat so badly, I can’t force a single word out of my mouth.

With my mouth refusing to cooperate, I sit in silence for the remainder of our trip, running the facts through my head on repeat. No matter how many ways I compile the evidence, a clear verdict never presents. I’ve come up with several hunches—none of them pretty. They are as ghastly as the bitter taste in my mouth.

Mr. Schluter said Nikolai was only two years from adulthood when he brought charges against Vladimir, that means he was just shy of his sixteenth birthday. After spending most of my weekend deep in Nikolai’s personnel file, I know Nikolai spent his sixteenth birthday in the hospital with a broken arm, three cracked ribs, and numerous other bruises and cuts from a supposed tumble down the stairs.

If that evidence isn’t damning enough, thirteen years ago was when Mr. Fletcher jumped ship, leaving the DA’s office to become a part of Mr. Schluter’s team. It was only a few short months later he was offered a partnership at the suddenly viable firm. It could be a whole heap of coincidences, but my intuition is warning me not to be so gullible.

When the Bentley pulls to the front of Schluter & Fletcher, I throw open the back passenger door before it comes to a complete stop. After clambering onto the sidewalk, I push through the rotating glass door with force, strengthened by sheer determination. When I first walked into this building, I was in complete awe of its beauty. In minutes, I was convinced anything was possible with hard work. Its architectural wonder filled me with hope I could get Maddox off his charges within weeks because nothing is unachievable with the right amount of grit.

Only now am I beginning to wonder if all that is a crock of shit. Was anything in this building achieved the hard way? Or was it all funded with money as vile as Vladimir?

Ignoring Michelle’s curious glance, I charge into the record office and move to an extensive collection of files in the bottom back corner.

It takes me nearly two hours of combing through encyclopedia-sized archives before I find the evidence I am looking for, but when I do, anger steamrolls into me, making it hard for me to breathe.

I knew Mr. Fletcher and Nikolai had met previously, and now I have proof.

Pushing off my feet, I make a beeline for Mr. Fletcher’s office. My steps are remarkably stable for how hard my legs are shaking.

“No wonder Nikolai hates you! You sold him out! You had a chance to help him, but instead, greed trumped your morals,” I shout, slinging open his door.

I throw Nikolai’s file onto Mr. Fletcher’s desk, sending the horrifying images of the numerous injuries Nikolai sustained throughout his childhood sliding across his pristine desk.

Mr. Fletcher’s eyes shoot from the ghastly pictures to the usually bustling corridor. When he stands from his chair to close his office door, Michelle, Trent, and Kirk pretend to act busy, loathing that they were caught eavesdropping.

“How much was your soul worth to the devil, Carmichael?” I ask, purposely using his first name. Any respect I had for him has been lost, so there is no reason for me to address him formally anymore.

Mr. Fletcher shuts his door before turning around to face me. “I didn’t sell Nikolai out. I acted in the best interest of my client.”

“You acted in the best interest of your client?” I quote, my voice full of disbelief. “Children were being abused! What about their best interest?”

“No evidence of abuse was documented during preliminary hearings.”

The outraged expression on my face reveals how disgusted I am with him as I dig my hand into Nikolai’s file. Tears are flowing down my cheeks, but I don’t clear them away. My heart is in shreds for Nikolai, so why shouldn’t my outward appearance match my insides?

While slamming down a timeline of photos that represents the unimaginable abuse Nikolai endured the first eighteen years of his life, I say, “Nikolai was maimed, beaten and tortured his entire childhood, but instead of bringing his abuser to justice, you took the evidence he handed you, twisted it, then used it against him on the witness stand. Do you have any idea how much courage it took for him to talk to you, all to have you use him for your own gain?”

“I represented my client, Justine—”

“You let a child abuser go free. You defended a monster, all to line your pockets with filthy money,” I interrupt, angered by his pathetic denial.

I continue slamming down pictures, not stopping until all fourteen of Vladimir’s sons are sprawled across Mr. Fletcher’s desk. “A broken arm. Thirteen stitches. A grade three concussion. Burns to his back from an accidental acid spill.” I point to each photo corresponding to the injuries I’m mentioning. “Nikolai proved to you time and time again that Vladimir was a monster, but instead of defending him, you defended the man responsible for his injuries.”

“I did my job!” Mr. Fletcher shouts, his voice as hot-tempered as my face. “I tried to defend him, but the jury would have never sided with the DA. The instant Nikolai attempted to kill his father, he lost any chance of having him prosecuted for abuse.”

His voice is as loud as mine, his determination just as strong, but it does nothing to lessen my campaign. I chose to intern at Schluter & Fletcher solely because of Mr. Fletcher’s pledge to protect the innocent. He has often claimed he isn’t a defense attorney to get murderers off scot-free; he does it to protect the people wrongly convicted of crimes—men and women like my brother. I adored that about him. His integrity was his most attractive attribute, but all I see now is a pitiful man who steals from the poor and kicks the weak when they’re down.

Grabbing the photo of the teenage boy with half the skin on his back eaten away from acid, I move to stand in front of Mr. Fletcher. “Nikolai held a knife to Vladimir’s throat on June 14th—the same night this happened,” I say, thrusting the horrifying image to within an inch of Mr. Fletcher’s face. “Nikolai attacked his father because he was protecting his brother like you should have protected him!”

Mr. Fletcher’s throat works hard to swallow before he turns his eyes away from the image, the sight too gruesome even for someone as heartless as him to look at. “I tried, Justine. I did the best I could.”

“You didn’t try; you just took the money and turned a blind eye.” After running my hand across my cheeks to remove my tears, I continue, “Do you know what happened to Nikolai when Vladimir’s charges were thrown out of court? Do you know what they did to him? What he went through because of you?!”

I point to the photos sprawled across Mr. Fletcher’s desk. ‘That was nothing. Years of abuse was nothing compared to what he endured when he was forced back into the hell he tried to escape. He had to become a replica of the man he hates just to stay alive. All because you wanted a fancy office and a swanky new car!’

“I made a mistake!” Mr. Fletcher shouts, his voice cracking as much as my heart is. “One I’ve been trying to fix since the day I made it. I was young and naïve, Justine. I didn’t know the consequences of my stupidity until it was too late.” The severity of his tone lowers during his last sentence. “I was backed into a wall. I didn’t have a choice. I either defended Vladimir or I’d lose my partnership.”

“So, you’re admitting it? You chose money over morals?”

He scrubs his hands over his watering eyes before locking them with me. “Yes, but if I knew back then what I know now, I would have never gone so hard. I wouldn’t have—”

“Made it look like Nikolai was the abuser?” I fill in, anger deepening my tone. “Or that he was a ‘psychotic adolescent who manifested lies for beneficial gain?’ You portrayed him as if he was more of a monster than Vladimir—that all his siblings’ injuries were caused by him.”

I wait a beat, expecting Mr. Fletcher to deny my claims. He doesn’t. He remains as quiet as he did thirteen years ago when he went from defending Nikolai to prosecuting him.

“You didn’t just sell your soul thirteen years ago, Carmichael, you dragged Nikolai to the depths of hell right alongside you. He tried to do the right thing, and what did he get for his effort. . .? More lies. More pain. More heartache. You threw him under the bus for this.” I wave my hand around his office that could house dozens.

After thrusting the piece of paper I’m clutching for dear life into Mr. Fletcher’s chest, I say, “Enjoy your pristine office and 96% win rate. Because I’d rather have morals than wealth gained at the expense of innocent children, I quit.”

“Quitting won’t help anyone, Justine. It won’t help Nikolai, and it most certainly won’t help your brother,” Mr. Fletcher replies, stopping my angry steps out of his office mid-stride. “Stay and help me fix the wrongs I’ve done.”

“You can’t fix this. It’s too late for Nikolai. The damage has already been done,” I say with a shake of my head. “You threw him to the wolves, leaving him no choice but to be hunted or become the hunter. He became the hunter. And in all honesty, you deserve to be hunted by him, because you destroyed any chance he had of a normal life just as badly as his father did. He was a boy trying to be a man, but your lies turned him into the monster he didn’t want to become.”

Mr. Fletcher’s eyes bounce between mine, but his mouth remains tightlipped. He knows every word I spoke is true, so why bother denying them?

“I will get Maddox off his charges, because the truth always comes out. Whether it is three years or thirteen, no one knows—but today proves your past always catches up with you, no matter how fast you run.”

Stealing Mr. Fletcher’s chance to reply, I exit his office as quickly as I entered it.