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

by Shandi Boyes

  “Thank you,” Justine whispers, startled by the door careening past her head at a speed fast enough to whip her hair off her neck, exposing an additional two scars I hadn’t noticed earlier. They’re large and round and reveal an immense amount of force would have been needed to create them.

  Although I hate that she was hurt, I find her scars as attractive as her angelic face. Only the strong are marked because the cowards who give in are dead.

  When the red dots of two high-powered assault rifles mark my chest, I free Justine’s wrist from my grip before pacing backward. While sneering at the guards who’ll suffer the death of a thousand, I pick up the chair Justine knocked over during her sprint for the door before sitting on it.

  “Your disrespect won’t go unnoticed,” I warn the cowards standing across from me, frustrated by both their interruption and carelessness. “Вы не можете танцевать с сатаной и не обжечься.”

  I continue scolding them in Russian, only stopping when the man responsible for the heat sluicing my veins fills the doorway of the holding room a few seconds later. When Carmichael’s eyes float over Justine, the ownership in them is way too fucking superior for my liking. He sees in her what I do: a woman dying to break free of her miserably bleak existence, but thank fuck he doesn’t have the means to free her.

  There are two types of people in the world. Those who take even when their every need is already met, and those who give when they have nothing left to give.

  Justine is a giver who’d do anything to be a taker. Although I’ve only ever looked out for myself, when an angel craves havoc, who better to give it to her than the devil himself.

  Chapter Four

  While Carmichael fusses over Justine, unaware each second is slicing years off his life, I slide a five-page document out of his suitcase balancing just left of the chair I’m sitting on. Although I spent the last fifty-five minutes ensuring there was a minimum of three inches between Justine and Carmichael at all times, I quickly caught on to their plan to have me placed on house arrest until they find a ‘legal’ way to get me off my charges.

  Once again, I could lay all my cards on the table, but once again, this will be more fun. I want to be alone with Justine, to see if the groove between her brow will smooth from my touch or greaten. Although my plan could backfire, tell me one person who doesn’t anticipate an unexpected houseguest for the Fourth of July weekend?

  After folding the required page to switch the particulars of my home arrest from the Popov compound to Justine’s residence into a neat quarter, I slip it into the back pocket of my jeans. I’d be worried about the crinkles giving away my ruse if Justine wasn’t clutching an identical document in a fierce hold. She has more than one crinkle to contend with—as do I when Carmichael runs the back of his fingers down Justine’s bloomed cheek.

  I smug like a conceited prick when my growl is the only thing needed for Carmichael to lodge a foot of air between Justine and himself. He knows my reputation, so he’s aware not even a dozen riot officers will stop me from killing him if he fails to uphold his side of our agreement. If only looks could kill then he’d already be dead.

  Once I’m shackled in preparation for transport to the courthouse, I give Carmichael one final warning. “Don’t underestimate me, Carmichael, or this time your stupidity will cost you your life.”

  His head bob is quick, but I didn’t need to see it to know of its existence. I can smell his agreeance on his skin. He’s so scared, he’ll do anything I tell him to do, proving he is nothing but a puppet, and I’m the puppet master.

  After being guided to a transportation van idling at the curb by Daniil, a Russian operative who’s fronting as a police officer, I’m given a two-minute window to get things in order. Usually, this is where I call in the clean-up crew who’d do anything needed to free me from conviction—including storming a heavily-manned Vegas Police Department.

  However, with my mood the most playful it’s been, I switch tactics. I still dial a frequently called number on the burner cell Daniil slipped into my hand during our short walk from the holding room to the van, my demands are just different.

  “You want me to do what?” Trey asks down the line, certain he heard me wrong.

  I scrub at the day-old stubble on my chin before breathing out slowly, “Have a guard on standby to switch out my home arrest documentation with the one I’m about to forge before it reaches the judge.”

  I hear Trey’s smile over the phone. “I heard what you said, I’m just a little lost on why you want me to do that.” As quickly as his confusion arrives, it leaves. “The rumors are true. Fresh blood is balancing on the balustrade between good and evil. Are you hoping she’ll unearth a little bit of good in that black soul of yours? Or are you hoping to unearth her dark side?”

  My tongue peeks out between my teeth as I struggle to hold in my snicker. “More like I want to fuck her as I’m sure she’s never been fucked.”

  “Yeah, yeah, Nikolai. Keep telling yourself those lies. If all you wanted was a night of fucking, you would have gone to Cliché’s.”

  Cliché is a strip club I co-own with Trey. Its title explains our establishment well. It’s like every other strip club known—owned and operated by gangsters.

  Ignoring the niggle of doubt in my gut that Trey is right, that this is about more than a weekend fuckfest, I get back to the task at hand.

  I’m about to ask for him to search the Popov’s database for Justine’s address, but before I can, a double tap hits the rear window of the van, signaling I have to cut our conversation short.

  “Flock is about to fly. See you in fifteen.”

  Not giving Trey the chance to reply, I disconnect our call, yank the battery out of the back of the burner phone, then crush it between my foot and the checkered metal beneath my feet.

  I’ve only just flicked the mangled shards of glass and plastic under my seat when the back door of the transport van swings open and a guard as wide as he is tall enters. He grunts at me, acting impassively. His performance is a waste of time. I can smell a traitor a mile out. His unpolished shoes are the first hint he’ll turn on a dime for the right amount of coin; so are his un-ironed clothes. Only someone who doesn’t care about their job gets lax about their appearance. Why do you think I get around in ripped jeans and designer shirts?

  “The redhead in the hall…” After digging the sheet of paper out of my pocket, I unfold it, run my hand along the crinkles to smooth them out, then pass it to the officer, confident I have a conspirator at the ready. “… I need her name and contact details added to this form. Now.” I count his pulse before placing my offer on the table. “A five thousand dollar buy-in at the craps table in the high rollers suite of my casino.” To an ordinary man, my offer seems generous. High-class hookers go for less than what I’m bidding for Justine, but five thousand dollars is chump-change compared to the amount of money my casino launders each night.

  “Five thousand dollars?” He’s seeking confirmation, however, the quickest lick of his dry lips reveal his decision is already made.

  “You better hurry. If she arrives before her information does…” I nudge my head to Justine, who’s making her way down the corridor, using her hand as a notepad so she can fill in my forms before we arrive at the courthouse. “… My offer will be removed.” I lift and lock my eyes with his. “As will your tongue. Мертвец не может ничего сказать.”

  His throat works through a stiff swallow before his head bobs up and down, proving he’s smarter than he looks.

  My threats aren’t idle.

  While Carmichael stands outside the idling transport van, nervously tapping his foot as he waits for Justine to finalize my house arrest documentation, the guard recites Justine’s home address to me. I had planned to make him fill in the form, but he’s shaking so violently, I don’t want to run the risk of the judge not understanding his no doubt chicken-scratch writing.

  “We need to go, Ju
stine,” Carmichael begs her at the same time I peg my pen at the guard’s head. I could keep it, they make handy weapons, but I need my hands empty for the swift one I’m about to pull on Justine when Carmichael steers my ruse in a direction I never saw coming. “Finish them during the commute. Kirk, swap places with Justine.”

  My jaw ticks when Carmichael hoists Justine into the van by the tops of her arms. I know his hands aren’t his cock, but I’m still tempted to cut them off for getting within an inch of a woman he doesn’t have the right to smell, much less touch.

  Even if Carmichael and I hadn’t met earlier, I still wouldn’t like him. He’s one of those men who has you plotting their demise within minutes of meeting them, the urge growing more rampant the more time you spend with them. If he hadn’t become a lawyer, I guarantee he would have been a serial killer. He has the psycho tenancies most men have, he just hides them with an expensive suit and worthless words.

  Once we’re joined in the van by an additional three riot officers, we commence the most direct route to the courthouse. The instant I was arrested, Trey organized for my crew to line every route known to mankind. If I want out, I merely need to brace my tattooed hand on the ‘supposed’ bulletproof glass above my head, and my crew will jump into action.

  I was born craving carnage. Chaos, death, and sidestepping justice is all I know. So, usually, the urge for destruction would have had me placing my hand on the glass over two miles ago.

  Alas, a boring life is as meaningless as a moral one. I’ll still get the thrill I’m chasing tonight. It will just come from a pretty molten-haired woman with unique-colored eyes.

  I stop sucking in Justine’s scent that grows stronger with each second I stare at her when she shouts, “Done.”

  Her eyes pop up from the documents to me. They’re as dilated as predicated, heavy with need. A lesser man would believe her excitement stems from her being the only female in a tin box brimming with testosterone, but I know that isn’t the case. She’s forgotten everyone else in the van. As far as she is concerned, it’s just me and her.

  “Now you just need to sign it.”

  “Do not approach the detainee,” an armed guard roars when she attempts to hand me the paperwork.

  When Justine recoils in fear, blood furiously pumps through my veins to cool my skyrocketing body temperature. I’m shackled to the floor, but no amount of metal will save him. One look, and a bounty will be placed on his head the instant I leave this van.

  I hope he kissed his family goodbye this morning, because it was for the final time.

  I work my jaw side to side when Justine says, “I just need a signature on the bottom of these forms.”

  She’s shaking so hard, my home arrest documents shudder along with her words. Usually, I’d relish in the fear. But since it’s coming from her, I’m fucking ropeable.

  “It’s just a few pieces of paper and a pen. What harm can be done?”

  The guard snarls at Justine before jerking up his chin, wordlessly approving her request. I could let this be the end of it, he’s a dead man no matter how much he pleads, but our exchange not only presents the perfect opportunity to warm him about the wrath he’s about to face, it also gives me the chance to commence my ruse long before we reach the courthouse.

  “Ten seconds,” I murmur while removing the documents from Justine’s grip.

  Justine chokes down her annoyance before asking, “What?”

  While her wide eyes dance between mine, seeking an answer to my riddled comment, I switch out the sheet of paper responsible for incarcerating me at the Popov compound until my case is presented to the courts with the one I filled in. I don’t bother darting my eyes between the many pairs I feel watching me, because even if they witnessed my not-so-inconspicuous swap, none of them are brave enough to confront me about it. Guaranteed.

  “Ten seconds.” I bend the edges of the paper so my unstapled sheet appears to have been clipped with the original ones before saying, “That’s all it takes for me to kill a man with a pen.”

  The true scope of Justine’s innocence is exposed for the world to see when she replies, “Oh.” I was anticipating a ‘gross,’ ‘eww,’ or a hard swallow. They’re typically the responses I get when talking about murder as if it’s an everyday occurrence.

  She didn’t even bat an eyelid.

  Keen to unearth more of her quirks, I keep our conversation alight. “What am I signing?”

  My jaw clenches so firmly when Carmichael says, “It’s a petition for you to be placed under house arrest until better circumstances can be arranged,” my teeth will be ground to nubs by the end of today.

  “I wasn’t asking you.” My sneer sounds as if it was delivered straight from hell. “I was asking Justine—my defense attorney.”

  Justine appears shocked by the possessiveness in my tone. She’s not the only one. Usually, I only look out for number one. Me. But instead of panicking about it, she explains, “It's as Mr. Fletcher stated, an application for house arrest.”

  Hating the low hang of her head, compliments of Carmichael I’m-going-to-gut-him-alive Fletcher’s observant stare, I remove the strands of hair fallen in front of her eye before slanting my head to block Carmichael from her view.

  “Your eyes show the confidence you fail to exude, Ahren. Don’t hide them from me.”

  When she nods, I keep the boost her submissiveness fed my ego on the down-low by pretending to peruse the home arrest documentation as if it’s the first time I’ve agonized over one.

  I need to take a moment to consider my next step. I live my life a million miles an hour, knowing it could end at any moment, but this is the first time I’ve thrown an outsider into the chaos. My crew face a grueling initiation process to ensure they understand the dangerous world they’re entering, as do the whores who service them after a gory day, so why am I not giving Justine the same leeway?

  I don’t ask for shit. I take what I want, and bring fury down on those who dare to keep it from me, but for some fucked-up reason, I want this to be Justine’s decision.

  I guess even those born evil don’t realize how much they want something until they risk having it taken from them.

  After removing my thumb from Justine’s address scribbled across the paperwork, I ask, “Is this what you want?”

  As Justine’s throat works hard to swallow, she raises her eyes from her address written in thick black ink to me. “It isn’t about what I want, Nikolai.” The professionalism in her voice is replaced with the pitch of a woman desperate to break away from her dull existence when she adds, “This is about you, and what’s in your best interest.”

  While returning her wanton stare, I take a moment to consider the consequences of my actions. Since it’s not something I do often, it is a long, drawn-out thirty seconds. Roman, my somewhat advisor, would be proud—if I had given the voice of reason in my head more than two seconds to plead its case. I’m listening to the sadistic one instead, the one that usually sees me facing a line-up instead of a three day long weekend in a stranger’s bed.

  It could be worse.

  A grin tugs at my lips when my request for a pen doubles the throb in Justine’s neck. Her response is understandable. I told her only seconds ago how I can kill a man with a pen in ten seconds, yet, she still hands one to me. If that doesn’t prove she wants this as much as me, I don’t know what will.

  Evil is a power only the good are afraid to harness. The hesitant gleam Justine’s eyes get every time she looks at me reveals she knows this better than anyone. She’s mostly good, but I guarantee there’s a little bit of black inside of her dying to be nurtured to its full potential, and who better to bring out that side of her than darkness itself?

  As the van comes to stop at the front of the courthouse stairs, I hand the signed home arrest documentation to Justine. She murmurs her thanks as my shackles are unlocked and I’m guided out of the van by the man responsible for throwing her into hell with me.

  Even from a distance,
I see suspicion form in Trey’s eyes when the courthouse bailiff’s pat down fails to find the document he’s meant to switch before he hands it to the judge.

  I don’t know what he sees on my face, but it increases the smug grin plastered on his.

  After arching my brow at him, demanding he get his eyes off Justine’s ass before I gouge them out with a fork, I nudge my head to the officer who felt the need to enter a war he didn’t belong in.

  Trey jerks up his chin, advising he understands my request before straying his eyes to Dion. Two seconds after their quiet word, Dion slips into the driver’s seat of a blacked-out escalade, and just like that, Officer Lennox’s life expectancy is shorten from years to hours—if Dion is feeling playful. He only tortures them when he’s bored. If he is entertained, Officer Lennox won’t make it a mile from where he stands.

  As I’m chauffeured up the stairs of the courthouse, the media circle me like starving sharks. It’s like this everywhere I go. Evil may be the root of pain, but it is also the stuff of legends. Love it or hate it, for as long as Earth has rotated the sun, key members of the underworld have been seen as celebrities.

  We make it into the chamber with only a minute to spare. A judge with bushy brows and a wonky smirk sits at his podium, wrongly believing he’s the ruler of this town. Sasha, a woman as eager to jump ship as Carmichael was almost thirteen years ago is positioned on the right side of the courtroom, and Justine, Carmichael, and I take up the left.

  I’m not surprised to discover the seat next to the ADA is empty. The plaintiff’s lack of respect reveals he’s nothing but a bottom feeder in Dimitri’s crew.

  Doesn’t mean I’ll let his snitching ways be forgotten, though. If Dimitri doesn’t sniff him out as the rat he is, I’ll send some of my men to Hopeton to aide in the extermination of his rodents.