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

by Shandi Boyes

  My blood thickens with lust when Justine groans in disappointment from my hand moving away from her generous breasts. “Soon, Ahren. Very soon,” I promise.

  Smirking to hide my annoyance I’m being watched like a criminal on death row, I snatch the unopened pasta off the counter, craving something more than useless calories. I’d rather save them for something more appetizing, such as Justine’s sweet-smelling cunt.

  “Perhaps if I fill your stomach, you’ll let me gorge on you.”

  She doesn’t answer me. She doesn’t need to. Even angels know better than to double guess the devil.

  While I switch out the pasta for potatoes, steak, and fresh vegetables, Justine clears away stacks of paperwork from the kitchen table. From the thickness of the files, I’m going to assume getting me off my charges was her main focus the past three hours.

  Curious to see how deep her dig went, I ask, “Did you discover anything interesting in my records?”

  “Umm…” She spins around to face me, her nose screwing up like it does in her sleep. “I wouldn’t necessarily say interesting.”

  I can’t help but smile at the panic crossing her face. She didn’t mean to insult me, but she can’t help but be honest.

  It’s another trait I’m not familiar with.

  “My brother always said the best way to learn about someone is to go directly to the source. Perhaps you should give that a go?” I hate talking about myself, but if it slides us toward a conversation we’ll need to have at some stage this weekend, I can place my neurosis on the back-burner for an hour or two.

  “Okay.”

  Justine drags her sweaty hands down her denim shorts before joining me at the counter. While washing dirt off potatoes in the sink, she asks me a range a questions I assume most people stumble over during a first date. They’re not overly probing, but they reveal she’s not knowledgeable on many aspects of my industry, which convinces me her time with Dimitri was brief.

  Short enough to save her from being classed as his? I don’t know yet. But I am determined to find out.

  I stop calculating my next move when Justine asks me to hand her a peeler. “A what?”

  Her smile could bring a man to ecstasy without touching him. “A potato peeler.” As humor glows in her eyes, her mischievous grin grows. “You do know what a potato peeler is, don’t you?”

  Laughter would usually result in bloodshed, but since it’s coming from Justine, and it is more in happiness than contempt, I subdue my anger by switching the humor in her eyes to lust.

  After pulling her waist-length hair away from her neck, I rest my stubble-covered chin on the shoulder blade. “I was raised in a household that believes—”

  “Women are either maids or whores? I’m aware.”

  Her eyeroll freezes halfway when I press my lips to the throb in her throat so I can count her pulse. “Not all women belong in those categories, Ahren.” I savor the shudder that rolls down her spine when my desire to taste her becomes too much to bear. My tongue only tracks across her skin for the quickest second, but the moan she releases makes it seem much longer. “Some are angels.” I bite and nib at her neck without a protest sounding from her mouth. “And others are queens.” I suck on her skin firm enough to leave a mark, but soft enough she has no idea on the evil attempting to claim her. “You, my sweet Ahren, were born to be both.”

  When she leans into my embrace instead of repelling from it, I wedge my hand between her and the counter I have her squashed against. The silky smooth skin on her stomach flutters under my touch, but unlike last night, she doesn’t voice a protest when I slide my hand toward the heat between her legs.

  The same can’t be said for me when Trey unexpectedly bursts into the kitchen. I growl out my annoyance, which heats Justine’s skin almost as much as my mouth.

  The irritated expression crossing Trey’s face switches to leering when Justine uses his interruption as an excuse for an interlude in our exchange. After slipping my hand out of the waistband of her shorts, she squashes her breasts against my arm to gather a plastic-looking thingamabob out of the drying rack on my left.

  Ignoring the way the quickest brush of her tits on my arm has my cock acting as if he hasn’t sampled his first cunt, she commences peeling the potatoes she just washed. I may have believed her calm, collective ruse if the needy scent of her cunt wasn’t thickening my cock even more than budded peaks in her shirt.

  Trey’s interruption better be important. If it isn’t, he’s a dead man walking.

  Chapter Thirteen

  "The marinade on the steak? What is it?"

  Justine pushes her half-consumed plate of steak, mashed potatoes, and steamed vegetables to my side of the table before raising her gorged eyes to mine. She looks just how she would have looked if Trey hadn’t interrupted us—thoroughly satisfied.

  The yearning in her eyes detonates when I murmur, “I’ve only tasted one thing more delicious than this steak…” I pause when the hunger in my tone enflames her cheeks. “Fuck, Ahren, I love the way you blush. If there weren’t cameras watching my every move, I would be spreading you out on this table and eating you for dessert.”

  Although Trey’s interruption could have been held off for an hour or two, it was for the best. I was so eager to feed on the lust teeming between Justine and me, I completely forgot about the cameras watching my every move. Trey’s arrival reminded me I wasn’t just risking my crew seeing Justine in a vulnerable state. I was placing her on Vladimir’s radar as well.

  For my entire life, anything I ever wanted, Vladimir took. The love of my mother. The devotion of my siblings when he grew worried our bond was becoming unbreakable. If I so much as showed an interest in something or someone, he made it his.

  I scoot closer to Justine, squashing her into the far corner of the dining nook. Vladimir’s surveillance is top of the range, but not even the most advanced equipment has the ability of recording through concrete support beams.

  Needing my hands on her in some way, I twist a piece of Justine’s hair around my finger. It’s as silky and as smooth as her pasty-white skin. Something so simple shouldn’t appease the hesitation I’m certain I was born with, but for some reason, it does.

  Justine reads the carefreeness in my eyes in the wrong manner. “You can trust me, Nikolai. Anything you say won’t leave this room.”

  My lips twist into an uneasy grin. “If only that were true.” I keep my voice low enough the poor quality microphones in the cameras won’t pick up my reply. “I don’t trust anyone, Ahren. The devil was once an angel too.” Hating the fear trickling into her greenish blue eyes, I veer our conversation back onto mutual territory. “Now tell me about the marinade on the steak before I spend my afternoon hunting for a much more succulent recipe.”

  I anticipate for her to respond to the fight in her eyes, so you can imagine my surprise when she jests, “If you want my Nonna's secret recipe, I would first have to kill you.”

  “Nonna? So you’re Italian?” Shock resonates in my tone. She could only be paler if she was a vampire.

  When she answers my question with a simple ‘yes’ I say, “Then where did you get your red hair and pasty skin tone from?" I tug on the strand of hair I was twisting earlier, causing an avalanche of curls to cover the slithers of silver on her shoulders.

  Her blistering smile has me once again forgetting we have an audience. “My dad is Italian, but my mom is Irish.” My teeth grow envious of hers when she drags them over her plump bottom lip. “I look very much like my mother, but I have the personality of my father. Probably doesn’t help that I have four older brothers, so I’m a little bit of a tomboy.”

  “From what I’m seeing, you’re all woman, Ahren.” I’m not lying. Her tits alone would have the strongest man’s knees bowing.

  Her smile turns blinding. “You wouldn’t be saying that if you saw my childhood pictures. I wore boys’ clothes and even had a boyish haircut.”

  A grin curls my lips. I saw the photos. I’m aw
are of the travesty.

  Justine proves she is as smart as she is beautiful when she asks, “But you already know that, don’t you?”

  I drag a napkin across my mouth to hide the tick in my jaw before locking my eyes with hers. “I know many things, Justine, but I prefer hearing them directly from the source.” Her chest expands when her name leaves my throat in a gravelly whisper. “You’ll never believe how quick a fact becomes a lie when it’s passed through many lips.”

  Not an ounce of panic resonates in her tone when she asks, “Exactly how much do you know about me?”

  She knows I’m not a threat to her.

  Not physically, anyway.

  Needing to occupy my hands before I use them to peel down her shorts and eat her for dessert, I dig a pack of cigarettes of my pocket, place one between my lips, then offer one to Justine. When she shakes her head, I light the cancer stitch balancing precariously between my lips before tossing the packet and lighter onto the tabletop holding leftovers of the meal we just shared.

  I’ve always been overly cocky, and it’s displayed in an unfavorable light when I mutter, “How’s this for knowledge? You’re the youngest of five siblings. You were born and raised in Hopeton. Your mom works as an engineer, and your father is a pilot. Unlike three of your older brothers, you didn’t follow your parents’ footsteps. You first branched out into the world of architecture, but your third year in college saw you changing your career path to the corrupt and dangerous world of law.” I start at the points that don’t make my blood boil before moving to the big stuff. “Your peers were shocked by your decision. All they saw was a shy little mouse. No one thought you would grow into the woman you have become. Not even Dimitri.”

  She rapidly blinks at the mention of my arch enemy, but remains as quiet as a church mouse. I don’t know if her silence appeases me or pisses me off. It could be a combination of them both. She doesn’t give off the vibe of a scarlet woman, but she’s fucked with my head so well in an impressively short time frame, I’m not even sure if I should trust myself, much less my instincts.

  I strive to keep anger out of my tone when I ask, “How long have you known Dimitri Petretti?” I fail like a fucking loser.

  Justine licks her quivering lips before answering, “I’ve known Dimitri all my life… But we only became acquainted a few years ago.”

  The way her tone dipped when she said ‘acquainted’ reveals she classes him as more than a friend. I wouldn’t necessarily say they’ve fucked, but there’s more to them than a casual familiarity.

  With my blood hot with anger, our conversation switches to an interrogation awfully quick. “Dimitri has always had a fascination with redheads, so I’m not surprised you caught his eye. I just can’t work out why he’d ever let you go.”

  “It wasn’t his choice.” The anger slicking my skin with sweat triples when moisture floods her eyes. “A man can voice his interests all he likes. It doesn’t mean his feelings will be reciprocated.”

  Although I agree with her, I know that isn’t how things work with the men in my profession. “That’s not the way things work in this industry, Ahren. When we say jump, you’re supposed to ask ‘how high?’ It isn’t about what you want. It's about what we crave.” The anger burning through her impressive eyes reveals more than her words ever could. “Your brother saved you from Dimitri. He fell on the knife to remove you from Dimitri’s radar.”

  I’m not seeking confirmation, but Justine answers me as if I am. “Yes, but I don’t have proof. Maddox won’t talk. He refuses—”

  “He will die if he talks. If not by the hands of a Petretti member, by one of my own crew.”

  I’m not meaning to be a brute. I just want her to know her ideas on the life her brother is living in isn’t close to what she thinks. If he sided with the Petretti’s then goes against them, he will die. This isn’t a possibility. It is a fact. That’s how the underworld works.

  The dishware rattles when Justine slaps her hand on the tabletop. “The Petretti’s are rivals of the Popov’s. Why would you side with them?”

  “A snitch is a snitch; he belongs to no team.”

  Justine pushes back from the table, her face disgusted. “Maddox didn’t do what he is accused of. He’s innocent.”

  I stare up at her, hating the disappointment in her eyes, but determined to show her the way things truly work before she’s thrown in the fire with Maddox. “He may not be a murderer, but he is not innocent. When you play with fire, you risk getting burnt. He got burnt.”

  The first chink in Justine’s shield blisters when she snarls, “Maddox is in jail because a man as vile as your family didn't understand the word ‘no.’ He didn't play with fire. He protected his baby sister from a monster! Wouldn't you do the same for your sister?”

  My face reddens with anger when I recall the punishment I faced when I placed myself between Vladimir and Lia during one of his many tirades. It is heard in my reply when I quote the words he spoke to me that day almost twenty years ago. “That is not the way things work. Everyone in this industry has a place, and the predicament of one woman should never fracture the order.”

  Justine glares at me with the same disdain Vladimir’s eyes held that wintry afternoon. “Your mother should be ashamed she raised such an abhorrent, heinous, worthless man—”

  “My mother is dead.”

  With her mood as erratic as mine, Justine shouts, “Lucky her!”

  I stand from my chair, torn between washing her scornful words from her mouth with my tongue or my cock. Perhaps I should do both?

  I settle on neither when the quickest flash of red captures my attention. The prickling of the hairs on my arms assures me we’re being watched by Satan himself. This wasn’t a test he organized, but I will be graded on it either way.

  Although Vladimir would prefer for me to respond to Justine’s disrespect with violence, I use words instead. “If you were anyone else, you’d be suffering the consequences of a bitter tongue.”

  She doesn’t balk at the danger in my tone. She doesn’t even cower. She merely tugs down the collar of her shirt to expose the scars I traced last night before murmuring, “You don’t think I’m already suffering, Nikolai?” Her watering eyes bounce between mine. They’re brimming with tears, but not a single one falls when she says, “Two weeks after saving me from being mauled by a dog on the Petretti compound, my brother was arrested for murder. Nothing you could do would ever pain me more than that, so rest assured, Your Highness, I’m already suffering.”

  Her confession hits me like a ton of bricks, but before she spots my murderous expression, she gathers our dishes off the table and tosses them into the overflowing sink, unmoved when the porcelain cracks under the force of her throw.

  Conscious I’m being watched, I ensure my face reflects unbridled anger even though my whispered words are anything but. “Your brother may be in jail, Ahren, but he is more free now than he would have ever been in the Petretti crew.”

  Stealing her chance to reply, I push through the swinging door, race across the party-like atmosphere in the living room, then get up so close to Roman’s face, if he wasn’t aware of the ingredients Justine seasoned our steak with, he is now.

  “She was mauled by a dog, Roman!” My whispered sneer coats his face with my spit. It’s vile and disgusting, but considering I’m on the verge of snapping someone’s neck, it is the lesser of two evils. “By a fucking dog on the Petretti compound!”

  I never realized how violent words could be until now. Mine are more deadly than both my knife and my fists. They’re capable of killing, and I know the perfect person to disperse them on: Dimitri Petretti.

  When my sneered words reach Roman’s ears, he moves to the boom box in the corner of the room. After dragging the volume dial to the highest setting, he locks his eyes with Viktor, who’s standing guard on the door I just rocketed through at the speed of a bullet. They don’t speak, but not even two seconds later, Viktor smashes his fist in Jay’s face, knocki
ng him into a group of my men huddled around the couch.

  And just like that, and all-in brawl commences.

  With the camera in the living room shifting to take in a fight promoters would pay top dollar for, Roman yanks me to into the bathroom that’s in the far corner of the compact space. “Speak now, and do it quickly.”

  Understanding his ruse, my brain switches from personal to business in under a second. “Justine said two weeks after Maddox saved her from being mauled by a dog on the Petretti compound, he was charged with murder.”

  “Coincidence?”

  I shake my head. “Not according to Justine. She believes it’s linked, and in all honesty, so do I. Dimitri wouldn’t have stopped her punishment unless it was for a good reason. Maddox must have offered something substantial.”

  Roman sucks in a sharp breath. “Like murder?”

  I work my jaw side to side before dipping my chin. Justine thinks Maddox is innocent, but she doesn’t know how far siblings go for one another when their life is placed up for negotiation. I held a knife to Vladimir’s throat after he ordered for Rico’s back to be burned with acid, and we didn’t even share the same blood.

  Roman drags a hand down his tired face, as lost as me on where we go from here. “I can reach out to some contacts I have, but I don’t see it doing any good. If Maddox is serving Justine’s punishment, the Petretti’s have no reason to seek additional retribution from Justine.”

  “I’m not worried about any outstanding debts, I can handle that. I want to know why Justine was punished to begin with.”

  “Nikolai—”

  “No, Roman,” I interrupt, refusing to hear the same excuse he always gives for the fucked-up world we live in. “I want to know.” I swish my tongue around my mouth, loosening up my words “I can’t help her if I don’t know what happened to her.”

  A glint flares through Roman’s eyes. It could be pride. It could be disgust. I honestly don’t know. “Okay. I’ll see what I can find out. While I do that…” he nudges his head to my men brawling in the living room like they won’t have each other’s back the next time we go to war. “… you can sort out that mess.”