Nikolai: The Complete Collection

3. Nikolai

3

NIKOLAI

“ W here the fuck is Erik?”

I speak to the officer guiding me to a conference room in Russian to ensure no one overhears us. The eye tattoo peeking out the cuff of his long-sleeve shirt identifies that he’s one of us, much less the Soviet Union flag hidden in the cornea of his realistic tattoo. They’re indicators of his bratva ties. The eye means he’s forever watching, and the flag sanctifies where his loyalties lay.

It isn’t with the men in blue surrounding him.

After taking a sharp left, he replies in Russian, “Numerous attempts to contact him have failed to yield results.”

He takes another left before steering me toward a room I’m all too familiar with. It’s where I gave Carmichael enough evidence to convict Vladimir, the man who raised me, to three lifetimes behind bars.

Alas, I was the only fool who faced prosecution all those years ago.

“We’re trying another angle.” He coughs to cover his whispered words when our trek has us veering past Carmichael and the redhead I spotted earlier on the other side of what was meant to be a two-way mirror.

Since the transmittance of light hadn’t altered, I didn’t solely see the quiver of the plaintiff’s thighs when my eyes locked with him, I was also bombarded with the features of a beautiful scarlet-haired woman.

Her expression when we undertook an intense stare-down was angelic, almost too pure, but there was a hunger in her eyes that revealed she was thirsty, and it had nothing to do with the fact we’re in the middle of a desert in the peak of summer.

As I walk past the redhead eyeballing, her breathing becomes shallow and mouse-like. She’s even more fascinating up close. Her lips are meaty and sheened with the slightest bit of gloss, her nose is as petite as her frame, and her tits gain more than the attention of my cock. They also have the eye of a handful of male officers as well.

Officers who’ll be dead by the end of the day if they don’t adhere to the voiceless threats beaming from my slit gaze.

I don’t know what it is about this woman, but she’s spiked an instant fascination out of me. I usually don’t give a fuck about anyone, but I’m more than curious to unearth the cause of the slightest sliver of silver on her neck.

The faintness of her scar exposes her injury occurred a few years back, but she’s concealed it in a way that reveals she’s not a fan of it being seen.

She shouldn’t be ashamed of it.

Scars are medals of bravery.

I wear mine with honor.

When the once-bustling corridor empties, I flare my nostrils so I can suck in the redhead’s scent. It is as intoxicating as my impish mind predicted. She smells like a mix of roguishness and innocence, like a dream in the middle of a nightmare.

She doesn’t belong here, but I plan to keep her here anyway.

When my entrance into the holding room sees her drawing in her first breath in almost ten seconds, I slant my head to hide my smirk.

I want to say this is the first time I’ve made someone forget to breathe, but if a peacock doesn’t fan his feathers, who will?

After shuffling to the king’s spot at the end of the long table, I slump into an office chair before raising my eyes to the unnamed officer.

He senses my command before I can announce it, and even quicker than that, the shackles circling my wrists and ankles are dumped on the floor.

Even with four heavily armed riot officers in each corner of the large space, I could leave now if I wanted.

I would if I weren’t feeding off the friction in the air like a crack addict seeking his next high.

I was born and bred in Vegas, so I will die before I’ll ever sidestep the chance to do something risky. Whether it’s my life at stake or someone else’s, the thrill associated with watching the danger unfold can’t be achieved any other way.

People say murderers are the lowest of the low, but have you ever wondered what brought them to that place to begin with? Most parents raise their sons to be sports stars and musicians. Mine raised me to be a cold-blooded killer.

We all have our place in the world.

Mine just happens to be in your nightmares.

“ дымы .” One word, and a packet of cigarettes and a lighter slide across the table from the other end.

After plucking a cancer stick from the recently opened packet and placing it between my lips, I raise my eyes to my gift recipient. I’m not surprised when the steely blue eyes of Detective Joe Franco reflect back at me. We were pulled apart by his peers long before we had finished our ‘conversation.’

His threat was only dispersed in pieces.

Mine is already in production.

“If you are here to make amends, you’re too late. Это отправлено отплыл давно .”

He tries to act nonchalant to my reply like he doesn’t understand a word I speak. His poor acting skills are one of the reasons he should have never worked as an undercover cop.

Detective Franco and Bill Hammond are one of the many law enforcement officers who unsuccessfully bid to infiltrate the Popov compound over the last decade. They got as far as the front door before I sniffed out the rats hiding beneath sleeves of tattoos and scarred faces.

They left with additional scars, but their lives were spared as a warning to others what would happen if they dared to double-cross the true owners of Las Vegas.

After mockingly sniffing at Detective Franco, goading him to start what we didn’t finish, I shift my eyes to a female police officer whose hips were designed for fucking. They’re curvy and round but nowhere near as tempting as the redhead’s in the hall. I’ve seen her around, but her name is slipping my mind.

Thank fuck name tags were invented.

From the way Detective Hammond stands protectively at Roselyn’s side, I’m going to assume he doesn’t realize the gleam in her eyes isn’t there for him. She wants a bigger piece of the pie than he can offer her—the cream of the criminal justice crop. She wants the number one defense attorney in the country, and she’s willing to face a firing squad just for the chance to warm his sheets.

Although I’d rather Carmichael live a miserably bleak existence, if Roselyn is occupying his time, I’ll have a better chance at pretending I didn’t notice the vein in his neck pulsating faster when the redhead leaned into his side. Then perhaps my wish to kill him will simmer to the back of my mind for a few weeks. Waters are already tempestuous, so I shouldn’t add a murder conviction into the mix—regrettably.

Roselyn takes in a sharp breath when I reveal how easy it is to triumph your competitors by staying one step ahead of them. “What does Carmichael want?” When her lips twitch like she’s preparing to lie, I warn, “Lying to me is punishable by death. Is your wish to scour your nails down Carmichael’s back really worth your life?”

The silence in the room proves what I’ve always known. Wearing a badge doesn’t mean your life is more valuable than the person next to you. Roselyn’s life was threatened in front of six of her peers, yet not a word is spoken in her defense. Detective Hammond looks like he wants to jump in, but he’s too stunned by Roselyn’s lack of denial to fathom a reply.

“Who said Vegas is where chivalry goes to die?”

While smirking like a smug prick, I light the cigarette hanging out of my mouth, drag a long drawl of nicotine-laced smoke into my lungs, then return my focus to the officer who’s more undercover than anyone in this room. “Grant Carmichael five minutes of my time.” The excitement brightening Roselyn’s face dulls when I add, “But the redhead will lead our exchange. If she doesn’t, my talk with Carmichael will end with him losing his life.”

Over our conversation and my inability to act passé about my interest in Carmichael’s new lap dog, I stab out my half-smoked cigarette on the armrest, slouch low in my chair, rest my bare feet on the tabletop, then shut my eyes, blocking out the world I’m more than ready to rule once my vengeance has been achieved.

Only a stupid man believes he’ll live forever, and only a jaded one wants to. I’m neither stupid nor boring, and I can’t wait for the unnamed redhead to become aware of that.