CHAPTER 15

The city lights cast a golden glow across the minimalist furnishings of Nikolai's penthouse as he sat at the sleek glass dining table, a few stacks of documents spread in front of him. His eyes scanned the paperwork, the dark brows drawn together in concentration. Another arms shipment from Odessa had been delayed, and the margins on the new pharmaceutical pipeline were tighter than expected. Nothing he couldn't fix, but it meant more work, more signatures, more carefully worded threats.

The sharp buzz of the doorbell shattered his focus.

He didn't move at first, jaw tightening slightly. No one came to his place uninvited.

Then it buzzed again. And again.

He let out a groan, pushing back his chair with a tired grunt. Barefoot and in a plain black T-shirt and joggers, he padded across the hardwood floor to the front door, unlocking it with an impatient yank.

The second the door swung open, Viktor burst inside, looking like a storm had chased him down twenty blocks.

"What the hell—" Nikolai began, but stopped mid-sentence, taking in his younger brother's wild hair, flushed face, and scuffed sneakers.

Viktor looked like he had just run a damn marathon.

"Do you have any idea what time it is?" Nikolai drawled, crossing his arms over his chest.

"I need asylum," Viktor huffed dramatically, leaning against the doorframe like he'd been shot. "I'm invoking brother code or the Bratva protection clause—whichever comes with wine and a couch."

Nikolai narrowed his eyes. "What the hell happened?"

Viktor winced and made a face like he was remembering something painful. "So… I may or may not have accidentally broken someone's heart."

"'Accidentally'?" Nikolai echoed, already walking away from the door and back into his living space. He didn't close it—he knew Viktor would follow. "You either did or you didn't."

Viktor flopped onto the leather couch with a dramatic sigh, letting his head fall back. "Okay, I did. But in my defense, I didn't think she was that into me."

Nikolai raised a brow. And then Viktor said, "And she slashed my tires."

"She what?!" Nikolai turned around with a sudden bark of laughter, his mood visibly lifting. "You're joking."

"I wish I was," Viktor groaned. "Brand new Benz. White. Clean. Untouched. She murdered all four tires like they personally offended her."

"Remind me again," Nikolai said, now pacing back to the table and grabbing his whiskey glass, "why I told Papa you were old enough to move out?"

"Because you didn't want me crashing at your place every weekend like a lost puppy," Viktor deadpanned.

Nikolai took a long sip. "And yet, here you are. Like a lost puppy."

Viktor rubbed a hand over his face. "I need a place to crash. Just for a night. Maybe two. She told me—told me—that she'd be waiting at my apartment with a crowbar. A crowbar, Kolya!"

Nikolai raised an unimpressed brow. "What the hell did you say to her?"

"I said… and I quote: 'This was fun, but I think we want different things.'"

Nikolai blinked. "And that got you death threats?"

"She wanted to get matching tattoos."

"…You've been seeing her for, what, two weeks?"

"Twelve days."

Nikolai laughed again and shook his head, dropping onto the armchair across from his brother. "You're a menace."

"I'm a survivor," Viktor said, placing a hand over his chest solemnly. "I escaped a woman with a crowbar and enough rage to power a city. If I'd stayed a minute longer, I'd be dead."

"You brought this on yourself."

"Probably," Viktor shrugged. "Still—your penthouse is quiet, off the grid, and no one thinks you're soft enough to take in your emotionally damaged younger brother, so… safe space?"

Nikolai gave him a look, the kind that said he was two seconds from tossing him out by the collar. But behind the exasperation was something else: the bond that only brothers had, forged through blood and war and family insanity.

"You get one night," Nikolai said. "And if you eat my last protein bar again, I'm throwing you off the balcony."

"Deal," Viktor grinned, victorious. "You still have those imported chips from Italy?"

"Touch them and die."

Viktor leaned back, smug. "You missed me."

"I saw you yesterday."

"And yet here we are."

Nikolai rubbed his temples. "God give me strength."

As Viktor settled in and kicked off his sneakers, grabbing a throw pillow to make himself at home, Nikolai watched him with a small shake of his head. He might be a pain in the ass, reckless and too charming for his own good, but he was his pain in the ass.

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The buzz of New York traffic echoed faintly through the tall windows of the design firm's open-floor office. Elara sat at her desk, hunched over her digital drafting tablet, fingers moving deftly across the screen as she adjusted lighting placements for a penthouse redesign project. The soft hum of conversation and the clack of keyboards filled the space, broken occasionally by bursts of laughter from the marketing team stationed a few desks away.

Her phone vibrated once in her pocket, but she ignored it, focused on getting the mood board submitted before the 2 PM deadline.

"Elara!" a sing-song voice rang across the office.

She lifted her head, brushing a loose curl behind her ear.

It was Molly, one of the receptionists, grinning from ear to ear as she carried something big—massive, actually—into the room. Every head turned to look.

"Elara," Molly said theatrically, placing the enormous bouquet of deep red roses and soft white peonies on the empty desk beside hers. "You've got a delivery."

Elara blinked. "What?"

Molly wiggled her brows and handed her a small cream-colored envelope. "From a very devoted admirer, apparently."

Elara's cheeks went warm.

A few coworkers whistled, while another gasped, "That's, like, a movie bouquet."

Someone else chimed in, "Girl, how much game does your man have?"

Trying not to smile too hard, Elara took the note and unfolded it.

[Couldn't go another day without reminding you I miss you. You're on my mind more than I care to admit. Friday can't come soon enough. — N]

The neat, bold handwriting was unmistakable. Nikolai.

Elara laughed under her breath, heart fluttering, and tried to compose herself as her desk mate, Jamie, leaned over to stare at the flowers.

"Well, damn," Jamie said. "Should we be worried? Is he trying to propose?"

"Shut up," Elara groaned, smiling despite herself.

"Is this the mystery man who has been making you blush for days?" someone whispered from a few seats down.

Elara rolled her eyes and muttered, "You're all the worst."

She flicked Jamie off playfully, which only made the teasing worse.

As the office buzzed with commentary and jokes, her phone vibrated again. This time, she glanced down and saw the name on the screen: Nikolai 🖤.

Nikolai: Did you get the flowers?

Elara grinned.

Elara: I did. You're insane. My coworkers won't shut up.

Nikolai: Let them talk. You deserve to be spoiled.

Elara: Now I'm blushing at my desk like a lovesick intern.

Nikolai: Good. You're supposed to be thinking about me.

She chuckled, the butterflies in her stomach not even pretending to be subtle anymore. The scent of the roses was intoxicating, but not nearly as much as the way he spoke to her through a screen. There was something about him—dangerous, yes—but utterly devoted in the smallest gestures.

Nikolai: Don't forget about tomorrow night.

Her heart skipped.

Elara: As if I could. I've had it circled in my calendar since Monday.

Nikolai: I'm sending you the outfit. Wear it. No arguments.

Elara: You're choosing what I wear now?

Nikolai: Only for special nights. I'm taking you somewhere. I want to get you something.

She tilted her head at the screen, lips parting slightly in thought.

Elara: What kind of something?

There was a pause before his response came.

Nikolai: You'll find out soon, little one.

She bit her lip, smiling again as she locked her phone screen and tucked it into her desk drawer.

Jamie leaned over, whispering, "You better tell me what he gets you. If it's a car, I'm going to riot."

Elara snorted. "He's not getting me a car."

"Are you sure?" Jamie teased. "Those kind of roses cost a lot, i saw them on social media, are you sure this is not a car in disguise?"

"I swear I will strangle you."

"Yeah, yeah. Just don't forget us normal people when you're whisked away by your lover"

Elara threw a crumpled sticky note at her, but her smile stayed. Even as she tried to return to her project, her eyes kept drifting to the bouquet, to the velvet ribbon tied around the vase, to the note she'd tucked into her journal.

She was falling. Not fast, not carelessly—but deeply.

And for once, she wasn't afraid.

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The sun dipped below the New York skyline, casting an amber haze through the tall windows of Nikolai's penthouse. The glass panels reflected the soft glow of the city, but inside, the atmosphere was sharper—cool, commanding, and laced with the quiet hum of classical music. Nikolai stood by the wide expanse of his floor-to-ceiling windows, a glass of dark whiskey in one hand, his other hand tucked into the pocket of his tailored slacks.

Papers and documents were laid out neatly across the glossy black marble of his dining table, each one coded with details—supply chains, territories, financial flows. It was the language of power. He flipped through them with ease, though his mind was elsewhere tonight.

He glanced at the time.

Friday was almost here.

He drained the last of his whiskey and set the glass down with a quiet clink, before striding toward the intercom on the wall.

"Call Sofiya," he said into the device. "Tell her I need dresses, shoes, and jewelry options brought here within the hour. Deep tones. No exceptions."

There was a pause before his assistant's voice came through, clear and precise. "Right away, Mr. Volkov."

He didn't bother explaining further. Sofiya had been with him long enough to understand his exacting standards. And this wasn't just any night. He was taking Elara to the auction—an elite, exclusive gathering of old money and even older secrets. A place filled with polished smiles hiding sharp teeth. It wasn't the sort of event for someone like Elara…

Which is exactly why he wanted her to walk in like a queen.

He paced to the bar, pouring himself another glass, though he didn't drink it. His mind was already too restless.

Natalia's voice echoed in his thoughts.

"Don't be like your father, Kolya," she had said during their last call. "You don't need to bury her in gold just to keep her. That's not love—that's control."

But this wasn't about control. Not for him.

He wanted Elara to see herself the way he saw her—soft yet strong, sweet yet sharp. She deserved every beautiful thing this world had to offer. If that meant rare diamonds and custom silk, then so be it.

Besides, she didn't know who he truly was. Bratva was not something he planned to expose her to. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

"She's my little bunny," he murmured under his breath.

In his world of smoke and blood, she was his light.

A chime echoed through the penthouse. A moment later, Sofiya stepped in through the private elevator, followed by two assistants rolling in racks of gowns. Another wheeled in a glass case filled with sparkling jewelry—earrings that caught the light like ice, necklaces as delicate as spider silk, and shoes inlaid with subtle embellishments.

"Place them by the mirror," he said, already walking toward the central area of the penthouse where the floor was open and the lighting perfect.

He dismissed the assistants with a nod, keeping only Sofiya.

The dresses shimmered beneath the chandelier—satin, velvet, and chiffon in all shades of mystery. Midnight blue. Blood red. Emerald. Plum. Deep wine. A few blacks, embroidered with silver.

He walked down the line slowly.

"She likes deeper shades," he said aloud, mostly to himself.

Sofiya, ever the professional, nodded. "Based on what you've told me, I included tones that compliment warm skin. She has that earthy glow, so I avoided anything too pastel."

He stopped in front of a particular dress. It was deep forest green, sleeveless, with an elegant plunge neckline and a flowing skirt that would move like liquid when she walked

He pictured her in it.

The way it would hug her waist. The contrast against her hair. The shimmer it would catch in the soft light.

"This one," he said finally.

Sofiya nodded, tagging the dress.

He turned to the jewelry case. There was a necklace—silver with a single emerald teardrop pendant, matched with subtle stud earrings. Understated, but expensive. He didn't want her to feel weighed down.

"That set," he pointed.

"And the shoes?"

He selected a pair of stilettos, in a deep pewter shade.

He turned to Sofiya, sharp and direct. "Have them sent to her place by tomorrow morning. No mistakes."

"Yes, Mr. Volkov."

As she left, Nikolai stood alone again, gazing at the dress as if it were already on Elara.

He couldn't stop thinking about her. The way she smiled, that slight tilt of her head when she was amused. The sarcasm she used to deflect when she was flustered. She had no idea how deeply she had sunk into his thoughts. Into his world.

But he would keep her far away from the dirt of his life. No blood. No guns. No Bratva.

Just beauty. And him.

"Soon, malen'kiy" he murmured again. "You'll see."

And with that, he turned back to the window, sipping his drink, as the skyline pulsed like a heartbeat below.