Nikolai: Through The Devil's Eyes (Russian Mob Chronicles Book 6)

by Shandi Boyes

  I can’t wait to inform Carmichael of this.

  Carmichael and the plaintiff exchange words for a few minutes. It appears heated, which is surprising considering the complainant said his attacker wasn’t in the line-up. Shouldn’t a defense attorney be relieved when their client isn’t positively identified in a line-up?

  If it were anyone but Carmichael standing across from me, I’d say yes, but since it’s a man I’ll never trust, my suspicions skyrocket. If any of the thoughts drifting through my head are correct, Carmichael’s demise will arrive sooner than Vladimir’s, and I’ll take his fair-skinned lackey as part-payment for his insolence.

  Chapter Two

  “Where the fuck is Erik?”

  I speak to the officer guiding me to a conference room in Russian to ensure no one overhears us. The eye tattoo peeking out the cuff of his long-sleeve shirt identifies that he’s one of us, much less the Soviet Union flag hidden in the cornea of his realistic tattoo. They’re indicators of his bratva ties. The eye means he’s forever watching, and the flag sanctifies where his loyalties lay.

  It isn’t with the men in blue surrounding him.

  After taking a sharp left, he mutters in Russian, “Numerous attempts to contact him have failed to yield results.”

  He takes another left before steering me toward a room I’m all too familiar with. It’s where I gave Carmichael enough evidence to convict Vladimir to three lifetimes behind bars.

  Alas, I was the only fool who faced prosecution all those years ago.

  “We’re trying another angle.” He coughs to cover his whispered words when our trek has us veering past Carmichael and the unknown redhead.

  She watches me with silent reverence, her breathing shallow and mouse-like. She’s even more fascinating up close. Her lips are meaty and sheened with the slightest bit of gloss, her nose is as petite as her frame, and her tits gain more than the attention of my cock. They also have the eye of a handful of male officers as well. Officers who’ll be dead by the end of the day if they don’t adhere to the voiceless threats beaming from my slit gaze.

  When the once-bustling corridor empties, I flare my nostrils so I can suck in the redhead’s scent. It is as intoxicating as my impish mind predicted. She smells like a mix of roguishness and innocence, like a dream in the middle of a nightmare.

  She doesn’t belong here, but I plan to keep her here anyway.

  When my entrance into the holding room sees her drawing in her first breath in almost ten seconds, I slant my head to hide my smirk. I want to say this is the first time I’ve made someone forget to breathe, but if a peacock doesn’t fan his feathers, who will?

  After shuffling to the king’s spot at the end of the long table, I slump into an office chair before raising my eyes to the unnamed officer. He senses my command before I can announce it, and even quicker than that, the shackles circling my wrists and ankles are dumped on the floor.

  Even with four heavily-armed riot officers in each corner of the large space, I could leave now if I want. I would if I weren’t feeding off the friction in the air like a crack addict seeking his next high. I was born and bred in Vegas, so I will die before I’ll ever sidestep the chance to do something risky. Whether it’s my life at stake or someone else’s, the thrill associated with watching the danger unfold can’t be achieved any other way.

  People say murderers are the lowest of the low, but have you ever wondered what brought them to that place to begin with? Most parents raise their sons to be sports stars and musicians. Mine raised me to be a cold-blooded killer.

  We all have our place in the world.

  Mine just happens to be in your nightmares.

  “дымы.” One word, and a packet of cigarettes and a lighter slide across the table from the other end.

  After plucking a cancer stick from the recently-opened packet and placing it between my lips, I raise my eyes to my gift recipient. I’m not surprised when the steely blue eyes of Detective Bill Hammond reflect back at me. We were pulled apart by his peers long before we had finished our ‘conversation.’ His threat was only dispersed in pieces. Mine is already in production.

  “If you are here to make amends, you’re too late. Это отправлено отплыл давно.”

  He tries to act nonchalant to my reply, like he doesn’t understand a word I speak. His poor acting skills are one of the reasons he should have never worked as an undercover cop. Detective Hammond is one of the many law enforcement officers who unsuccessfully bid to infiltrate the Popov compound the past decade. He got as far as the front door before I sniffed out the rat hiding beneath his sleeve of tattoos and scared face.

  He left with additional scars, but his life was spared as a warning to others what would happen if they dared to double cross the true owners of Las Vegas.

  After mockingly sniffing at Detective Hammond, goading him to start what we didn’t finish, I shift my eyes to a female police officer whose hips were designed for fucking. They’re curvy and round but nowhere near as tempting as the redhead’s in the hall. I’ve seen her around, but her name is slipping my mind.

  Thank fuck name tags were invented. Hers states her name is Jasmine.

  From the way Detective Hammond stands protectively at her side, I’m going to assume he doesn’t realize the gleam in her eyes isn’t there for him. She wants a bigger piece of the pie than he can offer her—the cream of the criminal justice crop. She wants the number one defense attorney in the country, and she’s willing to face a firing squad just for the chance to warm his sheets.

  Although I’d rather Carmichael live a miserably bleak existence, if Jasmine is occupying his time, I’ll have a better chance at pretending I didn’t notice the vein in his neck pulsating faster when the redhead leaned into his side. Then perhaps my wish to kill him will simmer to the back of my mind for a few weeks. Waters are already tempestuous, so I shouldn’t add a murder conviction into the mix—regrettably.

  Jasmine takes in a sharp breath when I reveal how easy it is to triumph your competitors by staying one step ahead of them. “What does Carmichael want?” When her lips twitch like she’s preparing to lie, I warn, “Lying to me is punishable by death. Is your wish to scour your nails down Carmichael’s back really worth your life?”

  The silence in the room proves what I’ve always known. Wearing a badge doesn’t mean your life is more valuable than the person next to you. Jasmine’s life was threatened in front of six of her peers, yet, not a word is spoken in her defense. Bill looks like he wants to jump in, but he’s too stunned by Jasmine’s lack of denial to fathom a reply.

  “Who said Vegas is where chivalry goes to die?”

  While smirking like a smug prick, I light the cigarette hanging out of my mouth, drag a long drawl of nicotine-laced smoke into my lungs, then return my focus to the officer who’s more undercover than anyone in this room. “Grant Carmichael five minutes of my time.” The excitement brightening Jasmine’s face dulls when I add, “But the redhead will lead our exchange. If she doesn’t, my talk with Carmichael will end with him losing his life.”

  Over our conversation, and my inability to act passé about my interest in Carmichael’s new lap dog, I stab out my half-smoked cigarette on the armrest, slouch low in my chair, rest my bare feet on the tabletop, then shut my eyes, blocking out the world I’m more than ready to rule once my vengeance has been achieved.

  Only a stupid man believes he’ll live forever, and only a jaded one wants to. I’m neither stupid nor boring, and I can’t wait for the unnamed redhead to become aware of that.

  Twenty minutes pass before the once large room is scaled down in size by five people entering the now-crammed space. The bristling of the hairs on my neck announce who has arrived, let alone the scent of a woman in need. She smells too pure to taint her with the violent world I’ve been a part of since the day I took my first breath—too pure for me—but tell me one man who hates being challenged?

  Something about her crawled under my sk
in within three seconds of meeting her, and only a fool would act ignorant to the curiosity keeping them alive.

  When Carmichael commences our exchange by pretending we don’t know each other, I realize how much sweeter my victory is going to be. Not even a weasel of a man like Carmichael wants the woman he’s vying to swoon into his bed to know he railroaded a teenage boy on the witness stand. “Mr. Popov, my name is Carmichael Fletcher. I’m a defense attorney at—”

  “I know who you are.” The scent I suck in while endeavoring to cool my dangerous body temperature doubles when my accented voice roars across the room. It's extra gritty from the annoyance bubbling in my veins, and more than capable of increasing the redhead’s unadulterated scent.

  This game is almost too easy.

  After dropping my feet to the floor, I raise my head. I try to keep my focus on Carmichael, the deserver of my wrath, but my eyes stray to the redhead for the quickest second. It’s like I’m a missile and she’s my target. I can’t help but lock and hold with the hope of destruction.

  A gleam in her eyes is an invitation to chaos. It’s both tempting and intriguing as fuck. She could be another one of Carmichael’s many tricks, but she’s not giving me that vibe. The hue on her cheeks when she returns my stare is as real as the scars she’s endeavoring to hide with her waist-length hair.

  Although she intrigues me to no end, I must remain cautious. Carmichael has played me for a fool once before.

  I refuse to let it happen again.

  After locking my eyes with Carmichael, I move the first pawn on my overstocked chessboard. “I’m not interested in anything you’re selling. Wasn’t interested ten years ago; sure as hell ain’t interested now.”

  I angle my head to shadow the arrogance in my eyes with my thick lashes before returning the redhead’s cautious stare. I watch her for several long seconds, relishing the beep of her pulse I feel as much as I see. Its frantic thump reveals she’s not scared, but she is utterly oblivious to the trap Carmichael had laid out for her.

  He wants to bed her—badly. However, his hunger for success is still trumping his personal endeavors. She’s not his queen. She is his pawn—a wager I plan to steal after showing her how much of a parasite Carmichael is.

  “Unless you’re offering an incentive to sweeten the honey pot, the five minutes Officer Jasmine negotiated with Carmichael for the hope of slipping between his sheets is up.”

  There it is. The gasp of recognition when it dawns on her as to why she’s here. She isn’t Carmichael’s equal nor his plaything. She is here for one reason and one reason only. To secure me as a client.

  The underworld is the equivalent of a pot of gold under a rainbow for defense attorneys. Our endeavor to get rich no matter what the law states makes them rich. Carmichael wants this so badly, I can smell the desperation leaching from his pores.

  Curious to see how far I can take this, I nudge my head to the door Carmichael and his minions walked through only minutes ago before arrogantly grunting, “The door is that way.”

  I predict for the redhead to race for the door first; she does have the most at stake here, so you can imagine my shock when she remains standing at the end of the boardroom-sized table, her stance shockingly confident.

  Perhaps she’s frozen by feared excitement… or perhaps she isn’t as saintly as her eyes portray. I can only hope.

  I’m glad she lived up to the spark I see in her eyes, but before I can work out why I’m pleased about anything a stranger does, like all men backed into a corner, Carmichael comes out swinging. “Now is not the time for stubbornness, Nikolai. You were positively identified in a line up. Your fingerprints were found on the shattered bottle lodged in the neck of the claimant, and the DA has video evidence of the alleged assault.”

  Every one of his jabs miss their mark. “So?” I slump into my chair, my lips tightening at his lack of respect. I’ve killed men for less. “Are you advising me to be worried?”

  “Yes.” Carmichael looks set to throw his hands into the air in defeat, but he gives it another shot to reign supreme. “Unless you’re a foolish man, you should pay careful attention to every word I speak. I’m your only guarantee of leaving this room without shackles cuffed to your wrists. The courts close in less than an hour. If you don’t do everything I suggest, you’ll be holed up in here the entire long weekend instead of sniffing crack from a hooker’s tits while fucking another in the ass.”

  I smile, loving how ruffled he looks during an outburst. I’m also aware his tirade wasn’t for me. It was for the woman at his side, the one more jealous about his statement than amused by it. If he’s hoping to scare her from acting on the tension bristling between us, he’s an hour too late. Not even a wall of bullet proof glass weakened the zap that roared through my body when our eyes collided for those brief three seconds during my line-up, so a vyperdusch like Carmichael has no chance in hell of slackening its power.

  “What do you think, Ahren? Should I follow his every word to a T?” When Carmichael attempts to answer on behalf of the redhead, I cut him off by slicing my hand through the air. He had his chance to speak. Now it’s her turn. “I want to hear what she has to say, considering my decision will impact her as much as it will me.”

  I’m also curious as to why she blinked in rapid concession when I called her Ahren. For all she knows, I could have called her a whore, so why is she blushing?

  When the redhead struggles to comprehend what I’m saying, I rip off the Band-Aid in one foul sweep. I could use a gentler approach, but they don’t call me The Snake for no reason. There’s more than venom in my bite. “If I agree for Carmichael to be my counsel, his celebration will entail a part of your body wrapped around his cock, so I’m interested in discovering if that is something you want, or something you’ve already had?”

  Her reply isn’t exactly as I’m hoping. Her dilated gaze confirms my suspicions that Carmichael hasn’t hidden his admiration of her, but it also reveals he doesn’t have the arsenal required to seal the deal. I guarantee he’s attempting to coerce her into his bed like all soft cocks do, with almost touches and flirty comments, whereas she gives off the vibe she wants to be fucked into submission.

  Every girl wants a bad boy, they’re just too shy to admit. Luckily for me, I can see it in the redhead’s eyes. She’ll be as feisty in the bedroom as her flaming red hair, and as determined not to fall under my spell as the fighting spirit hidden deep within her eyes.

  Needing to hide the flare of hope thickening my veins, I snag a cigarette out of the packet, stuff it between my quirked lips, then light it.

  For a man in a trench, a hit of nicotine is usually the stuff of magic.

  To Carmichael, it’s another nail in his coffin.

  “I knew I remained shirtless for a reason.” I arch my brow at the redhead, announcing I noticed her hungry stare of my tattooed biceps. “Up here is for the thinking.” I tap my temple with my index finger. “Down there is for the dancing.” When her eyes snap away, embarrassed she’s been busted perving, I chuckle. “I always thought red was the color of the devil. Now I’m not so sure.”

  I’m not just referencing to blood-red tinge creeping across the redhead’s cheeks. I’m also referring to Carmichael’s flaming-with-anger face. It tells me everything I need to know, and has me grateful I don’t need to get inventive with my weapon of choice since Viktor snuck my knife out of my nightclub along with his ginormous frame.

  “Not yet happened, but you’re not against the idea.” Testosterone pumps through my veins hard and fast when I assure, “Trust me, we’d have a lot more fun.”

  The rolling of the redhead’s shoulders doubles the fire in my gut. As do the words she speaks next. “This is a government building. You’re not allowed to smoke in here.”

  Her voice… Fuck. Me. Hotter than hell. Add its sexiness to the fact men don’t have the gall to go against me, yet she did without the slightest quiver to her words, and you’ve got me hard enough to break the zipper in my jeans
.

  How is it men with weapons strapped to their chests are shaking more than she is? She either believes I’m no threat to her, or she has no clue who she’s dealing with.

  Perhaps I should give her a hint?

  After blowing out the smoke burning my lungs, I say, “This building is situated on grounds I own in a town I rule. I can do whatever the fuck I want.” I try to hold in the last half of my reply by dragging my teeth over my bottom lip, but I can smell the needs of her greedy cunt from here, so I’m done playing nice. “I can even do you if I want.”

  My nostrils flare as her erotic smell doubles. She folds her arms in front of her chest, trying to act pissed about my comment. Her acting skills are as low as her colleagues’ endeavors to pretend they’re not watching our exchange with wide, scheming eyes. They know the wolf has spotted Little Red Riding Hood but instead of coming to her defense, they dangle meat over her head, encouraging me to stalk closer, to take the bait they’re throwing out.

  I do precisely that when the redhead’s eyes drop to the floor a few seconds later. She’s got more fight in her eyes than she’s portraying. Although I usually relish the struggle of others, I refuse for her to bow like a dog. Even if her wings are broken, she needs to remember she still has claws.

  My wish to clear the room of anyone but us evaporates when the tapping of my knuckles on the tabletop returns her eyes to mine. “Smart and beautiful. Who would have known.” I stare at her, ensuring she can hear the words I can’t speak. She can be as pure as an angel with the determination of the devil. They are, after all, the same species. “There are devilish thoughts in the most angelic minds, Ahren. I can’t wait to hear yours.”

  Her lips purse in preparation to respond, but before she can, she’s interrupted by a girl nowhere near as mind-hazing as her. If I were a preaching man, I’d say her interruption was a sign from God for me to slow down, but since I’m more sinner than a saint, I get to the real reason she’s standing across from me, riling me like the life in her eyes wasn’t extinguished years ago.