The black Maserati purred as it rolled to a slow stop outside Sergei's estate, its headlights casting a cold, sharp glow against the steel front gates. Nikolai sat behind the wheel, unmoving, his knuckles pale as they clenched around the steering wheel. The engine ticked in the silence, but inside the car, it might as well have been thunder.
His heart was hammering. Not from fear—but desperation.
He had no idea what he'd find here. Or if Sergei would even help him. The man was ruthless, calculated, and colder than the Russian winters he'd grown up in. But if there was one absolute truth, it was this:
He would beg if he had to.
Nikolai stepped out of the car, the door shutting behind him with a metallic thud. The night air was sharp, smelling of pine and smoke. The mansion loomed ahead, dark stone against an ink-black sky, its windows glowing dimly like the eyes of some ancient predator.
He walked up the long gravel path, each footstep crunching in rhythm with the dread pressing down on his chest.
The door opened before he even knocked. Sergei's butler,—silent as a ghost, dressed in a black suit, white gloves—stepped aside and motioned him in. Nikolai didn't exchange a word.
Inside, the air was warmer but no less oppressive. The walls were lined with old oil paintings and mounted weapons, relics of centuries soaked in blood and legacy. The only sound came from the quiet crackle of the fireplace at the end of the hall, and the faint hum of classical music playing low from an old phonograph.
Sergei sat in a deep leather armchair near the hearth, a half-burnt cigar resting between two fingers. The orange glow from the fire licked against his face, casting deep shadows across his sharp cheekbones and silver-streaked beard. He was dressed in a navy silk robe, his cane leaning beside him.
The butler stood beside him like a statue, his presence silent but looming.
"Sir you have a guest."
Sergei turned his head slowly toward the doorway. His sharp eyes settled on Nikolai—and didn't blink.
He gestured with a lazy nod. "Leave us."
The butler bowed and exited soundlessly, the door clicking shut behind him.
Sergei took one last drag of his cigar, then crushed it into the ashtray with deliberate slowness. His fingers tapped against the carved wood of his cane.
"Well... if it isn't the boy I carved from the gutter," he said. "Why are you here, kid?"
Nikolai stepped into the room, his boots echoing off the polished marble floor. He didn't sit. He didn't waste a second.
"I need your help."
Sergei's brow arched ever so slightly. "My help?" he repeated, as if the word itself was a foreign insult. "With what, exactly?"
Nikolai took a breath. Steeled himself.
"It's Rose."
Sergei said nothing, but his posture shifted, subtly alert.
"Salvatore hinted she's either being auctioned off… or she already has been. I don't know where. I don't know if it's in New York or across the ocean. And I'm running out of time."
His voice cracked at the end, just enough to be noticed. He swallowed it down and pressed forward.
"You have access to those places. Underground auction circles. Discreet syndicates. Black market channels. Places I can't reach on my own."
Sergei leaned back in his chair, the fire casting flickers across his expressionless face. He studied Nikolai for a long, dragging moment—his eyes peeling him open, layer by layer.
Nikolai had always been unreadable. Even at nineteen, bruised and bleeding when Sergei first pulled him from the streets, he had worn silence like armor. He never begged. Never cracked. Never gave more than he had to.
But this version of him?
He looked… broken.
"This girl," Sergei said slowly, voice low and dry, "has you unraveling."
He reached for a fresh cigar from the humidor but didn't light it yet.
"You know," he continued, "my plan to infiltrate the Cosa Nostra was flawless. I had my strings in place. But then you snapped and killed Lorenzo's son when he touched Rose. And now that alliance? Burnt to ash."
His voice didn't rise, but every syllable dropped like a stone.
"In my eyes," Sergei added, "she's the reason the deal fell through. And maybe… maybe with her gone, you won't be so sloppy anymore."
Nikolai didn't flinch. He didn't argue.
Instead, he did the unthinkable.
He dropped to his knees.
The moment froze. The air thinned.
Sergei's hand stilled over the cigar box. He stared at the young man before him as though seeing him for the first time.
Nikolai Volkov, the boy he'd turned into a blade.
On his knees.
Head bowed.
His voice—rough, desperate—rose softly.
"Please, Sergei. Help me."
Sergei's brow furrowed. A long silence stretched between them as the fire cracked again.
"Punish me for ruining your deal. For the blood I spilled. For being reckless. But please… don't punish her for my mistakes. The longer I sit here, the more I lose her. I'll do whatever you ask. I swear on my life. Just help me get her back."
His breath caught.
"I won't ask you for anything ever again. This is the only time I've ever begged you. And it'll be the last."
Sergei stared at him. For a long, bone-deep moment, there was only the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.
"I took you in," Sergei finally said. "Nineteen. Scarred. Starving. You had nothing but rage and blood under your fingernails. I turned you into a weapon. A precise, cold killer."
He leaned forward slightly, tapping his cane twice against the floor.
"You've never begged me. Not when I broke your ribs. Not when I left you in the dark for days. Not even when I made you choose which of my enemies to execute."
He eyed Nikolai with something almost akin to curiosity.
"And now? You're on your knees… for her."
Nikolai didn't move. His chest rose and fell with uneven breaths.
Sergei sighed through his nose.
"Is this obsession, boy? Or something else? Because I know what obsession looks like. This—" he gestured down at him, "—this looks like something far more dangerous."
Nikolai opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
Because he didn't know.
All he knew was the sick twist in his gut when he pictured Rose in chains. The ice in his chest when he imagined her crying out and no one hearing. The wrath that threatened to consume him whole.
"I… I just don't want her to suffer for what I did," he whispered. "And I can't let anyone else own her. I can't."
Sergei let out a low chuckle. It wasn't amused. It was knowing.
"You don't know what love looks like, Nikolai. How could you? You were raised in a world without it."
He stood, slowly, his cane clicking against the tile as he walked over.
"But I do. And this?" He motioned down at Nikolai again. "This is love. Twisted, broken, buried in blood—but it's there."
Nikolai swallowed hard. His throat burned.
"I just want her safe," he said. "That's all."
Sergei looked at him for a moment longer, then turned away. Walked toward the fireplace. He stared into the flames.
"I'll help you," he said.
Relief hit Nikolai like a wave—but before it could crash fully, Sergei added:
"But if you make one more mistake… if you cost me again because of this girl…" He turned back slowly, face hardening like stone. "I'll kill her myself. And I'll make you watch."
Nikolai didn't flinch.
"I understand."
"Good." Sergei picked up the phone on the side table. "Get your men ready. I'll make some calls. If she's in one of those auctions, we'll know by tonight."
Nikolai rose to his feet, his legs stiff from kneeling. But his mind was sharp again.
He gave Sergei a nod, eyes burning with renewed purpose.
He didn't thank him.
He didn't need to.
He turned, walked to the door, and vanished into the hallway.
He had a war to start.
And this time, it was for her.