by Shandi Boyes
Nikolai: Through The Devil’s Eyes
Shandi Boyes
Copyright
Copyright © 2020 by Shandi Boyes
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Proofreading: Carolyn Wallace
Editing: Magnolia Author Services
Cover: SSB Cover & Designs
Dedication
To the fans of Nikolai,
I hope you enjoy his side of the events.
Shandi xx
Also by Shandi Boyes
Perception Series:
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Saving Noah
Fighting Jacob
Taming Nick
Redeeming Slater
Saving Emily (Novella)
Wrapped up with Rise Up (Novella - should be read after Bound)
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Enigma:
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Enigma of Life
Unraveling an Enigma
Enigma: The Mystery Unmasked
Enigma: The Final Chapter
Beneath the Secrets
Beneath the Sheets
Spy Thy Neighbor
The Opposite Effect
I Married a Mob Boss
Second Shot
The Way We Are
The Way We Were
Sugar and Spice
Lady in Waiting
Man in Queue
Couple on Hold
Enigma: The Wedding
Silent Vigilante
Hushed Guardian
Quiet Protector
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Bound Series:
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Chains
Links
Bound
Restrained
Psycho
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Russian Mob Chronicles:
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Nikolai: A Mafia Prince Romance
Nikolai: Taking Back What's Mine
Nikolai: What's Left of Me
Nikolai: Mine to Protect
Asher: My Russian Revenge
Nikolai: Through the Devil's Eyes
Trey: European Redemption
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RomCom Standalones:
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Just Playin'
The Drop Zone
Ain't Happenin'
Christmas Trio
Falling for a Stranger
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Coming Soon:
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Skitzo
Trey
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
About the Author
Also by Shandi Boyes
Chapter One
“You have the right to remain silent…”
I drown out the rest of Detective Franco’s frequently spoken statement. I’ve become a pro at being detained the past four years. My rap sheet is as long as my arm, yet I’ve not spent one night behind bars. I could compliment that to the wisdom of my family lawyer, Erik Monstrateo, however, I could never be accused of being humble.
Thirty witnesses watched me pierce a beer bottle into a man’s neck a mere second after I smashed it over his head, but despite all of that, I guarantee you none will come forward as a witness. They’d rather face prosecution for obstructing justice than rat me out, because they know as well as the next man, the only way to stay alive in my industry is by keeping your mouth shut.
You don’t live a hard and fast life as I have without amassing a reputation. Mine is now as feared as my brother’s once was. I was the joker, the partier, the ultimate playboy, whereas Rico was all about facts, figures, and ensuring he only strayed as far as the leash his little kitty placed on him would allow.
It all changed when he was killed.
I hope those short weeks of marital bliss were the highlights of his life as all he has now are veins as cold as ice and the constant view of dirt.
Rico was executed by a Russian operative while endeavoring to keep alive a promise he’d made to his wife the night they wed. His death hit me like a wrecking ball. I was a fucking mass of destruction hell-bent on avenging his death no matter the cost. We weren’t close when he was killed, but I couldn’t forget the years where our bond was tighter than one we would have achieved if we’d had the same blood. He protected me as well as I protected him, until the person we needed protection from the most was each other.
Greed is a horrible thing, but it has nothing on vengeance. My mother believed that more than anyone.
I arrived at Hopeton the very afternoon of Rico’s murder, ready for warfare. My operation nearly folded when the man responsible for killing Rico was found hanging in his jail cell shortly after his arraignment.
Carnage still prevailed, but it was off the FBI and local law enforcement radar. Kirill’s men were thirsty for blood, but revenge will forever triumph those seeking power.
Many of Kirill’s men, including Viktor, the man I’m wordlessly commanding to stand-down before he slits Detective Franco’s throat jumped ship when Kirill’s fleet began to sink. Viktor’s desertion of the sanction he was born in has served him well the past three years. As will his ability to follow orders when he backs away from Detective Franco with only the slightest groan.
Having one of my men kill Detective Franco would be the equivalent of snorting powdered sugar off a whore’s breasts—unsatisfying and lackluster. I’d rather toy with him for a little longer before showing him who really runs this town.
It isn’t the man who earns forty-thousand dollars a year.
Besides, there’s nothing wrong with having enemies. They ensure life remains interesting. If I’ve learned anything in my almost twenty-nine years, it is enemies who keep things honest. It’s the men you class as family that you need to watch the closest. The man I call ‘father’ assures this truth never strays far from my mind. He wanted a son. My mother birthed him his demise. He just doesn’t know it yet.
After securing zip ties around my wrists, Detective Franco helps me to my feet. While he walks me to his unmarked cruiser, I take in the tossed-up nightclub. Like all fights I commence, my crew were eager to back me up. Several members of the Petretti crew lie lifeless on the battered wood floors of a nightclub I purchased not long after my twenty-first birthday. The flutter in the bloody spit in the corners of their mouths reveals they’re still breathing. They’re down for the count, knocked out, lucky to be alive. They were given reprieve since they weren’t the ones standing before the court.
When Rico died, I took up his position of judge, jury, and executioner for the Popov reign. It forced me to mature and look at things from another perspective, and it’s the sole reason I only stabbed the plaintiff in the neck instead of slitting his throat as I craved.
I issued mercy—shockingly.
It was the first time, and in all honesty, I don’t see it happening again any time soon. Leniency is for the weak.
I learned that the hard way thirteen years ago.
A blood-smeared grin curls my lips when Detective Franco advises me to watch
my head a meager second before he slams it into the roof of his cruiser. He’s pissed. Justly so. It’s not every day a law-abiding citizen chooses to slip into bed with a mafia prince.
I treated his sister like a real-life motherfucking princess, only palming her off to my men once I’d had my fill, which was a record-breaking eight hours.
Attachments don’t work for me.
Never have.
Never will.
Despite Detective Franco’s beliefs, his baby sister isn’t being forced to stay at Clarks, my offsite compound two miles from the Popov’s heavily-manned quarters. None of the whores are there against their will. They stay with the hope I’ll make one of them my queen.
There’s a fat chance of that ever happening, but as long as they keep my dick warm, there’s no reason to kill their eagerness. The more I keep their hope alive, the better they serve my men. My crew work hard, so it’s only fair they play hard as well. Hell is even hotter when you’re surrounded by tits, ass, and blow.
Detective Franco wants to smash my smirk off my face with his fists when I say, “I’ll be sure to tell Alice you said hello when I walk away without a conviction today… Once I’ve finished fucking her in the ass, of course.”
It takes four riot officers to hold him back from his patrol car, but no amount of muscle can withhold the dozen threats he issues me. He tells me I’m going to regret the day I was born, and how he’ll ensure I spend my remaining years in hell.
I could tell him I’m already here, but where’s the fun in that?
Fifty minutes later, I’m facing a line-up for the umpteenth time in my adult years. My fingers are stained with ink, I’m shirtless thanks to being roughed-up by Detective Franco’s partner, Bill Hammond, and my shoes were removed during the processing of my arrest because supposedly men who have the world at their feet want to end it.
It’s been a fun-filled fifty minutes.
“Big cheesy grins, princesses. You’re about to face royalty,” grunts an arresting officer while shoving a number five cardboard cutout into my chest.
I’m not surprised by his number of choice. The prosecution thinks criminals aren’t smart enough to click onto the fact the accused is issued the same number in every single line-up. Still, I am shocked by his royalty reference. The only royal in this proceeding is the one standing in front of him, but before I can make him aware of that, the thick curtain covering the one-way mirror draws open.
I breathe out slowly before sucking in the excitement that forever bombards me during this part of an arrest. You can have the four-by-four cell and lidless toilet, but this, I live for this. The brief suspension in time where the prosecution believes they’re on the cusp of greatness only to have it cruelly stripped from their grasp.
If Erik, my ‘family’ lawyer, doesn’t have my charges expunged by now, it will only be a matter of time before Judge Santos does. He’s paid well to keep me out of jail, but even if he weren’t, what I have hanging over his head will most certainly pick up the slack.
Usually, during this stage of proceedings, I stare down the plaintiff, warning him the prosecution he’ll face if he doesn’t believe my reputation is as fierce as perceived, but a peculiar sensation is begging for me to keep things interesting. So, instead of focusing my attention on the prosecution’s half of the room, I lock my eyes with the defense.
One-way mirrors aren’t all they’re cracked up to be, largely when they’re being operated by morons. Although the one in front of me should be hiding those standing on the other side, neither Assistant District Attorney Sasha Sheridan nor her little minions were smart enough to flick on the switch required for the one-way mirror to work.
Since the transmittance of light hasn’t be altered, I don’t just see the quiver of the plaintiff’s thighs, my eyes are bombarded by the features of a beautiful scarlet-haired woman. Her face is angelic, almost too pure, but there’s a hunger in her eyes that reveals she’s thirsty, and it has nothing to do with the fact we’re in the middle of a desert in the peak of summer.
After reminding my cock he was only surrounded by the heat of a woman mere hours ago, I take in the beauty’s features more thoroughly, curious as to why she caught my interest so quickly. I’m surrounded by attractive, needy women every day, yet not once has my dick reacted as fiercely as it did when my eyes landed on her face. I want to say it’s because she’s new meat in an over-processed slaughterhouse, but that feels cheesy for my cock’s response. He’s throbbing, and precum is seeping from the crown. It usually takes a decent amount of foreplay to pry this reaction out of him, yet he’s acting as if her lips are hovering over the tip.
I begin to wonder if the redhead can read minds when her plump lips part at the exact moment my cock twitches with want. She’s most likely sucking in much-needed breaths from my wanton stare, but my fucked-up mind isn’t seeing in that way. I’m picturing her on her knees, lowering the zipper in my jeans. I doubt she’s been sexually satiated in years, but that doesn’t mean she won’t give good head. Her fat lips reveal she’ll suck dick like a Hoover, not to mention the wildness hiding deep in her eyes, begging to break free.
When her cheeks hue, her translucent skin doesn’t look as pale against her vibrant red hair. She’s more conservatively dressed than the women who usually entertain my cock, but her paper-thin satin blouse and skin-tight skirt enhance the natural curves of her body in a sultry, I-want-her-to-suck-my-dick way. Even with her standing next to a sworn enemy, my cock is itching to sink into her no doubt tight cunt.
That’s the best thing about stuck-up women. They’re picky on who they allow in their beds, so they’re not ran through the mill like the whores at Clarks. She’ll be fun for a few hours, then I’ll hand her onto my men as I did Detective Franco’s baby sister.
In and out is my motto. No attachments mean there’s less chance of my funeral notice showing up in the obituary section of the Las Vegas Sentinel tomorrow. A beautiful woman is every man’s weakness, but to me, they’re a death sentence. Rico’s murder is proof of this. He went against Vladimir’s order for the sake of his wife, and it cost him his life.
I will not make the same mistake.
When the scarlet-haired woman’s eyes stray to the other side of the room, I follow the direction of her gaze. Because the prosecution was smart enough to turn off the microphones planted throughout the viewing room, I can’t hear what the ADA is saying to the plaintiff.
Well, for now, anyway.
Vladimir—tyrant, monster, and head of the Russian Mafia known as the Popov entity—leaves nothing to chance. If he owns it, he has eyes and ears on it, including me. I don’t share his blood, yet he’s the ruler of my kingdom… for the time being. He has eyes on everything but is so blind to how hated he is, he’s failed to notice the one thing coming at him faster than anything else: his termination.
I try not to smirk like a smug prick when the plaintiff fails to fall into the ADA’s trap, but the furl of my lips foils my ruse. He shakes his head numerous times in a row, refusing to identify me as the man who stabbed him in the neck with the beer he was drinking after he called me “brother” in mockery of my true birthright.
The only man I’ve ever considered my brother is buried beneath a pile of dirt. The rest are my rivals. They want me dead as much as I plan to make their father pay for his sins.
Vladimir may have raised me, but he will never be my father. Dimitri, this goon’s boss, may share my blood, but he’ll never be my brother. If taking down several of his men in a violent all-in brawl doesn’t advise him of that, I’m sure I can find a more convincing way.
My eyes drift back to the unnamed redhead when she tilts in close to Vegas’s number one defense attorney, Carmichael I’m-going-to-gut-him-alive Fletcher’s side. We’ve met before. It wasn’t on amicable terms. He played me for a fool, leaving me no choice but to teach him the consequences of his actions the hard way. He’s living on borrowed time, the likelihood of him making it to his forties as dire as mine.
>
The life expectancy in my industry is well-below industry standards, but Carmichael’s is even lower than that. He’s a ticking time bomb, and I happen to be holding the detonator. One wrong move and he’ll lose more than the finger his brother did when he failed to repay his debt.
Even with my agitation high, I can admit I understand why Carmichael did what he did. If I had even the slightest chance of saving Rico, I would have given it everything I had. But Carmichael’s endeavor to protect his brother almost cost me my life. I’ve been used and abused my entire life, but his ‘assault’ was the first I endured from the ‘supposed’ right side of the law.
Mistakes were made, and lessons were learned, but those burned never forget.
When the redhead’s lips mimic the movements Carmichael’s make while talking to the plaintiff, I watch her with interest. I’m not the world’s best lipreader, and in all honesty, I don’t give a fuck what Carmichael is saying. I’m more curious to unearth the cause of the slightest slither of silver on the redhead’s neck than the scheme Carmichael is cooking. The faintness of her scar exposes her injury occurred a few years back, but she’s concealed it in a way that reveals she’s not a fan of it being seen.
She shouldn’t be ashamed of it. Scars are medals of bravery.
I wear mine with honor.
Edgy arrogance pumps out of me in invisible waves when the man I stabbed spits at Carmichael’s feet. He’s lucky he missed the redhead’s heels, or not even Detective Franco’s promise of protective custody would have saved him from my wrath. Up until five minutes ago, the redhead’s protection wasn’t my business. Now, it’s entirely on my shoulders. She’s on my side of the room, which means she is now mine in all meanings of the word.
