The room was cloaked in darkness, shadows pressing in from every corner, like silent observers to the monster that resided there. Nikolai sat on the edge of his bed, back slightly hunched, his sharp features carved in moonlight like a statue sculpted from ice and cruelty. His room was vast, minimalist, but every corner carried a haunting aura of calculated madness. No paintings. No warmth. Just steel and silence.
The only source of light was the pale glow of the moon pouring through the large floor-to-ceiling windows. It bathed the dark wood floors and reflected faintly off the edge of the TV screen mounted on the opposite wall.
But the TV wasn't showing a movie. It wasn't playing news. It wasn't Netflix or security feeds from some warehouse. No—this was more personal. More twisted.
The screen displayed a live video feed of a girl asleep on a canary yellow bed.
Rose.
She was curled up on her side, legs tucked beneath her, her hair messy from the pillow, rising and falling with each breath she took. Her face was buried half in the sheets. Peaceful. Guard down. Vulnerable.
Nikolai watched her with a predator's stillness.
A slow, dangerous smile curved across his face as he leaned back against the headboard. "Yellow," he murmured, as though tasting the word. "She hates yellow."
He knew this. He knew everything.
What she liked. What she feared. What made her feel safe. What made her spiral.
That was why the room was painted in vibrant yellow—the walls, the bedspread, even the flowers on the nightstand. She would never feel comfortable. That was the point. Her cage wasn't meant to feel like home. It was meant to strip her of it.
He glanced back at the screen.
"She sleeps like the dead," he whispered to himself, voice deep, cold.
He could walk in there now. He could choke her, kill her touch her. Quiet like the shadows that kissed his room. She wouldn't even stir. But she'd feel it when he touched her. She always did.
His breath deepened, chest rising. One of his hands lowered to the pillow sitting on his lap. He clenched his jaw. He was getting hard at the thought of it.
"Not now," he muttered.
He shifted forward, resting his forearms on his knees, eyes locked on her sleeping form. He didn't blink. He didn't move. The thoughts in his head weren't the kind most men had.
Pain as pleasure.
Pleasure as domination.
He had tasted it before—with women whose names he didn't remember. Women who walked into his bed but never walked out the same. If they walked out at all.
He wasn't ashamed. He wasn't curious. He was simply himself. And that part of him—dark, violent, and inhuman—lay just beneath the surface. Ready to emerge whenever he allowed it.
And now he had Rose.
His prize. His project. His puzzle.
She wasn't like the others. She wouldn't break easily. He knew that.
But that didn't mean he couldn't bend her.
He ran his tongue slowly across his teeth, the tip flicking at the corner of his mouth. The cold glint in his eyes returned as he sat back and folded his arms, watching her again.
"If Salvatore was the Devil," he said softly, "then what does that make me?"
He already knew the answer. He was the definition of it. He didn't commit sin, he defined it.
Hell had two faces—Salvatore's was fire and brimstone, loud and known. But his... Nikolai's hell... was silent. Cold. You never saw it coming until you were already trapped inside it.
His phone buzzed.
He reached for it lazily, not taking his eyes off the screen until the last second.
Salvatore.
A message: When are we discussing business?
Nikolai smirked.
"Desperate pig," he muttered.
He tossed the phone onto the bed and stood, his silhouette stretching across the wall like a monster stepping out of the shadows. He walked over to the window, bare feet making no sound against the polished floor.
He looked out at the city, glittering like a thousand lies strung together. It was quiet up here. So high above everything. So detached.
Salvatore had power, yes. But he was greedy.
Greed made men desperate.
Desperation made men stupid.
And stupidity was always something Nikolai could use.
The Bratva had its roots in steel and blood. He knew that. He respected that. But he wanted more. He wanted control over routes that were currently in the grip of the Cosa Nostra—Salvatore's men. He didn't just want to take territory. He wanted to infiltrate it so deeply that they wouldn't even realize they'd already lost until it was too late.
Sergei wanted it too. The old man who'd shaped Nikolai into what he was now. Sergei didn't ask. He expected.
And Nikolai? He delivered.
So yes, there would be a deal.
There would be a handshake.
And behind that handshake, there would be knives.
Salvatore thought he was getting a bigger piece of the empire, more power, more fear, more reach.
But Nikolai? Nikolai only wanted one thing out of the deal.
Rose.
Her name echoed in his mind like a drum.
Rose.
Rose.
Rose.
She wasn't just a girl. She wasn't just a bargaining chip.
She was the obsession.
And in a world of monsters, obsession was the most dangerous weapon.
He turned back to the TV.
She shifted slightly in her sleep, her hand stretching toward the side of the bed.
He tilted his head.
"What are you dreaming about?" he whispered.
Would she still sleep so peacefully if she knew who was watching her?
If she knew that her every sigh, every breath, every murmur in her sleep was seen, heard, recorded?
He clenched his fists.
"She will know," he whispered to himself. "Eventually. When the time is right."
He walked over to the small table in the corner of the room and poured himself a drink—vodka, neat. No ice. No dilution. He downed it in one go.
The burn wasn't enough to chase away the thoughts of her.
He returned to the screen. It wasn't just about domination.
It was curiosity.
It was possession.
It was madness stitched together with threads of something dangerously close to infatuation.
And he would unravel her.
One thread at a time.
Then rebuild her into something that belonged to him.
Completely.
Exclusively.
Unapologetically.
Nikolai Ivanov didn't need reasons.
He was the reason.
And in the silence of the night, with the city sleeping beneath him, he watched her.
Not like a protector.
Not like a man in love.
But like a god deciding the fate of his favorite creation.
And when morning came...
He would still be watching.