CHAPTER 7

The long corridor of the Volkov estate echoed with the sound of Nikolai's footsteps as he entered through the grand double doors. The high ceilings, chandeliers that glittered like frozen stars, and tastefully adorned walls told a story of wealth—ancient and immovable. But for Nikolai, it wasn't the riches or the marble floors that mattered today.

Today, he needed something money couldn't buy—guidance.

He found his father in the library, cigar in one hand, newspaper in the other, seated like an emperor beneath a looming oil painting of a Volkov ancestor. Without disturbing him, Nikolai turned and made his way toward the kitchen, where the scent of rosemary, garlic, and something sweet lingered.

There she was—his mother. Natalia Volkov stood in front of the stove, elegant even in her casual home attire, humming softly to a Russian lullaby as she stirred a pot of stew. A pearl bracelet jingled softly on her wrist, the only sound besides the bubbling pot.

Nikolai paused for a moment in the doorway, watching her. No matter how hard the world outside became, this woman remained the heart of the house—strong, graceful, and always knowing more than she let on.

She turned, sensing him. "Nikushka," she greeted with a smile, wiping her hands on a linen towel. "What brings you home? You didn't call."

"I needed to talk to you," he said, walking toward her with purposeful calm. "Privately."

Her brow lifted in intrigue. "What is it? Did someone die? Wait—don't answer that, I'd rather not know."

He gave a soft chuckle and took her by the elbow, gently steering her away from the kitchen. "No one died. I need advice."

Now she really looked surprised. "Advice?" she repeated, setting the towel down and allowing him to guide her toward the sunlit solarium at the back of the mansion. "From me?"

"I figured you're the only person who won't laugh," he muttered, settling into the wrought-iron chair opposite hers once they were seated.

She leaned back with her tea, amusement glinting in her eyes. "I already want to laugh, but go on."

He rested his elbows on the table and looked at her seriously. "What does a perfect first date look like?"

She blinked. Once. Twice.

Then her mouth twitched.

"You?" she asked, eyes wide with delight. "My cold, terrifying son wants to plan a perfect first date?"

"I knew this was a bad idea," he muttered, beginning to stand.

"Sit," she ordered with a wave of her hand. "You asked, so now you'll endure the teasing. Don't be such a bratva baby."

Nikolai slouched back into the chair with a reluctant grin.

"Who is this girl?" his mother asked, crossing one leg over the other. "What has she done to you? Did she poison your tea? Charm you with holy water?"

"She's…" He paused. "Different."

Natalia leaned forward. "I'm listening."

"She's calm. Not like the girls we usually deal with. Not loud. Not flashy. Just… soft. She's the kind of woman who believes in fairytales. Prince Charming. All of that."

Natalia tilted her head. "Naïve?"

"Innocent," he corrected. "She works a quiet job. Stays home most of the time. Only goes out when her best friend drags her or when she goes to church."

That made Natalia's brows rise slightly. "Religious?"

"Not annoyingly so. Just enough to believe in good. Enough to pray for people like me."

She let out a soft exhale and studied her son. "And how exactly do you know all this?"

Nikolai gave her a crooked smirk and winked.

She narrowed her eyes. "Don't you dare—"

He simply said nothing.

"God help her," she murmured. "You did a full background search, didn't you? Dug into her life like your father does with enemies."

"Maybe," he said with no trace of shame.

"Like father, like son," she muttered under her breath, shaking her head.

"I just don't want to screw this up," he admitted, his voice low now, almost vulnerable. "She's not like the others. If I move too fast, I'll scare her. If I show her too much of my world, she'll run."

Natalia regarded him silently for a moment, then nodded. "Alright. Since you want to plan the perfect first date and you still insist on flaunting your money like your father does... here's what you do."

Nikolai leaned in slightly, interested.

"She doesn't sound like the kind of girl who'd appreciate clubs or limos with champagne," she began. "But if you really want to impress her—without terrifying her—do something intimate, luxurious, but soft. Book one of those restaurants that sit on the top floors of skyscrapers. The ones with the glass walls where the city glows beneath your feet like fireflies."

He nodded slowly. "That's doable."

"Don't just take her to dinner. Rent the whole floor."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Just the floor," she said firmly. "Not the building. Not the sky. And no yachts, Nikolai. I swear, if you pull a stunt like your father did and buy her a car or a private island for your first date, she'll faint."

Nikolai smirked. "Noted. No jets. No yachts."

"Good," she said, satisfied. "Bring flowers. Real ones. Not those ridiculous imported ones dipped in gold."

"I wasn't going to—"

"Yes, you were," she cut in. "And maybe something small. A book, if she reads. Something she mentioned in passing, something thoughtful. Make it feel like you listen to her even when you shouldn't be."

He laughed under his breath. "You're scarily good at this."

"Years of dealing with a Volkov man," she replied dryly. "Now. Does she know?"

He stilled. "Know what?"

Natalia gave him a look. "Don't play coy. Does she know what you are?"

There was a long pause before he answered.

"No," he said finally. "And I plan to keep it that way."

She didn't respond immediately. Just stirred her tea gently, as if weighing his words in the silence.

"She's like this… fluffy little bunny," Nikolai continued softly. "She walks around the world like it hasn't broken her yet. I don't want to be the one to do it. I don't want her to look at me differently. Like I'm some kind of monster. Like I'm someone she should run from."

Tatiana's expression softened. "You've always been two people, Nikushka. The man you are in the shadows… and the boy I raised."

"She makes me want to be the second one more," he admitted.

"She sounds special."

"She is."

Tatiana reached across the table, placing her hand gently over his. "Then start small. One date. One night. One chance to show her the man you are—before the world tells her otherwise."

He nodded slowly, already planning. Already envisioning.

And somewhere in the silence, in the warmth of his mother's presence, Nikolai Volkov—the Bratva heir, the man feared in boardrooms and back alleys—felt something unfamiliar.

Hope.

After his conversation with his mother, Nikolai stepped out into the hallway once more, the warm scent of her cooking still clinging faintly to his clothes. But the comfort that had settled in his chest was soon replaced with a familiar tension. The kind that came from dealing with Dimitri Volkov—head of the family, king of their empire, and a man who never took anything at face value.

He made his way through the estate, past the glass sculptures and antique portraits lining the hallway, stopping at the double oak doors that led to his father's office. They were partially open, and as always, classical music played low in the background. Tchaikovsky. Dimitri's favorite.

Nikolai knocked once, just out of courtesy.

"Enter," came the deep voice from inside.

He pushed the door open and stepped into the study. Dark wood panels covered the walls, shelves lined with leather-bound books and aged spirits stood proudly, and at the far end of the room sat Dimitri Volkov—straight-backed behind a wide mahogany desk, a tumbler of aged bourbon in his hand and a cigar slowly burning in the ashtray beside him.

Dimitri's sharp green eyes lifted from the paper he was reading, fixing on Nikolai with interest.

"Twice in one week, you show up here without a call. Should I prepare for a war?" he drawled, arching an eyebrow.

Nikolai smirked slightly, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. "No war. Just need a favor."

"Oh?" Dimitri set the paper down and leaned back, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "Now this should be good."

"I want one of your restaurants," Nikolai said bluntly.

His father blinked. "Excuse me?"

"For Friday night. Just one night. The one with the five-star rating. The one on the sixty-fifth floor with the view of the city."

Dimitri stared at him. "Oblaka?"

"Yes."

Dimitri sat up straighter. "That place has a reservation list six months long. You want me to clear it for you on a week's notice?"

"You're Dimitri Volkov," Nikolai said smoothly, "I'm sure you can manage."

A beat passed. Dimitri narrowed his eyes. "What's this about?"

"Don't ask," Nikolai replied immediately, sliding his hands into his pockets. "Just do it. I want the best staff. The best chef. The best wine. The place spotless. And flowers—roses, preferably. Not tacky. Elegant. For Friday. No mistakes."

Dimitri leaned back in his chair, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "If I find out you're using one of my restaurants to pass drugs, Nikolai—"

"I'm not," Nikolai cut in before he could finish. "I know the rules. Clubs, warehouses, and hotels for bratva business. Restaurants stay clean."

Dimitri gave a sharp nod of approval. "Good. Then why so secretive?"

"Because if I tell you, the entire family will know by sunrise," Nikolai said dryly. "Especially Anya and Viktor."

Dimitri chuckled, taking a sip of his drink. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Bullshit," Nikolai said, lifting a brow. "You never shut up about our business. The second one of us breathes differently, you're calling your siblings and spilling everything. You're worse than a damn gossip magazine."

Dimitri smirked. "What can I say? I'm invested in my children's chaos. It keeps life entertaining."

"That's why no one tells you anything," Nikolai muttered under his breath.

Dimitri shrugged, still amused. "Your mother's the vault. I'm the megaphone. It's balance."

Nikolai chuckled in spite of himself. "Just get me the restaurant, will you?"

"Done," Dimitri said. "But I'll expect pictures."

"There won't be pictures," Nikolai replied firmly.

"I'll take a blurry one. Or I'll bribe the head chef."

"You're insane."

"I'm a father," Dimitri corrected with a grin. "It's in the job description."

Nikolai rolled his eyes, but a small smile tugged at his lips. "Thanks, Dad."

Dimitri's expression softened, just for a moment. "It's not often you ask me for something that doesn't involve covering up a crime scene or cleaning blood out of a limo. I'll take this as growth."

"Don't push it," Nikolai muttered, already turning toward the door.

"Oh, and Nikolai?"

He paused, glancing back.

"If this girl is the reason you've been quieter lately… more focused… I approve."

Nikolai gave him a look. "You don't even know her."

"No," Dimitri agreed. "But I know you. And I haven't seen this version of you in years."

There was a long silence.

Nikolai didn't respond. He just gave a small nod, turned, and walked out of the office with a calm that felt rare these days.

Friday couldn't come soon enough.