"I told you, Nikolai. If this deal fails, it all falls on you. I am sure you remember what happened to my sons, all three of my own flesh and blood who chose to disappoint me," Sergei said, placing his gun back into its holster with a slow, deliberate click.
Nikolai clenched his jaw, the searing pain in his arm intensifying as blood slid down from the bullet wound, dripping to the cold marble floor. The silence between them crackled with tension, like static before a storm.
"I was protecting her," Nikolai said, voice tight.
Sergei tilted his head slowly, his expression almost amused but more so disappointed. "Oh? So what do you expect me to do in this situation? Applaud your so-called bravery? Applaud the fact that you decided to put your heart and your dick first? Is that what you want me to do?" he asked, each word a punch to the gut.
"So what? I should have let Fabio have his way with her?" Nikolai snapped, unable to keep the heat out of his voice. The mention of Fabio made his blood boil.
Sergei didn't answer right away. Instead, he lifted his cane and without warning, struck Nikolai hard on his injured arm. The pain exploded in his body, and he stumbled back, catching himself on the nearby table. He refused to fall. Refused to give Sergei the satisfaction. He hissed through clenched teeth, the agony making his vision blur.
"There are plenty of fish in the sea," Sergei said calmly. "But since your dick only has feelings for this one, you could have just knocked Fabio out to get your woman away from him. But you chose not to. You chose to act on impulse. And now guess what, boy? You've just started a war with the Don himself. The Cosa Nostra will crush you and the Bratva—and I won't even help you up."
Nikolai's breathing was uneven. His blood dripped steadily.
"Do you remember what I said to you before?" Sergei asked, now lighting a cigarette, the flame illuminating his face briefly in the low-lit room.
"What?" Nikolai managed.
"That if this woman turns out to be a liability, I would get rid of her—or you would do it yourself. But at this rate, I might as well do it myself."
The blood drained from Nikolai's face, a chill sweeping over him despite the heat in the room.
"No. You wouldn't," Nikolai growled, his voice low but trembling with fury.
Sergei laughed, bitter and harsh. He stepped forward, smoke curling around his face. "I picked you up from the streets when you were fighting dogs for scraps. When you sold your dick for a piece of bread. I fed you, I turned you into the man that you are today. You got to where you are because of * my name. Your name is feared because *I* bred you. So you owe me your undying loyalty."
Sergei's words sliced through him like glass. It was true—every dark and dirty detail. Nikolai had been nineteen when Sergei found him, starved and wild-eyed, fresh out of juvenile prison, raised in a brothel and hardened by the streets.
"I have always been loyal to you," Nikolai said, jaw clenched. "I swear, if you touch Rose, I will not let it slide."
"Did you bury your head too much between her legs? Huh? Or have you fallen in love with her?" Sergei sneered.
Nikolai's mouth opened, but no words came out. He hadn't even touched her. Not like that. But love? Was that what this was?
No. It couldn't be. Rose hadn't been living with him long. It hadn't even been a month. He wasn't capable of love. Not anymore. He just *owned* her. She was *his*—to protect, to punish, to break. That was what this was. Obsession, not love.
"No. But she's mine. And I will be damned if I let anyone touch her—including you," Nikolai said, voice raw.
Sergei sighed, as if speaking to a child who would never learn. "This girl will be the end of you. Watch your back. And hers."
And with that, he turned and walked away, his cane tapping rhythmically against the floor, each step echoing like a final warning.
Nikolai staggered toward the nearest couch and collapsed onto it, his face ghostly pale from blood loss. His vision swam. He pressed a hand over the bullet wound, but it wasn't helping. The blood soaked through his shirt, warm and thick.
Moments later, the butler entered. A stiff, silent man in his sixties with silver hair and eyes that had seen too much. He carried a first aid kit.
That was Sergei's way. He would destroy you, then hand you the tools to fix yourself—without mercy.
The butler placed the metal kit on the table and opened it with a soft *click*. He pulled on latex gloves, ignoring Nikolai's glare.
"Remove your shirt," the butler instructed. Nikolai groaned but complied, hissing as he peeled the bloodied fabric away from his skin.
The bullet was lodged just below the shoulder. The butler examined it with dispassion, then took out a pair of long tweezers and a scalpel. He didn't bother numbing the area. Sergei wouldn't have allowed it.
"Hold still," the butler said.
Nikolai gritted his teeth as the scalpel sliced into his skin. He felt every inch of it, every nerve screaming. His hands clenched into fists. Sweat beaded on his forehead, but he refused to scream.
The butler dug the tweezers into the wound. He twisted and pulled, and Nikolai nearly blacked out.
Then—*clink*. The bullet dropped into a small metal dish.
"It's out," the butler said, wiping the area clean with the most acidic antiseptic Sergei could buy. Nikolai screamed this time, the pain indescribable. It felt like acid eating through muscle.
"You'll live," the butler said dryly, preparing the needle and thread.
Nikolai leaned his head back, his breathing ragged. His body trembled from exhaustion.
The butler began to stitch the wound, methodical and cold. Each pull of the thread sent jolts of pain up Nikolai's spine. Sweat soaked his hairline, and his fists left dents in the armrest.
When the final stitch was done, the butler wrapped the arm tightly and stood.
"Clean clothes are in the next room. You'll be escorted out when you're able to stand," he said, already walking away.
Nikolai didn't respond. He lay there, staring at the ceiling. Sergei's words echoed in his mind:
"This girl will be the end of you."
He didn't doubt it.
But even if it killed him, he'd keep her safe.
Because she was his.
And no one—not Sergei, not Lorenzo, not the fucking world—was going to take her from him.