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

“Hey,” I greet Mr. Fletcher when his frame fills the doorway of my office.

Snubbing the nerves bubbling in my stomach, I set aside the depositions I’ve been working on the past three hours before gesturing for him to enter. Although the natural attraction bristling between us the past three months is still present in abundance, it isn’t as fervent as before. Mr. Fletcher is rightfully angry about the scene he walked in on in my apartment this morning.

Schluter & Fletcher have clear guidelines employees are to follow when it comes to clients. Having your mentor walk in on you in a compromising position with a client isn’t on the list. Although I could argue my relationship with Nikolai didn’t start until after I was removed from his case, I’m honestly too exhausted to argue. Nikolai’s hearing was finalized four hours ago, and I’ve been running our conversations this morning through my mind on repeat ever since, meaning I’m not just physically drained—I am emotionally exhausted as well.

Just being subjected to Vladimir’s evil glare for the twenty minutes he sat across from me during Nikolai’s hearing made me see Nikolai’s plight to escape his father’s clutches in a whole new light. Vladimir has orchestrated Nikolai’s entire life; from the position he holds, to the charges he faces, he puppeteers every move Nikolai makes. That’s why he arrived at court this morning. He was testing the control he has over Nikolai. If Nikolai didn’t respond in a way he deemed acceptable, today’s hearing would have ended differently.

Vladimir is one of the most powerful men in his industry, but the one thing he wants more than anything will never be his: the respect of his son. That is why Nikolai reacted so brutally during our argument three days ago. He knew my defense of respect was true, he just couldn’t admit it. You can scare a boy into obeying you, but you can’t scare a man into respecting you. Nikolai is a man—one of the strongest and most determined I’ve seen. He will look past any ruse his father dangles in front of him and will come out the other end with not only the respect of his crew, but mine as well.

I stop fiddling with the hem of my skirt when Mr. Fletcher places a sheet of paper in front of me. To start with, I’m worried it is the consequence of breaking Schluter & Fletcher’s no fraternization policy. It is only on closer inspection do I realize my assumptions are wrong. This appears to be the form I completed in haste to have Nikolai bailed under house arrest, the document that forced me down a path I never considered walking.

The only thing is, this isn’t the paperwork I filled in. The handwriting is all wrong. I write in a cursive font with my E’s and L’s looped extravagantly. The handwriting on this document is neat, but its E’s resemble a backward 3, leaving no doubt it isn’t the paperwork I filled in Friday afternoon.

Spotting the confusion crossing my face, Mr. Fletcher hands me another sheet of paper. This one I recognize immediately. It is the one Nikolai completed after he was exonerated of all charges. It has his full name printed at the bottom: Nikolai Elian Popov.

“The E’s match,” I murmur more to myself than Mr. Fletcher.

Assuming my statement is a question, Mr. Fletcher nods. “I told you once he had his sights set on you, he’d stop at nothing to have you.” He nudges his head to the document shaking like a leaf in my hand. “He had you eating out of his palm before he even left the interrogation room.”

I drop the sheet of paper onto my desk, not liking Mr. Fletcher’s tone. This document makes it look like Nikolai has been playing me from the get-go, but I don’t believe that. Mr. Fletcher is basing his opinion on the evidence presented in front of him. I know the real Nikolai, the man behind the paperwork.

“Things aren’t as you’re perceiving them, Mr. Fletcher.”

Mr. Fletcher groans, unappreciative of his formal title. ‘They’re not?’ he asks while sinking in the vacant chair across from me.

The unease radiating out of him in invisible waves makes me hesitate, but I shake my head, determined to keep my resolve strong. “No, they’re not.”

Mr. Fletcher’s lips tuck in the corner of his mouth, his expression unamused. Prior to this weekend, his arrogance wouldn’t have appealed to me. Now, it’s piqued my interest, but not in the way one might think. I’m not turned on by his confidence; I’m interested to know why it’s grown so rampant since this morning.

Mr. Fletcher barely uttered a word during Nikolai’s hearing. I thought his startled composure stemmed from having a man as infamous as Vladimir watching over the proceedings, but his quiet front continued even after Vladimir guided Nikolai out of the courthouse. With his silence directed more toward me than his three junior associates, it didn’t take me long to realize he was giving me the silent treatment.

Although annoyed at his childish behavior, I responded to his silence with the same level of maturity. I’m not a fan of tit for tat; I was just happy to use the quiet to my advantage. My mind has been so muddled the past twelve hours, I’m having a hard time remembering which way is up. Having one less issue to tackle has been a godsend.

A short time later, Mr. Fletcher’s heavy sigh captures my attention. He’s not a sighing type of guy. Other than when he sighed before releasing me from Nikolai’s case, I can’t recall a single time I’ve heard him sigh in the four months I’ve known him.

While working his jaw side to side, Mr. Fletcher’s eyes take in the depositions stacked on my glass and chrome desk. It was only last week I thought all my Christmases had come at once when he selected me to comb through the evidence of a high-profile murder case. Mr. Fletcher has the best paralegal team in the state at his disposal, yet he still selected me to work alongside him on this case. And how did I thank him for the privilege? I broke the one rule I swore I’d never break. I mixed business with pleasure.

Swallowing down the anxiety creeping up my throat, I mumble, “Is there something you need, Mr. Fletcher? I’ve begun weeding through the DA’s numerous witness accounts, narrowing them by demographics as you requested. . .”

I stop speaking when Mr. Fletcher slices his hand in the air, ending not just my words, but my heart as well. “Trent is here to gather the Hester files. He and Michelle will work toward the preliminary hearing over the next six weeks.”

My gaped mouth doubles when he gestures for Trent to enter my office. With my brain on the fritz, I didn’t notice him standing outside my door.

“Thank you,” Trent mutters when I place my handwritten notes on the Hester file on top of the depositions.

“I don’t know if they’ll be useful, but. . .” My words trail off into silence when my voice trembles like I’m moments away from crying. I’m not going to cry. I’m just. . . Umm. . . I don’t know? Maybe I am about to cry.

I wait for Trent to leave my office before rolling my shoulders and lifting my chin high. If my four days with Nikolai has taught me anything, it is that I am stronger than I realize.

“Are you firing me?” Even though I’m asking a question, I continue talking as if I didn’t. “Because if you are, I am well within my rights to have a union representative present during my unfair dismissal. I haven’t done anything wrong. I may have stepped outside the guidelines you deem acceptable for your employees, but nothing I did this weekend went beyond tactics I’ve witnessed in this firm time and time again the past three months. You requested I use any means necessary to secure Nikolai as a client. I did as you requested.”

Now there is no doubt I am on the verge of crying. While striving to defend myself, I threw my relationship with Nikolai under the bus, acting as if our connection was nothing but a ruse to lure him as a client. God—I’m a horrible person. Nikolai is willing to kill a man to keep me safe, but at the first sign of trouble, I throw him to the wolves. If I didn’t have my brother’s case occupying my thoughts, I would hand Mr. Fletcher my resignation instead of waiting to be fired.

My eyes missile to Mr. Fletcher when he says, “You’re not being fired, Justine.” His tone doesn’t match his guarantee, which is gruff and uneasy.

“Then why was I removed from the Hester case?”

The knot in my stomach intensifies when Mr. Fletcher sighs for the second time in under five minutes. Just like when he informed me I had been removed from Nikolai’s case, this sigh tells me I won’t like what he’s about to say.

After licking his dry lips, Mr. Fletcher announces, “Mr. Schluter requested for Trent and Michelle to take over the preliminaries on the Hester case as he requires your assistance with another high-profile client.”

A scratch impinges my throat. “Mr. Schluter wants me to work with him?”

My brows stitch when Mr. Fletcher nods his head.

“Why?” I blubber out, astonished.

I’ve been with Schluter & Fletcher the past three months, but I’ve only communicated with Mr. Schluter once that entire time—it was when he interviewed me for my position.

I wouldn’t necessarily say Mr. Schluter is an old bigot who demoralizes the women in his firm as if we are still in the 1700s . . . Actually, scrap that. That is precisely how I’d describe Mr. Schluter. He believes women either belong in the kitchen or his bed—not working alongside him.

Lines crease my forehead. His Stone Age mentality is oddly similar to things I overheard earlier this week.

After breathing out my nerves, I lock my eyes with Mr. Fletcher. “What exactly is Mr. Schluter requiring my help with?”

“I don’t know.” His eyes show the honesty in his reply. He is just as stumped by Mr. Schluter’s request as I am. “But I have a feeling neither of us will like the outcome of his demand.”

My eyes follow him when he stands to his feet. He tucks his chair in tightly under my desk before returning his eyes to mine. “Grab your coat. Mr. Schluter is waiting for you in the foyer.”

Pretending I can’t feel the knot in my stomach tightening, I secure my high-waisted jacket from the coatrack before shadowing Mr. Fletcher into the foyer. The wealth of Schluter & Fletcher is well-displayed by their headquarters. High vaulted ceilings, veined marble floors, and dramatic lighting stuns prospective clients so well, they don’t even notice the exorbitant hourly rate they’re charged.

Although the employees at Schluter & Fletcher are the cream of the crop, it wasn’t always this way. Only thirteen short years ago, this place was a dump. Representation rarely extended past misdemeanors or domestic situations and was appointed by the courts for clients who couldn’t afford their own defense.

The caliber of clientele didn’t change until Mr. Fletcher jumped ship from the DA’s office to the defense. I don’t know what caused his sudden decision to join the dark side, but it was a brilliant move. Both Mr. Schluter and Mr. Fletcher are rolling in dough, and their client list is the best in the country.

My brisk pace down the glistening corridor ends when Mr. Fletcher comes to a sudden stop. He spins around to face me, his expression as unpredictable as my heart rate.

“Remember what I’ve taught you, Justine. Ethics is the difference between knowing what you must do, and what is the right thing to do.” He adjusts the collar of my blouse so it sits outside my coat before locking his eyes with me. “Sometimes the lines blur. Whether it is a good or bad blur, you won’t discover for many years to come.”

I don’t know why, but I have a feeling his saying is more for him than me.

Unsure of an appropriate reply, I merely nod my head. It is lucky my retort is short as our private pep talk is interrupted not even two seconds later.

“Yes, well, now his request makes sense.” Mr. Schluter shuffles out of his office, instantly changing the bustling space into a graveyard. “That will be all, Mr. Fletcher.” He dismisses Mr. Fletcher with a nudge of his hairy chin.

Mr. Schluter has the creepy older man vibe down pat. His chin is covered with a ghastly salt and pepper goatee, and his expensive tailor-made suit barely covers his expanded midsection. Although he has a sneer that would have grown men quivering in their boots, he stands at approximately the same height as me without my heels—five feet, eight inches. His age has never been revealed, but from information I unearthed when researching for my interview, he’d have to be at least mid-sixties, if not early seventies. He is a gifted attorney if you can look past his Stone Age beliefs and chauvinistic edge.

“Let’s go,” Mr. Schluter mutters, snatching his coat from his frazzled receptionist, Sierra. Not waiting for me to acknowledge his request, he hightails it to a chauffeur-driven Bentley idling at the curb.

After giving Mr. Fletcher one last sideways glance, soundlessly requesting he pray for my safe return, I hotfoot it outside. The blazing Las Vegas summer temps are even more horrid when I slip into the back of the Bentley. Mr. Schluter’s blood must be icy cold as he has the heat up high.

While Mr. Schluter finalizes a call on his cell, I tug off my jacket. With the temperature settings sweltering enough to accommodate Satan, I’m sweating profusely—and it has nothing to do with the compromising situation I’ve found myself in.

A majority of our drive passing beautiful Las Vegas landmarks is spent with me gawking out the window, acting as if I can’t understand a word Mr. Schluter is uttering in Spanish into his cell. If his conversation went beyond reprimanding his housekeeper for purchasing sheets with a thread count less than 1000, I might have been more interested in his discussion.

“Hmm. Sorry?” I mutter a short time later. I was so caught up absorbing the extravagant houses lining the street, I didn’t hear a word grumbled from Mr. Schluter’s mouth.

Mr. Schluter’s caterpillar brow bows, unappreciative of my blasé response. “Nationality law, how familiar are you with it?”

I cringe. “It was covered in my studies, but I’ve never practiced it. Why?”

Mr. Schluter hands me some documents. “We’ve been requested to aid a client in their petition to have their spouse nationalized. I’m not up on the current law. I haven’t filed a claim since the Eighties.”

“Schluter & Fletcher is a defensive firm. We don’t handle citizenship applications.” Confusion echoes in my tone.

Mr. Schluter’s hourly rate is more than I clear in a week, so having him work on an application for citizenship would be like asking the President to bag my groceries.

I swallow harshly when Mr. Schluter’s narrowed gaze spears me in place. His expression shows he doesn’t welcome my comment on his firm’s legal capabilities. “I suggest you take a moment to remember your place, Justine. When we have a client as influential as the one we are visiting, my firm is anything they want it to be,’ he mutters, overenunciating the word ‘my.’

When his snarl fades, my eyes drop to the document in my hand, interested to discover who is so influential they have Mr. Schluter shoving aside high-profile murder cases to aid in their quest to become a US citizen.

Malvina Smirnov, I murmur to myself.

As our Bentley glides down a street dotted with mansions you’d expect to see in Beverly Hills, I scan Malvina’s application for citizenship. She has all her I’s dotted and T’s crossed, so I’m left baffled as to why she requires our assistance with her application. She’s been engaged to her US-born spouse for four years, has plenty of capital to live in the US without government assistance, and her application has been endorsed by influential parties. If I were processing her claim, I’d approve it without a second thought.

I stop assessing Malvina’s application when we arrive at a sizeable reinforced gate manned by four armed men. After scanning the credentials of the driver and both Mr. Schluter and me, the black wrought iron gate slowly chugs open. The sweat misting my skin from the stifling temperature in the car doubles as the Bentley slowly glides down an asphalt driveway. Hedged greenery edges a manicured lawn that rivals the gardens at Buckingham Palace, and a mansion stands tall and proud at the back of the long, winding road. Just the number of windows glistening in the bright afternoon sun leads me to believe this property has as many rooms as a hotel. It is massive and utterly jaw-dropping.

‘Thank you,’ I murmur to a man in a black suit when he opens the back passenger door for me.

While shadowing Mr. Schluter up the set of stairs leading to a pristine double glass door entranceway, I smooth the wrinkles from my skirt. Although my outfit is designer, it looks dowdy compared to the glamorous dress the dark-haired beauty waiting for us in the foyer is wearing. From the lack of wrinkles on her face and the aura of wealth surrounding her, I highly suspect this is Malvina.

“Hello, welcome, please come in,” she greets us before waving her hand into the foyer. “Maya will take your coats.”

A petite brunette wearing a plain white blouse and black skirt appears out of nowhere to take our jackets as requested. I eye her curiously, certain I’ve seen her before. Although she is clearly malnourished, her eyes, hair coloring, and facial features register as familiar. I’ve never been good at remembering faces, but I’m sure hers is one I’ve seen before.

Shrugging off my confusion as an effect of minimal sleep, I follow Mr. Schluter and our client into a large library/sitting room at the side of the foyer. The expansive collection of first edition books and antique furniture leaves no doubts as to the affluence of this family. It is so pungent, I can feel it seeping into my skin. This family has wealth most people can only dream about. I doubt anyone in this residence has seen a penny, much less counted them to pay an overdue bill.

“Malvina, this is Justine, the junior associate we were discussing this morning,” Mr. Schluter introduces while taking a seat in a floral printed chair across from Malvina.

I don’t cite an objection to his incorrect use of my title. I’m too stunned by his disclosure they were talking about me this morning to correct him on a formality only he can alter. Mr. Fletcher is my mentor, but the hiring of staff is solely handled by Mr. Schluter. If you don’t pass his once-over, you won’t be an employee of Schluter & Fletcher.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Justine,” Malvina praises, offering me her hand to shake. Although her greeting is pleasant, her tone is anything but.

The massive diamond rock sitting on her ring finger digs into my palm when I accept her handshake. I don’t know if she is left-handed, or she just wants an excuse to flash her mammoth engagement ring. Considering that the conceit in her eyes doubles during our awkward interaction, I’d say it is the latter.

Malvina is beautiful: rich chocolate hair that falls to her shoulders in effortless waves, perfect, unblemished skin, and fiery blue eyes, but her aura is nowhere near as glamorous. I don’t know her well enough to call her a snob, but her demeanor most certainly implies snootiness.

After ensuring my hair is covering the bite marks the low collar of my shirt fail to conceal, I take the empty seat next to Mr. Schluter. I’ve barely begun reprimanding myself on my low self-esteem when I endure another unexpected blow. The man who called out my marks for their horrid unsightliness is entering the library from an opening on my right.

Vladimir’s walk is as haunting as ever. He stalks into the room, the sound of his steps as menacing as his evil scowl. When he spots me frozen on the couch, the corners of his thin lips tug high. Just like our first meeting, he feeds off my fear, loving every forced swallow I endure.

“Ernest,” Vladimir greets, his Russian accent the most pronounced I’ve heard. He kisses Mr. Schluter’s cheek before his eyes turn to me. “Ahren, what a pleasure to see you again.”

Fear glides down my spine when he leans in to press his lips to my cheek. The instant his puckered mouth graces my skin, I feel in desperate need of a shower, even more so when I see the way Malvina’s eyes flare from my wide-eyed expression.

“Everything settled?” Vladimir queries as he moves to join Malvina on a loveseat opposite us.

I become worried for Malvina’s sanity when she leans in to accept Vladimir’s greeting with overzealous eagerness. Who cherishes the kiss of death?

“I don’t know. They’ve just arrived,” Malvina replies after returning Vladimir’s welcoming with one of her own. She doesn’t save her lips for his cheek, though. She kisses him right on the mouth.

I wipe the ghastly expression from my face when Malvina locks her eyes with mine. “I’m hoping you’ve got good news. This wedding is long overdue.”

“Wedding?” I query, my tone high.

“Yes,” Malvina replies, her eyes sparkling with unbridled excitement. “It is many years later than we would have liked, but you can’t force a bull into a china shop.”

She slaps Vladimir’s chest when he throws his head back and laughs. I’d like to say it is the pleasant chuckle of a man excited at the prospect of being wed, but it sounds nothing like that. It is as evil and vindictive as Vladimir’s dark eyes searing my soul from the inside out.

Malvina waits for Vladimir’s laughter to settle before asking, “So, what are the chances of a wedding happening this weekend?”

“This weekend?” I choke out.

I don’t know what is more shocking: the fact she wants to marry Vladimir at all or that she’s hoping it can be done as soon as possible.

“You want to wed this weekend?” My eyes bounce between Vladimir and Malvina, utterly shocked, and in all honesty, sickened. Vladimir is a horrible, vile man. How does his fiancée not know this?

Noticing the direction of my gaze, Malvina giggles. “I’m not marrying Vladimir. I’m marrying his son, silly.” She abruptly stands from her chair, startling me. “Speak of the devil. and he shall appear. Darling, in here.” She waves her hand at someone behind my shoulder.

I freeze, suddenly distressed. I don’t know why I’m being bombarded with disturbing thoughts—reckless, distressing thoughts—but my stomach is somersaulting so fiercely, I feel like I’m moments away from barfing on the expensive Persian rug under my feet, and my skin is slicked with sweat.

The reason behind my body’s horrid reaction comes to light when, out of the corner of my eye, I catch the quickest glimpse of a profile I’ll never forget. Nikolai is entering the library, his swagger as pompous as ever. He is wearing the same clothes he was wearing this morning, although the sleeves of his shirt have been rolled up to his elbows, and his hairline is dotted with sweat as if he’s recently performed exhausting activities.

He pretends he hasn’t noticed my gawking stare as he crosses the room to join Malvina and Vladimir on the other side. He is a good actor, but not good enough to hide the tick his jaw gained from my paralyzed state.

The churning of my stomach ramps up a gear when he leans in to press a kiss to Malvina’s cheek. Not willing to let her fiancé slip by without a more intimate embrace, Malvina swivels her head, forcing Nikolai’s lips to land on hers. She kisses him for mere seconds, but I swear it feels like the sun circles the earth a hundred times.

When Malvina pulls away from Nikolai, her eyes carry the same spark I saw in mine numerous times the past weekend. She’s caught in the trap of a mafia prince, too defenseless to fight his charm and too enamored to care.

“Oh, goodness, I got lipstick on your lips. Here.” Malvina fusses over Nikolai until every smidge of her vibrant red lipstick has been removed from his mouth.

I try to force my eyes to the floor, but like a car wreck, I can’t tear my gaze away from them standing side by side. It is like seeing royalty in the flesh—a prince with a princess worthy of the glamorous title.

The only reason my eyes drift away from the heart-crushing sight is when I feel the heat of a desolate gaze boring into my temples. Vladimir is watching my every move, categorizing me as much as he did when he considered Nikolai’s offer of making me his whore.

I force a fake smile onto my face, acting unaffected by the sappy visual shredding my heart into pieces. It is all a ploy. I’m utterly destroyed. If Nikolai is the spouse Malvina listed in her application for US citizenship, she has been his fiancée for four years. FOUR years!

“Sorry?” I mumble when Mr. Schluter nudges me with his knee, drawing me away from negative thoughts.

Mr. Schluter glares into my eyes, demanding I get with the program. “Malvina asked if there is any possibility she and Nikolai could wed this weekend? They have been waiting for this day for years, and they are hopeful her application for citizenship won’t stall their plans.”

“Oh. . . umm. . .” Words fail me when my eyes collide with Nikolai’s. He is glowering at me, his anger so potent, anyone would swear he just discovered I was the one hiding a secret engagement.

Usually, I’d cower from his wrath, but I’m too angry to leash my spiteful tongue. ‘An application for citizenship has no effect on their ability to get married. If anything, it may aid in Malvina’s application.’ I shift my eyes to Malvina, the determination in them as vibrant as ever. ‘You’re in Vegas; you can do whatever you want in Vegas.’

Malvina squeals as she claps her hands together. “See, I told you there were no formalities stopping us from tying the knot.” She squeezes Nikolai’s hand in hers, firming the fists and making his knuckles white. “I better get planning. Gosh, I only have days.” She presses her red-painted lips onto the edge of Nikolai’s mouth before her eyes stray to mine. “Thank you, you just made my year.”

I graciously bow my head. It is the least I can do after spending the weekend shacked up with her fiancé. “If you have any more questions, please contact the firm via telephone. You don’t need to bring us all the way out here for a simple question.”

Malvina is discreet, but I didn’t miss the quickest roll of her eyes. Her reaction isn’t shocking. She looks like a woman who is used to having people serve her. I wouldn’t be surprised to discover her servants scoop her cereal directly into her mouth.

I inwardly grumble. They probably chew it for her as well.

“I’ll show you out,” Nikolai says, his eyes focused on Mr. Schluter.

When Mr. Schluter stands from his chair, I follow suit, happy to vacate a room in which the oxygen supply is thinning with every second ticking by. It is the fight of my life, but I muster a forced grin onto my face to bid farewell to Vladimir and Malvina. The only reason I do is because Malvina doesn’t deserve my anger. She may be unpleasant, but who am I to judge her? She isn’t the homewrecker in this situation. That title solely belongs to me.

“Don’t be long, son,” Vladimir demands, his voice gravelly and thick. “We’ve got lifelong seeds to plant. Ones that should have been sowed years ago.” His eyes locked with mine during his last sentence.

Nikolai nods his head, not the least bit distressed by Vladimir’s demanding tone. After returning his eyes to Mr. Schluter and me standing frozen in the library, he gestures his hand to the door. “This way.” His timbre is so low, it feels like it was delivered straight from hell.

Mr. Schluter and I follow Nikolai through his expansive family compound, shadowing him in silence like sheep going to slaughter. Nikolai doesn’t speak a word; he doesn’t need to. I can feel his anger radiating out of him in hot, invisible waves. It is as volatile and temperamental as mine. Not even thirty minutes ago, I was defending him. Now, I realize what Mr. Fletcher said is true. I’ve been stupidly eating out of Nikolai’s palm the entire time I’ve known him.

Our brisk trek across the glistening tiled floor halts when a non-accented voice at our side asks, “Ernest, can I have a minute?”

My heart pounds against my ribcage when my eyes swing in the direction of the voice. Roman is standing at the entrance of a long, dark corridor, the dingy design of which is a stark contradiction to the opulence of the rest of the residence.

“Certainly.”

When Mr. Schluter pushes off his feet to head to Roman, I follow after him.

“Just Ernest,” Roman demands, stopping my steps mid-stride.

I glare at Roman, soundlessly begging for him not to do this. He returns my stare, telling me what I already know. He doesn’t need to speak to Mr. Schluter. He’s just setting me up to be left unoccupied with Nikolai.

“I’ll be back in a minute, Justine,” Mr. Schluter says, peering at me in shock, confused as to why I’m acting so jittery.

Having no idea of the dangerous situation he is leaving me in, he shadows Roman into the dimly lit corridor. He’s barely disappeared from my vision when my elbow is clutched, and I’m dragged into a dining room on my left. The table is so large, it could seat hundreds.

“Out,” Nikolai demands, his angry roar directed at a group of women cleaning silverware at the end of the vast space.

They clamber out of the room without uttering a word, their exit soundless and swift. When a door slamming shut announces their departure, I attempt to yank myself out of Nikolai’s grip. He remains holding on tightly, refusing to relinquish me from his grasp.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Ahren?” he sneers, his words hot enough to melt ice.

Although he is brimming with anger, he keeps his volume low. I don’t know if he’s quiet because he doesn’t want anyone overhearing our conversation, or if he is worried his fiancée will discover how he occupies his time when she isn’t around.

“I’m striving to keep you off Vladimir’s radar, and you walk straight into his fucking trap.”

“Oh my god, don’t act like you’re angry because you’re sheltering me from Vladimir. You’re not angry because of that. You’re mad because your secret has been exposed.” My voice is as hushed as Nikolai’s, but it leaves no doubt of the fury heating my veins.

Nikolai’s grip on my arm firms to a point it is painful, but it doesn’t compare to the agony strangling my heart. “My anger has nothing to do with my arrangement with Malvina—”

“Arrangement? You’re engaged, Nikolai!” My voice breaks at the end. Just admitting he is engaged cuts me deep, way deeper than I could ever explain.

“So?! She means nothing to me. Not a single fucking thing.” Nikolai’s whispered roar is so explosive, only a hint of his Russian accent is heard.

His reply doesn’t fill me with gratitude. It has the complete opposite effect, because he didn’t deny he is engaged. He replied as if he is a coward using any excuse he can to defend his cheating ways.

It is the fight of my life not to retaliate with violence to the pain tearing me apart. As much as my hands are twitching to slap the arrogance right off Nikolai’s face, I won’t strike him a second time. His police record shows he endured enough abuse during his childhood to last him a lifetime, so I will not add more. So, instead, I ask, “The entire time we were together, you were engaged?”

I don’t know why, but I wait for Nikolai to nod his head, acknowledging what I already know is a true declaration. When he does, tears burn my eyes.

“But that shouldn’t matter, because she means nothing to you?” I quote, my words more resilient than I anticipate. With how tight my throat is, I expected my voice to be hoarse and unclear.

When Nikolai nods for the second time, my fight to keep my hands balled at my side ramps up a gear. “You’re a pig,” I snarl, my devastation too deep to harness my retaliation. I know verbal abuse is just as damaging as physical, but I’m so angry, I’m speaking before thinking.

“I risked everything for you: my job, my freedom.” A tear slides down my cheek as I whisper, “My brother’s freedom. And what do I get. . . nothing.”

“You didn’t get nothing. You got me,” Nikolai replies, his voice quickening as his tone deepens. “And I will give you everything. You won’t want a thing when you are with me.”

“Is that before or after you’ve married Malvina?’ I sneer, sickened at the way my pulse began racing at his false declaration. I don’t want to be kept. And even if I did, it wouldn’t be by a man who’s already taken.

“She is my fiancée, Ahren, but she will never be my wife. I live in Vegas, for fuck’s sake. If I wanted to marry her, I could have done it years ago.”

His words don’t stop me from wanting to get away from him. If anything, they make me more determined. His sneered statement confirms what I expected: he has been engaged for years.

“Let me go, Nikolai,” I plead, my words as raw as my throat feels from holding back my devastated sobs. “I swear to God, if you don’t let me go, I’ll scream at the top of my lungs.” My voice grows louder with every syllable I speak—I’m two seconds from blowing my top. I’ve never been so angry; I honestly feel like I’m spiraling out of control.

Nikolai relinquishes me from his hold. It isn’t my shouted pledge that has him dropping me like a hot potato; it is the creak of a door sounding into the room.

“Is everything okay?” Malvina asks, gliding into the room with her suspicious eyes darting between Nikolai and me. “I thought I heard shouting.”

The influence she holds over Nikolai smacks into me when Nikolai replies, “Yes, everything is fine. I was just asking Justine’s advice on merging our assets.”

My eyes rocket to his, stunned and sickened by his reply. When his eyes lock with mine, I shake my head, ashamed of the man glancing back at me. The coward standing next to me isn’t the man I spent my weekend with. That Nikolai wouldn’t stand down when confronted by a hundred men, much less a woman who has “no right to fracture the rightful order.”

“Darling, I told you this morning, I’m not interested in a prenup.” Malvina glides around Nikolai, her steps so agile, she practically floats. “But you know me, Niki, I’ll do anything to make you happy. Anything at all.” She purrs her last sentence into his ear as her eyes glower into mine. Her responses couldn’t be any more opposite. She is adoring Nikolai while hating me. I can’t say I blame her.

Nikolai cringes when she grazes her teeth over his earlobe before sucking it into her mouth. He isn’t the only one grimacing. I’m forced to close my eyes and count to ten just to ensure I don’t drag Malvina off him by the hair on her pretty little head. And don’t even get me started on the slosh racing to the base of my throat. I honestly feel ill—horribly ill. Only this morning, Nikolai claimed me in a way no man ever has, and now I’m watching him being doted on by his fiancée. My grandmother would be disgraced if she could see me now.

Needing to leave before the contents of my stomach see daylight, I connect my eyes with Nikolai and mumble, “It appears you no longer need my services, so I best leave you to it.”

I clear the nerves from my voice with a quick swallow before my brimming-with-moisture gaze drifts to Malvina. “I wish you the best of luck.” You’re going to need it.

Stealing her chance to reply, I race to the door Nikolai dragged me through mere minutes ago.

“Justine.”

Nikolai only says my name, but the demand in his voice speaks volumes. He is as ropeable as I am. He has no right to be angry, though. The only thing I’ve done wrong was to believe he isn’t the man his police file portrayed. I’ve been proven a liar more than once in my life, so I shouldn’t be surprised I’ve been caught a second time. I just never saw this one coming. I thought Nikolai was different than Dimitri. Obviously, I was wrong.

“Nikolai. . . Get back here! Right now!”

I don’t need to spin around to know Nikolai is chasing after me. Malvina’s stumbled demand is a good indication he is on my heels, let alone the prickling of the hairs on my nape.

Trying to forget the horrid similarities between my past and my present, I continue for the door, reaching it in two heart-thrashing seconds. I exhale a harsh breath when my charge through the tight confines has me colliding into a wall of hardness.

My hands shoot up to cover my nose as I stumble backward. Just like he did the evening he entered my apartment, Nikolai steadies my swaying movements with his torso. I nearly thank him, until the eyes of a devil steal my words.

“I thought you were leaving?” Vladimir asks, his voice brimming with condescending amusement, not the least bit fazed he nearly sent me tumbling to the floor.

Reaching my quota on arrogant, insolent men, I snarl, “That is precisely what I’m trying to do.”

I sidestep Vladimir, ignoring the evil glare Mr. Schluter is projecting at me. I just snarled at a Mafia king; I’ve got far more pressing issues to handle than the wrathful scowl of my employer.

Pretending I can’t feel the heat of Nikolai’s gaze trekking over me, I snatch my coat out of Maya’s hands and gallop down the stairs, my eagerness to leave overruling my manners. With my mind hazy, neither my career title or niceties are in the forefront of my mind. All I care about is my sanity and getting as far away from this place as possible.