The hallway was silent. The kind of silence that didn't just fill the air—it consumed it. It crept up the walls, slithered beneath the marble flooring, and clung to the ceilings like cobwebs in a long-forgotten tomb. The light above flickered intermittently, casting faint shadows that danced across the polished tiles. At the far end, Nikolai stood like a statue carved out of vengeance and steel, his hands tucked neatly into the pockets of his dark joggers. His cold, predatory eyes were trained on a single door at the end of the hall. Her door.
Most people, upon witnessing what he had earlier, would have felt something—maybe sympathy, maybe guilt, or even unease. But Nikolai Ivanov wasn't most people. He felt nothing. Or rather, he felt curiosity. Dark, seething curiosity that simmered just beneath the surface.
She had broken down over shattered glass. A simple sound had sent her spiraling into a panic attack that left her gasping and clawing at her own arms like she was trying to tear the past out of her skin. He had known about her childhood—how they'd made her crawl over broken glass at the orphanage, how they'd stripped her of humanity bit by bit—but he hadn't realized the extent of the damage.
That kind of trauma…it lingered.
He tilted his head slightly, the barest hint of a smile ghosting his lips. Could he break her further? Or would it be more satisfying to gather those broken pieces, tenderly—almost lovingly—and rearrange them into something new? Something that resembled her, but with only him reflected in her eyes. His version of her. His Rose.
He had time. More than enough time.
A vibration buzzed in his pocket, snapping him from his thoughts. He slid his phone out, the glow of the screen casting a blue hue across his chiseled features. It was a message from Mikhail, Sergei's assistant.
MIKHAIL: The boss wants to see you and that man from the Cosa Nostra to discuss business at noon.
Nikolai's eyes narrowed. Of course Sergei wouldn't wait. That man had never been one for patience. If he wanted something done, it had to be immediate, deliberate, and without delay. It wasn't a flaw. It was power. A man like Sergei Volkov didn't waste time—he controlled it. He bent the world around his demands, not the other way around.
And that's exactly how he had raised Nikolai. Picked him off the street, cleaned him up, shoved him headfirst into a world of blood and diamonds, then forged him into a weapon. Not a man. A weapon. Sergei's own sons had failed him, but Nikolai? Nikolai was his masterpiece. His pride. His unbreakable soldier.
Loyalty wasn't even a question. It was embedded in Nikolai's bones.
He switched to his contacts and found Salvatore's number. The man was another devil in disguise, a desperate pig dressed in Armani. But useful.
NIKOLAI: Meet me at my club near the hotel.
He sent the message, then slid the phone back into his pocket. He turned, surveying the room. The floors were pristine. Everything meticulously placed. Order was everything to him—chaos was a disease, one he had eradicated from his personal life. If he killed someone, it was clean, surgical. No loose ends. No stains.
He walked into the bathroom, his movements fluid and controlled. Stripped off his clothes, letting them drop in a calculated heap. The water in the shower hissed to life, steam filling the air as he stepped in. The scalding heat bit at his skin, but he welcomed it. It reminded him he was alive. For now.
After his shower, he stepped out, toweling himself dry with precision. He selected a black shirt, buttoned up to the collar, paired with matching slacks and an expensive watch. His presence was silent but loud—a walking storm in tailored clothes.
He scribbled a note and slapped it onto the fridge with a magnet:
I'll be back. I have some business to take care of. Don't touch anything while I am gone. If you need anything, food or otherwise, press the number 5 on the telephone.
~N
Satisfied, he picked up his phone and wallet, and exited the apartment.
The underground parking lot was as cold and sterile as a morgue. A sleek black car waited, engine already running. He slid into the back seat without a word. The driver didn't speak. He knew better.
Silence.
God, how Nikolai loved it.
If it were up to him, the world would fall mute—no meaningless conversations, no pleading, no screaming. Just silence. Pure, uninterrupted silence. It was peace. It was control.
The drive took about an hour. The streets were busy, buzzing with mid-day chaos, but inside the car it was calm. By the time they pulled up outside the club, Nikolai was the picture of composure.
The club was his—an exclusive fortress masked as a nightlife destination. It wasn't the kind of place you found on Instagram. There were no influencers here, no casual partygoers. You either had money, power, or connections to the bratva. If you didn't, you wouldn't even make it past the velvet ropes. People came here in suits and left in body bags—and no one dared ask questions.
Because the moment you messed with a man like Nikolai, you didn't just risk your life. You risked your bloodline. Your children. Your unborn grandchildren.
Nikolai stepped out of the car just as Salvatore arrived.
"Nikolai," Salvatore greeted with a smug grin. The man was dressed to impress, but desperation clung to him like cheap cologne. "I finally get to discuss the agreement with you."
Nikolai's expression remained unreadable. "Come inside. Sergei is here."
That wiped the smirk off Salvatore's face.
"Sergei?" he repeated, trying to keep his voice steady. But Nikolai caught the flicker of fear in his eyes. Everyone feared Sergei. Nikolai might have been the executioner, but Sergei was the judge. And if he had molded Nikolai into what he was today, then what kind of monster was Sergei himself?
"Yes," Nikolai confirmed coolly.
The interior of the club pulsed with music, bass vibrating through the floors even at noon. The lighting was low, tinted purple and blue, and the scent of expensive liquor and cigars hung in the air.
They climbed a winding staircase to the VIP level. Past the private lounges and velvet-curtained booths, through a corridor lined with armed guards, and into a conference room.
Sergei Volkov was already seated at the head of the long, obsidian table.
He was the embodiment of old-world brutality and new-age power. Dressed in a navy tailored suit, black leather gloves, and a cane resting at his side. That cane had seen more blood than most weapons. A long scar ran down his jaw, a relic of a time when Sergei spoke more with knives than with words. His eyes, though dulled slightly by age, still gleamed with malice and calculation.
To his left sat Mikhail, sharp as a scalpel, with a laptop open in front of him. Two stone-faced bodyguards flanked the room, and to the right, Viktor, another bratva man—ruthless, loyal, and deadly.
As soon as Nikolai entered, Sergei rose.
"Nikolai. My sworn son," he said, his voice gravelly but commanding.
Nikolai inclined his head slightly, a rare gesture of respect.
Salvatore lingered near the door, visibly unsettled.
Sergei gestured. "Sit. We have much to discuss."
And just like that, the air in the room shifted.
Business was about to begin.