Page 1 of Nikolai

1

Nikolai

One Year Earlier

I bolt upright in the bed, broke out in a cold sweat, and my heart jackhammering against my chest. It takes me a second to get my bearings and remember where the hell I am as my eyes adjust to the darkness of my surroundings. My blurred gaze fixates on the large window across the room, and I focus on the way the moonlight illuminates the highest peaks of the trees and watch the slight sway of the branches rocking with the breeze. Finally, my breathing levels out.

Tossing the covers aside, I get out of bed. The wood floors beneath my bare feet give me a sense of feeling grounded as I make my way to the en-suite bathroom.

Leaving the lights off, I walk into the open shower, already aglow with the moonbeams filtering in through the floor to ceiling privacy window. I turn the water on, and it falls like rain above my head. The water is cold at first when it hits my bare skin, and I welcome the shock to my system before it turns warmer.

I haven't had that dream in years. Replaying the memory haunting me, my skin soaks in the heat of the water. I was eight years old—just a damn kid. I never knew my family was much different than any other family. As far as I knew, my life was typical—normal. Men were coming and going all the time—whispers behind closed doors. Everyone respected my grandfather and my father, doing whatever was demanded of them, no questions asked. One day I learned the power and fear behind the Volkov name when a noise woke me from sleep the night before my eighth birthday. I wasn't supposed to leave my room after going to bed, but this time I had. Sneaking out of my bedroom, I crept down the darkened hallway, making my way to the west wing of the house where I had heard the noise coming from one of the rooms. Just as I closed in on my grandfather's closed office door, it swung open, and I was met with a stone-cold stare from a man I had never met before. "Well, what do we have here?" his dark eyes narrowed at me. The man opened the door further, revealing my grandfather with a gun in his hand.

My grandfather's head turned to look, his eyes landing on mine, and I knew I was in trouble. One thing no one did was cross Alexander Volkov, and I was no exception. "Come here, Nikolai." His voice was deep and low with anger. Not wanting to upset him further, I forced my feet to move, stepping into his office. My eyes widened, and my heart began to beat rapidly. I saw a motionless man lying on the floor, face down in a pool of blood. Knelt beside him, a woman, her pretty face streaked with tears. "You think you are man enough not to follow the rules in this house? You get caught spying on things that are none of your concern; then, you will be man enough to stand here and learn what it means to be a Volkov," my grandfather said, his gun trained on the woman in front of me. Her eyes lift to mine. Tears rolled down her face, but she made no sound and no attempt to run. I watched the bullet rip through her head the same time I heard my grandfather's gunfire. When her lifeless body hit the floor, her eyes were still locked on mine. I wanted to turn and look away, but rough hands gripped my chin, and pulled at my hair, keeping me from tearing my eyes away. I watched the woman's eyes glaze over with death. Quickly, I was spun around, my grandfather's hard disapproving stare keeping me rooted in place, and I did my best to hold back tears. "Never cry for our enemies." His grip on my chin tightened to the point his short nails dug into my skin. "And don't ever spy on me again."

It was the first I ever experienced genuine fear. It was also the last time I would let myself feel that way again.

In between becoming who I was born to be, a soldier, a good son—a Volkov, I started drinking—heavily. Alcohol became my way of coping with the outside world and my own. I hid it well. At first, it was hard. Not that my father wasn't around, he was. But he was trying to take the reins of an Empire while trying to navigate dealing with his father, and a marriage I knew he was unhappy to be in. It wasn't until a few years later, I would learn just how deep his hatred for my grandfather, and my mother was.

Pressing my palms against the stone wall of the shower, I hang my head. Not even my mother knew I was in a downward spiral. Not that she would have cared. The only part she played in my life was giving birth to me. The only things that seem to matter to her are money and power. Closing my eyes, I push the unpleasant thoughts of my past away as the water begins to run cold, and I'm no less tense than I was when I stepped into the shower.

Turning the water off, I walk out, jerk the towel hanging from a nearby hook, and dry myself. Throwing on my gym shorts, I walk out of my room and down the long corridor until I reach the elevator, riding it down to the basement. The door slides open, revealing the gym in the center of the room, and a regulation-sized octagon ring. Strolling across the room, I bypass the weight machine, heading straight for the heavy bag. Grabbing a roll of tape nearby, I start to wrap my knuckles, before sliding on a pair of sparring gloves.

Rolling my shoulders, I take my stance, then land my first blow—the impact of my padded knuckles against the leather cracks. Blow after blow helps the world and what I'm feeling fade away. I lose track of time until I sense someone watching me. Turning around, I find my father sitting at the far end of the room, his stare intense, and worried. "I thought I was alone." I wipe the sweat from my brow with the back of my glove. Striding a few yards, I bend, pulling open the door of the small refrigerator, and grab a cold bottle of water. Flicking the top off, I throw my head back, downing half the contents, rehydrating myself, the bottle crunching in my hand. "How long have you been watching me?" I ask him.

"Since you walked in here." Silence hangs between us for a short time before my father speaks again. "Trouble sleeping?" I don't answer him, finish what's left of my water, and throw the empty bottle in the trash. "Join me." My father rises from his seat, and I notice he's wearing his sparring gear.

I follow as he climbs inside the octagon, watching him remove his gloves, leaving his knuckles tapped, and I do the same. It's been a long time since he and I fought one another. He's helped train me in all that I know, along with Sasha and Victor. When my father noticed my struggles as a teen and ultimately found out I was drinking at such a young age, he intervened. That's when he decided my training should begin. Spetsnaz, which is Russian military hand to hand combat training. Many of his soldiers, the men who work for him, are either ex-military or trained as such, including himself. I was younger than anyone Victor and Sasha had taught before, but nevertheless, my father believed it would reform me, and give me more control and focus."Liquor clouds your judgment. I'm not saying you can't have a drink. Control it, don't let it control you. Never lean on it or any other substance to give you peace. You need to find that within yourself with meditation and channeling your anger into something more useful."

It turns out he was right. The training was brutal, and they didn't show me mercy just because I was younger and smaller. I didn't let that defeat me. I used it as motivation. In time, I got better, bigger, stronger, and faster. My skills surpassed many of the men around me.

I climb into the ring, where my father waits. "I'll take it easy on you," I smirk.

He laughs. "I promise only to hurt you a little, my son." Our hands raise, and we circle each other.

I quickly throw a left hook, which misses its mark as my father dives for my left leg—bringing my knee up, which connects with his temple, causing him to stagger. He quickly recovers, hitting me with a jab and a right hook to my upper body, knocking the wind from my lungs. Keeping my feet moving, I shake off his blow. "Not bad, old man," I tease.

"You talk too much." He stalks around me.

As soon as my father steps into striking distance, my knuckles connect with his unprotected jaw, his head whipping back. Stumbling backward, my father hits the cage. Recovering quickly, he wipes the blood from where I just split his flesh open. Looking up at me, he grins. "That's more like it."

By the time my father and I are through sparring, we're both left catching our breaths. Every muscle in my body is burning from the workout. Silence hangs between us before I speak. "Thank you."

I roll my shoulders,trying to work the soreness from my muscles. It's been several months since taking a step back from Volkov family affairs, and now, here I am, standing beside my father, Victor, and Sasha as we watch a wrecker pull a submerged car from the water at the east end of our shipping yard. One of our employees went missing a few nights ago, but that's not what brought us back to Russia. Twenty-four hours after one of our men disappeared, we also had a vital shipment of weapons stolen. The two incidents happening so close together hinted at trouble. Not taking any chances and needing to show a united front, I didn't hesitate when my father asked me to accompany him this time.

Shoving my hands into the front pockets of my suit pants, I watch as the cops peer inside the car belonging to our missing employee. By the looks on their faces, there is a body inside.

"I'm gone less than a week, and this shit happens," my father remarks, his tone flat. "Any word on who's behind this?"

"We're looking into it. The security feed is being examined as we speak," Victor is quick to answer my father.

One of our black sedans pulls into view. I can't see through the tinted windows, but as soon as the car stops, the door swings open, and Sergei steps out, my mood turns sour. I don't like Sergei. Never have, and never will. His distaste for me shows on his ugly face the moment he notices me standing with my father, and his face hardens. He clearly wasn't expecting me to be here.

Sergei has been with my father for a long time, but I don't trust him. Everything about the man makes me question his integrity and long-term loyalty to the family.

"I wasn't informed you would be accompanying your father home," Sergei addresses me in a monotone voice.

"What I do or where I go is no concern of yours. You work for me. Best, remember that," I warn, secretly daring him to step out of line one more time. His eyes shift in my father's direction, who says nothing, and I smirk.

---