Nikolai: The Complete Collection

7. Nikolai

7

NIKOLAI

W hile Carmichael fusses over Justine more than his junior associates, unaware each second of attention is slicing years off his life, I slide the five-page document I ‘borrowed’ from his briefcase out of my jeans pocket.

Although I spent the last fifty-five minutes ensuring there was a minimum of three inches between Justine and Carmichael, I quicklycaught on to their plan to have me placed on house arrest until they find a ‘legal’ way to get me off my charges.

Once again, I could lay all my cards on the table, but where would be the fun in that?

This will be more fun. I need to be alone with Justine to see if the groove between her brow will smooth from my touch or deepen.

My plan could backfire, but tell me one person who doesn’t anticipate an unexpected houseguest for the Fourth of July weekend?

After being guided into a transportation van idling at the curb by Daniil, a Russian operative who’s fronting as a police officer, I’m given a two-minute window to get things in order. Usually this is where I call in the clean-up crew who’d do anything necessary to free me from conviction—including storming a heavily-manned Police Department.

However, with my mood the most playful it’s been, I switch tactics. I still dial afrequently called number on the burner cell Daniil slipped into my hand during our short walk from the holding room to the van, my demands are just different.

“You want me to do what?” Trey, my number two, asks down the line, certain he heard me wrong.

I scrub at the day-old stubble on my chin before breathing out slowly, “Have a guard on standby to switch out my house arrest documentation with the one I’m about to forge before it reaches the judge.”

I hear Trey’s smile over the phone. “I heard what you said. I’m just a little lost on why you want me to do that.” As quickly as his confusion arrives, it leaves. “The rumors are true. Fresh blood is balancing on the balustrade between good and evil. Are you hoping she’ll unearth a little bit of good in that black soul of yours? Or are you hoping to unearth her dark side?”

My tongue peeks out between my teeth as I struggle to hold in my snicker. “More like I want to fuck her as I’m sure she’s never been fucked.”

“Yeah, yeah, Nikolai. Keep telling yourself those lies. If all you wanted was a night of fucking, you would have gone to Cliché.”

Cliché is a strip club I co-own with Trey. Its title explains our establishment well. It’s like every other strip club known—owned and operated by gangsters.

Ignoring the niggle of doubt in my gut that Trey isright, that this is about more than a weekendfuckfest, I get back to the task at hand.

I’m about to ask him to search the Popov’s database for Justine’s address, but before I can, a double-tap hits the van’s rear window, signalingI must cut our conversation short.

“Flock isabout to fly. See you in five.”

Not giving Trey the chance to reply, I disconnect our call, yank the battery out of the back of the burner phone, then crush it between my foot and the checkered metal beneath my feet.

I’ve only just flicked the mangled shards of glass and plastic under my seat when the back door of the transport van swings open and a guard as wide as he is tall enters.

He grunts at me, acting impassively. His performance is a waste of time. I can smell a traitor a mile out. His unpolished shoes are the first hint he’ll turn on a dime for the right amount of coin and so are his wrinkled clothes. Only someone who doesn’t care about their job gets lax about their appearance.

Why do you think I get around in ripped jeans and designer shirts?

“The redhead in the hall…” I unfold the paper I removed earlier, run my hand along the crinkles to smooth them out, then pass it to the officer, confident I have a conspirator at the ready. “I need her name and contact details added to this form. Now.” I count his pulse before placing my offer on the table. “A five thousand dollar buy-in at the craps table in the high-rollers suite of my casino.”

To an ordinary man, my offer seems generous. High-class hookers go for less than what I’m bidding for Justine, but five thousand dollars is chump-change compared to the amount of money my casino launders each night.

“Five thousand dollars?” He’s seeking confirmation. However, the quickest lick of his dry lips reveals his decision is already made.

“You better hurry. If she arrives before her information does…” I nudge my head to Justine, who’s making her way down the corridor, using her hand as a notepad so she can fill in my forms before we arrive at the courthouse. “My offer will be removed.” I lift and lock my eyes with his. “As will your tongue. Мертвец не может ничего сказать .”

His throat works through a stiff swallow before his head bobs up and down, proving he’s smarter than he looks.

My threats aren’t idle.

While Carmichael stands outside the idling transport van, nervously tapping his foot as he waits for Justine to finalize my house arrest documentation, the guard recites Justine’s home address to me. I had planned to make him fill in the form, but he’s shaking so violently, I don’t want to run the risk of the judge not understanding his no doubt chicken-scratch writing.

“We need to go, Justine,” Carmichael begs her at the same time I peg my pen at the guard’s head. I could keep it, they make handy weapons, but I need my hands empty for the swift one I’m about to pull on Justine when Carmichael steers my ruse in a direction I never saw coming. “Finish them during the commute. Kirk, swap places with Justine.”

My jaw ticks when Carmichael hoists Justine into the van by the tops of her arms. His hands aren’t his cock, but I’m still tempted to cut them off for getting within an inch of a woman he doesn’t have the right to smell, much less touch.

Even if Carmichael and I hadn’t met earlier, I still wouldn’t like him. He’s one of those men who has you plotting their demise within minutes of meeting them, the urge growing more rampant the more time you spend with them.

If he hadn’t become a lawyer, I guarantee he would have been a serial killer. He has the psycho tenancies most men have but he hides them with an expensive suit and worthless words.

Once we’re joined in the van by an additional three riot officers, we commence the most direct route to the courthouse. The instant I was arrested, Trey organized for my crew to line every route known to mankind. If I want out, I merely need to brace my tattooed hand on the ‘supposed’ bulletproof glass above my head, and my crew will jump into action.

I was born craving carnage. Chaos, death, and sidestepping justice is all I know. So usually the urge for destruction would have had me placing my hand on the glass over two miles ago.

Alas, a boring life is as meaningless as a moral one. I’ll still get the thrill I’m chasing tonight. It will just come from a pretty molten-haired woman with unique-colored eyes.

I stop sucking in Justine’s scent that grows stronger with each second I stare at her when she shouts, “Done.”

Her eyes pop up from the documents to me. They’re as dilated as predicated, heavy with need. A lesser man would believe her excitement stems from her being the only female in a tin box brimming with testosterone, but I know that isn’t the case. She’s forgotten everyone else in the van. As far as she is concerned, it’s just her and me.

“Now you just need to sign it.”

“Do not approach the detainee,” an armed guard roars when she attempts to hand me the paperwork.

When Justine recoils in fear, blood furiously pumps through my veins to cool my skyrocketing body temperature. I’m shackled to the floor, but no amount of metal will save him. One look, and a bounty will be placed on his head the instant I leave this van.

I hope he kissed his family goodbye this morning because it was for the final time.

I work my jaw side to side when Justine says, “I just need a signature on the bottom of these forms.”

She’s shaking so hard, my house arrest documents shudder along with her words.

Usually I’d relish in the fear, but since it’s coming from her, I’m fucking ropeable.

“It’s just a few pieces of paper and a pen. What harm can be done?”

The guard snarls at Justine before jerking up his chin, wordlessly approving her request. I could let this be the end of it—he’s a dead man no matter how much he pleads—but our exchange not only presents the perfect opportunity to warn him about the wrath he’s about to face, but it also gives me the chance to commence my ruse long before we reach the courthouse.

“Ten seconds,” I murmur while removing the documents from Justine’s grip.

Justine chokes down her annoyance before asking, “What?”

While her wide eyes dance between mine, seeking an answer to my riddled comment, I switch out the sheet of paper responsible for incarcerating me at the Popov compound until my case is presented to the courts with the one I filled in. I don’t bother darting my eyes between the many pairs I feel watching me because even if they witnessed my not-so-inconspicuous swap, none of them are brave enough to confront me about it. Guaranteed.

“Ten seconds.” I bend the edges of the paper so my unstapled sheet appears to have been clipped with the original ones before saying, “That’s all it takes for me to kill a man with a pen.”

The true scope of Justine’s innocence is exposed for the world to see when she replies, “Oh.” I was anticipating a ‘gross,’ ‘eww,’ or a hard swallow. They’re typically the responses I get when talking about murder as if it’s an everyday occurrence.

She didn’t even bat an eyelid.

Keen to unearth more of her quirks, I keep our conversation light. “What am I signing?”

My jaw clenches so firmly when Carmichael says, “It’s a petition for you to be placed under house arrest until better circumstances can be arranged.” My teeth will be ground to nubs by the end of today.

“I wasn’t asking you.” My sneer sounds as if it was delivered straight from hell. “I was asking Justine, my defense attorney.”

Justine appears shocked by the possessiveness in my tone. She’s not the only one. Usually I only look out for number one—me. But instead of panicking about it, she explains, “It’s as Mr. Fletcher stated, an application for house arrest.”

Hating the low hang of her head, compliments of Carmichael-I’m-going-to-gut-him-alive- Fletcher’s observant stare, I remove the strands of hair fallen in front of her eye before slanting my head to block Carmichael from her view.

“Your eyes show the confidence you fail to exude. Don’t hide them from me.”

When she nods, I keep the boost her submissiveness fed my ego on the down-low by pretending to peruse the house arrest documentation as if it’s the first time I’ve agonized over one.

I need to take a moment to consider my next step. I live my life a million miles an hour, knowing it could end at any moment, but this is the first time I’ve thrown an outsider into the chaos. My crew faces a grueling initiation process to ensure they understand the dangerous world they’re entering as do the whores who service them after a gory day, so why am I not giving Justine the same leeway?

I don’t ask for shit. I take what I want and bring fury down on those who dare to keep it from me, but for some fucked-up reason, I want this to be Justine’s decision.

I guess even those born evil don’t realize how much they want something until they risk having it taken from them.

After removing my thumb from Justine’s address scribbled across the paperwork, I ask, “Is this what you want?”

As Justine’s throat works hard to swallow, she raises her eyes from her address written in thick black ink to me. “It isn’t about what I want, Nikolai.” The professionalism in her voice is replaced with the pitch of a woman desperate to break away from her dull existence when she adds, “This is about you and what’s in your best interest.”

While returning her wanton stare, I take a moment to consider the consequences of my actions. Since it’s not something I often do, it is a long, drawn-out thirty seconds. Roman, my somewhat advisor, would be proud if I had given the voice of reason in my head more than two seconds to plead its case. I’m listening to the sadistic one instead, the one that usually sees me facing a line-up instead of a three-day long weekend in a stranger’s bed.

It could be worse.

A grin tugs at my lips when my request for a pen doubles the throb in Justine’s neck. Her response is understandable. I told her only seconds ago how I can kill a man with a pen in ten seconds, yet she still hands one to me. If that doesn’t prove she wants this as much as me, I don’t know what will.

Evil is a power only the good are afraid to harness. The hesitant gleam Justine’s eyes get every time she looks at me reveals she knows this better than anyone. She’s mostly good, but I guarantee there’s a little bit of black inside her dying to be nurtured to its full potential, and who better to bring out that side of her than darkness itself?

As the van comes to a stop in the front of the courthouse stairs, I hand the signed house arrest documentation and pen to Justine. She murmurs her thanks as my shackles are unlocked, and I’m guided out of the van by the man responsible for throwing her into hell with me.

Even from a distance, I see suspicion form in Trey’s eyes when the courthouse bailiff’s pat-down fails to find the document he’s meant to switch before he hands it to the judge.

I don’t know what he sees on my face, but it increases the smug grin plastered on his.

After arching my brow at him, demanding he take his eyes off Justine’s ass before I gouge them out with a fork, I nudge my head to the officer who felt the need to enter a war he didn’t belong in.

Trey jerks up his chin, advising he understands my request before straying his eyes to Dion. Two seconds after their quiet word, Dion slips into the driver’s seat of a blacked-out Escalade, and just like that, Officer Lennox’s life expectancy is shortened from years to hours if Dion is feeling playful. He only tortures them when he’s bored. If he is entertained, Officer Lennox won’t make it a mile from where he stands.

As I’m chauffeured up the stairs of the courthouse, the media circle me like starving sharks. It’s like this everywhere I go. Evil may be the root of pain, but it is also the stuff of legends. Love it or hate it, for as long as Earth has rotated the sun, key members of the underworld have been seen as celebrities.

We make it into the courtroom with only a minute to spare. A judge with bushy brows and a wonky smirk sits at his podium, wrongly believing he’s the ruler of this town. Sasha, a woman as eager to jump ship as Carmichael was almost thirteen years ago, is positioned on the right side of the courtroom, and Justine, Carmichael, and I take up the left.

I’m not surprised to discover the seat next to the ADA is empty. The plaintiff’s lack of respect reveals he’s nothing but a bottom feeder in a rivals crew.

It doesn’t mean I’ll let his snitching ways be forgotten, though. If Dimitri doesn’t sniff him out as the rat he is, I’ll send some of my men to Hopeton to aid in the extermination of his rodents.

When Carmichael commences proceedings by crawling so far up the judge’s ass, we’ll need a tire wrench to get him out, I cradle my head in my hands. “Judge, the Hawaiian sun did wonders for your complexion.”

I take a mental note to add this judge’s name to a list of potential replacements for when Judge Santos retires when he sees straight through Carmichael’s bullshit. “Yes, yes, Carmichael. Save your yakking for my wife. She’s waiting for you outside.”

My knowledge of Carmichael’s relationship with the judge’s wife is unknown, but if the whitening of his gills is anything to go by, the judge didn’t marry his wife for her looks.

After being granted permission to approach the bench, Carmichael hands the judge the doctored request for my house arrest. “Our client’s request for house arrest has been signed by the defendant and endorsed by the DA’s office.” Sasha gasps in a sharp breath when he waves his hand at her nonchalantly. They fucked, and he snuck out while she was asleep. I guarantee it. She wears the look of a scorned woman well. “With lockup overrun with rowdy school leavers, one less occupant is best for all involved.”

The judge’s old-timer eyes shift to Sasha, who’s still reeling over Carmichael’s hand thrust. “Are Mr. Fletcher’s claims true, Ms. Sheridan? Are you siding with the defense so their client can be bailed under the condition of house arrest?”

“Yes, but our agreement is merely to stop Mr. Fletcher’s client from coercing drunken fools into becoming members of his... association.” I hit her with a frisky wink when her eyes drift my way during the last half of her statement. If the hue on her cheeks is anything to go by, she doesn’t just want to defend criminals, she wants to be bedded by them too.

The pulse of victory drums through my veins when the judge says, “Very well. With both parties agreeing to the terms as stated, I have no reason to decline your request, Mr. Fletcher.”

As the crowd filling the chambers whispers their surprise about the judge’s verdict, blood floods my cock. Its inflation has nothing to do with the vehement eyes of the ADA watching me under hooded lids and everything to do with Justine’s breaths hitting my neck. Her excitement is as stealthy as mine. We just have different reasons to be excited. She thinks today’s victory awards her the privilege of being my counsel. It does, but it’s only one of the many perks I plan to award her with.

“However…” My eyes snap to the judge, my gaze set to kill. I hate stipulations as much as I despise the men who feel they have the right to issue them. “I’m only agreeing to the request for house arrest because the defendant is not being housed in any compounds associated with him or with any known associates of his.”

When Carmichael’s eyes rocket to Justine, wordlessly demanding an explanation to the judge’s comment, it is the fight of my life to hold in my grin. It’s pulling at my lips, begging to be freed as much as my cock wants out of my jeans.

I lose the chance to hold back my grin when the judge says, “I hereby sentence Nikolai Popov to serve bail under the terms of house arrest at Unit 23, 431 West Lucy Lane, Las Vegas,” so I set it free.

As the color drains from Carmichael’s cheeks, Justine leaps up from her chair. “That’s not the correct address. You’ve made a mistake.”

I almost order my second hit of the day when the judge glares at Justine as if she’s simple. The only reason I don’t is because the hellion I see hiding deep within Justine’s eyes jumps to her defense before I can. “Please check. Someone has made a mistake. If not you, someone else.”

“I don’t make mistakes, young lady.”

Except the one you just did.

“And if another insult leaves your lips, I’ll hold you in contempt of court.”

I watch Justine for several long seconds, knowing she has the gall to fight more but also aware she won’t. She isn’t backing down because she’s a coward but because she knows angels can fly no matter how heavy the burdens on their shoulders are.