CHAPTER 10

Saturday mornings had a way of being deceptively peaceful in Nikolai Volkov's world. The sun broke lazily over the horizon, its golden rays spilling like warm honey across the empty roads that led toward the old warehouse district on the outskirts of the city. To anyone passing by, the structure Nikolai was headed to was just another abandoned relic of an industrial age long forgotten. But for the Volkov family, it was the beating heart of their empire.

As usual, Nikolai arrived late. Not drastically, just enough to grind against the edges of his grandfather Mikhail's patience. It was a game he played deliberately, one of the few childish rebellions he still allowed himself. His black SUV rumbled to a halt in front of the warehouse, the engine purring before he killed it. He stepped out slowly, exhaling a thin stream of cigarette smoke into the brisk morning air. He was dressed sharply, as always—black slacks, fitted shirt, coat slung lazily over one shoulder. He looked like he belonged in a high-end fashion ad, not a meeting of criminals.

Inside, the mood was already tense. Mikhail stood by a heavy wooden table, fingers drumming against the grain. Even in his old age, he exuded power—the kind born from decades of making life-or-death decisions without flinching. His white hair was neatly combed back, his steely eyes sharper than any blade. Dimitri, Nikolai's father, stood next to him, more reserved in presence but no less dangerous. Dimitri was the bridge between old blood and new methods, and he walked that line with weary precision.

"You're late," Mikhail snapped as soon as Nikolai entered.

"I'm always late," Nikolai replied with a smirk. "You should be used to it by now."

Mikhail's eyes narrowed, but before he could speak, Dimitri cut in smoothly, lips curling into a wry smile.

"Forgive the poor boy, Father. He was out with that woman again. You know, the one who seems to have swept him off his feet."

Nikolai groaned audibly, dragging a hand down his face. "Really, Dad?"

"Oh yes," Dimitri continued, his voice oozing amusement. "I think he's in love."

Mikhail grunted in disapproval. "Love is a luxury, not a necessity."

"I assure you, it's neither," Nikolai muttered, taking his seat at the table.

Mikhail got straight to the point. "We've had complaints about the girls. Some of them are getting sloppy. High. Belligerent. Not worth the money our clients are paying."

"They've gotten comfortable," Dimitri added. "Too comfortable. That's dangerous."

"We need to clean house," Mikhail said. "Start fresh. Remove the weak ones."

Nikolai nodded slowly. "How many are we talking about?"

"At least five," Dimitri replied. "Maybe more. Anyone who isn't following orders or keeping up appearances."

Mikhail leaned forward. "And we need to be careful who we bring in next. No more runaways with sob stories. No more junkies. I want girls who are obedient, clean, and scared enough to listen."

Nikolai tapped a finger on the table thoughtfully. "Fear doesn't last forever. We need girls who understand loyalty. Fear turns into hate. Hate turns into betrayal."

Mikhail's lips tightened. "Then find the ones who don't break so easily."

There was a pause. The air grew heavier. Then Mikhail shifted the topic.

"And there's something else," he said, voice dropping. "Someone's been tampering with the shipments. The drugs."

Dimitri stiffened. "What do you mean?"

"Not enough to raise alarms. Just a small percentage. But it's consistent. Every delivery comes up short by just enough to go unnoticed unless you're looking."

Nikolai's expression darkened. "Inside job?"

Mikhail nodded. "No break-ins. No interference with transport. This is someone who has access. Someone smart enough to hide it."

Dimitri clenched his jaw. "You think someone's skimming and selling?"

"Or using," Mikhail said grimly. "And you know the rule. No one in this family touches the product. No one."

Nikolai sat still for a moment. His mind turned, quietly, calculating. The memory came to him slowly, like a ghost creeping through fog.

He had seen this before.

Years ago, not long after he had been entrusted with more responsibility, the numbers had started slipping in just the same way. Slight discrepancies. Product missing. At the time, no one had caught it except him. And when he dug deeper, he found the culprit.

Alexei.

His cousin. Young, reckless, and utterly incapable of carrying weight. Alexei had been using. Not heavily, but enough. Enough to be addicted. Enough to justify siphoning drugs and selling them to his friends to cover his own supply. When Nikolai confronted him back then, Alexei had broken down like a child.

"I'll stop," he had said. "I swear. Please, Kolya. Don't tell them."

And Nikolai hadn't. He had given him a chance. One chance.

Now, it looked like that chance had been wasted.

He sat back in his chair, jaw tightening. Alexei had always been more of a liability than an asset. He was hot-headed, impulsive, and worse—ungrateful. He had been shielded by the family name for too long. But the Volkovs were not a charity. And loyalty wasn't optional.

"I'll look into it," Nikolai said at last, voice even.

Mikhail eyed him sharply. "You have an idea who it might be?"

Nikolai shook his head. "Not yet. But I will."

Mikhail grunted again. "Good. Handle it quietly. If it's one of ours, make an example. But don't make a mess."

Dimitri was watching him carefully. "You sure you're up for this?"

Nikolai met his father's gaze. "Always."

The meeting drifted into logistical details after that—routes, supply chains, payment schedules—but Nikolai's mind remained elsewhere. His silence wasn't noticed. Both Mikhail and Dimitri were used to him falling into thought like that. It was part of why they trusted him. He was methodical, precise. He didn't lash out like some of the younger men. When he killed, it was clean. Calculated.

By the time the meeting wrapped up, the sun was higher in the sky, casting sharp shadows along the concrete floor of the warehouse. Mikhail dismissed them both with a curt nod, already moving toward the back to speak with one of his enforcers. Dimitri lingered.

"You alright?" he asked quietly as they stepped outside.

Nikolai lit another cigarette. "Fine."

Dimitri gave him a look. "You're thinking too hard. Don't wait too long to act. Whoever it is—they're playing with fire."

"I won't," Nikolai said.

And he wouldn't. He had already made up his mind.

Alexei had made a choice, and now he would pay the price. There would be no more warnings. No more second chances. Nikolai didn't enjoy killing family—but he understood the necessity. In their world, blood meant little when weighed against loyalty.

He took a slow drag, eyes narrowing against the sunlight.

It was time to clean house.

Nikolai stood outside the towering glass-and-steel penthouse that his cousin Alexei called home. The afternoon sun fully warmed the city, and the breeze carried a chill that bit through his coat. His jaw was tight, a muscle twitching at the corner. He didn't knock—he never did when he was this furious. He typed in the code, the one he wasn't supposed to know, and walked straight in.

The moment he stepped into the lavish suite, the stench of stale sex, alcohol, and expensive cologne hit him like a wave. Clothes were strewn everywhere, expensive crystal glasses still holding the remnants of whatever had been poured the night before. And on the white leather couch, under a silken blanket, was Alexei—bare, disheveled, and straddled by a platinum-blonde woman with vacant eyes and smeared lipstick.

Nikolai didn't pause.

He stormed across the room, grabbed Alexei by the shoulder, and yanked him back with such force that the girl let out a startled yelp. Alexei hit the floor with a thud, half-naked and completely caught off guard.

"The fuck is your problem?" Alexei snarled, scrambling to sit up.

The girl, frightened but slow to react, reached for her tiny silk robe. Nikolai whipped out his gun and pointed it directly at her head.

"Get the fuck out," he growled.

She froze.

"Now!"

Still, she hesitated.

That was all it took.

Without a flicker of hesitation, Nikolai pulled the trigger. The shot rang out, deafening inside the penthouse. Blood splattered the cream-colored wall, her body crumpling into a lifeless heap beside the couch.

Alexei scrambled back in horror, his eyes wide. "Jesus fucking Christ, what the hell, Kolya?!"

Nikolai turned the barrel toward him now, face unreadable. The rage in his eyes was ice-cold.

"You're stealing from us. Again."

Alexei swallowed hard, still reeling from what had just happened. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about."

"Don't lie to me," Nikolai warned, taking a step forward. "You think you're smart, taking just enough that no one notices. But guess what? I noticed. You think Mikhail won't kill you for this? You think my father wouldn't gut you himself?"

"You don't have proof."

"I don't need proof. I warned you last time. Told you to stop, didn't I?"

Alexei stood up slowly, trembling with both fear and fury. "I had no choice, Kolya. I needed the money."

Nikolai scoffed, staring at the luxurious surroundings. "You needed the money? You live in a fucking palace. You don't need money, Alexei. You need discipline."

Alexei's eyes narrowed. "You're not the fucking boss of me."

Nikolai didn't blink. "No. I'm not. But I am the one cleaning up your messes. And I'm done."

"Wait, wait, wait—" Alexei raised his hands, palms out. "Let me explain, okay? It wasn't like before. It was small. Real small. Just enough to sell to a couple friends. I didn't think anyone would notice."

"And what happens when those friends talk? When they get caught? Then it comes back to us. To the family. You know the rules."

"But they're clean, okay? Trustworthy."

"Just like you?" Nikolai snapped. "Because you're so damn trustworthy."

Alexei's mouth opened, then closed again. He had no defense.

Nikolai raised his gun slowly, leveling it at his cousin's forehead. "You brought this on yourself."

Alexei's voice cracked. "Come on, man. We're family."

"Exactly," Nikolai said quietly. "And you made me choose between protecting the family or protecting you."

A single shot rang out.

Blood sprayed across the hardwood floors. Alexei's body crumpled, a lifeless mess of regret and betrayal.

Nikolai stared at him for a moment, breathing heavily. He pulled a flask of whisky from his coat, uncapped it, and poured it over the bullet wound. The smell of alcohol mixed with blood was nauseating, but Nikolai didn't flinch.

He took out his phone, snapped a photo of the scene—just the body, not the girl—and sent it in a text to Mikhail.

"Cleaned up a mess. It won't happen again."

Then he walked out of the penthouse without looking back.

Outside, the city carried on, oblivious to the bloody reckoning that had just occurred.

He typed another message, this time to one of his men:

"There's cleanup at Alexei's penthouse. Dispose of everything. Make it disappear."

The reply came fast:

" On it, boss."

Nikolai stood at the curb for a moment, staring out at the city that both fed and cursed him. He felt no remorse, only a quiet ache in his chest that he couldn't place. It wasn't for Alexei. It wasn't even for the girl.

Maybe it was for the boy he used to be—the one who hadn't yet accepted that loyalty sometimes came with a bullet.

He took a long breath, then walked to his car.