Nikolai leaned back into the leather chair, the cold sheen of its surface pressing against his back as the final words of the meeting echoed in the silence. The room still smelled of cigar smoke and power—a heavy mixture of wealth, danger, and centuries of blood-stained legacy. The long mahogany table stretched between them like a war trench, recently occupied by formidable men who dealt in death, weapons, and the shadows that ruled the underworld.
Salvatore stood up with a satisfied smirk. His custom Italian suit caught the light just right, the dark threads woven with arrogance. "Thank you, gentlemen. I look forward to our collaboration," he said, his voice smooth with a Sicilian accent that carried both politeness and veiled threat.
Mikhail, ever the diplomat, responded with a small nod. "We do too." He reached over and handed Salvatore a thick folder—its black leather cover sealed with the silver Volkov crest. Inside were the detailed coordinates of the routes Salvatore was now officially permitted to use, the terms of their cooperation, and the rules—the sacred lines not to be crossed.
Salvatore accepted it with the reverence one would show a holy text. He gave one final look at Sergei before walking out, his footsteps echoing with the confidence of a man who believed he had just shaken hands with the devil himself. The heavy door closed with a finality that left a ringing silence behind.
Sergei remained seated, his steely gaze fixed on the door even after Salvatore had disappeared. His fingers tightened around the head of his ornate cane—a silver wolf snarling in a mid-snarl.
Viktor stood from his seat next. He gave a subtle glance to Sergei. "I'll go and... check things downstairs at the club," he said. A statement with an obvious subtext—he would tail Salvatore, ensure no strings were being pulled behind their backs.
Sergei nodded silently. Viktor left, his tall frame vanishing behind the door.
A pause.
Then Sergei's voice broke the quiet. "Give us some space."
Mikhail and the two towering bodyguards obeyed immediately, filing out wordlessly, their eyes lowered, the tension palpable. Once the door clicked shut, the air changed. The kind of silence that wrapped around a man's neck like a noose.
Nikolai remained seated, his posture straight, but his muscles tensed beneath his crisp black shirt. He knew what was coming. Sergei was like an ancient god—wrathful, unpredictable, and bound by a code forged in blood.
Sergei stood, the cane tapping softly against the marble floor. He took one slow step toward Nikolai. Then another. Without warning, the cane whipped upward with the force of a hammer and cracked down against Nikolai's skull.
CRACK.
Pain exploded in his head, a sharp shock of white light behind his eyes. He winced, but didn't move. The blood trickled quickly, warm and metallic, sliding down the side of his face and soaking into his collar.
Sergei's voice was low, calm—a terrifying calm. "You know, kid... you've never disappointed me. Not truly. A few slip-ups, sure, back when you were still learning what it meant to be bratva. But never like this."
Nikolai said nothing. Speaking now would be like throwing gasoline on a wildfire.
Sergei paced slowly around him like a lion circling its cub. "I gave you a clear instruction. Get me the deal within seven days. And not with some soldier in the Cosa Nostra. With the Don. The top. The man who signs in blood. But instead, you got me Salvatore. His fucking lapdog."
Nikolai's lips parted slightly, a trickle of blood slipping past. "Salvatore is his right hand. He's close to Lorenzo. The deal... it'll reach the Don."
Sergei slammed the tip of his cane onto the floor. The sound echoed like gunfire.
"Don't insult my intelligence. I may be old, but I'm not senile. I bred you, Nikolai. Fed you. Trained you. Turned you into a weapon this world fears. You don't get to play me."
He leaned closer, his ice-blue eyes inches from Nikolai's. "And you did all this... for a girl."
A slow chill moved through Nikolai's spine. So he knew. Of course he did. Sergei saw everything.
"Your territory is mine first. You know that. Every move you make belongs to me. Every breath. Every deal. If this girl becomes a distraction again—if you disobey me again—I will erase her. I will erase her so thoroughly even God won't remember her name."
His voice dropped to a hiss. "Did I make myself clear?"
"Yes," Nikolai murmured.
Sergei reached into his pocket and tossed a handkerchief toward him. "Clean yourself up."
Blood was dripping steadily now, pattering onto the dark floor in a quiet rhythm.
"If this plan to infiltrate the Cosa Nostra fails, it's on you. All of it. And you will answer to me. Make no mistake. You saw what happened to my sons."
Nikolai nodded slowly, dabbing at the blood.
Sergei's three sons—once heirs to an empire—were now either dead or broken. One buried in silence, the other two locked away somewhere dark, praying for the mercy of death. That was Sergei's version of fatherhood.
"I won't disappoint you," Nikolai said finally, his voice steady, resolute.
Sergei stared at him, then smiled—cold, prideful, and terrifying. "I'd like to meet this girl one day. The girl you bent rules for."
Nikolai met his eyes. "One day. Not now."
"Oh?"
He hesitated, then replied, "I'm still... fixing her."
Sergei raised a brow, amused. "Fixing her. Hmm. Knowing you, that means breaking her first. Then molding her into what you want. Classic. You turned out well."
"I learned from the best."
Sergei chuckled darkly. "Of course."
He turned toward the door. "I have business to attend to."
When the door closed behind him, Nikolai slumped back against the chair, exhaling a long, slow breath. The ache in his head pulsed, but it was nothing compared to the pain Sergei had once inflicted. Torture chambers. Cigarette burns. Blade marks that ran like rivers beneath his tattoos. This was child's play.
But that didn't mean it didn't matter.
He'd disobeyed Sergei—and survived. That was rare. Maybe because Sergei knew he was still useful. Or maybe because, in his twisted way, Sergei admired Nikolai's quiet rebellion.
Nikolai stared at the blood on the handkerchief. He knew the path he was walking. He knew the cost. But he had made a choice.
He remembered the look in Rose's eyes. The defiance. The fear. The fight.
She was fire.
He wasn't just fixing her—he was molding her.
This alliance with the Cosa Nostra—it wasn't about Lorenzo. It was about the routes, yes. The territory. The end of a decades-long blood feud. But for Nikolai, it was also about leverage. About keeping Rose and turning her into his version.
They couldn't take down the entire Cosa Nostra. That would be suicide. But if they could gain favor, plant their men, and make themselves indispensable... then they could manipulate the game.
And that's what this was.
A game.
He wasn't playing to survive.
He was playing to win.
And no one—no one—was taking Rose away from him.