CHAPTER 22

Elara stared blankly at the bedroom wall, her mind spinning in circles. She couldn't shake the sharp edge of what she had heard—those cold, clipped words from Nikolai's mouth still echoed like a broken record in her head.

"We're not babysitting anyone."

"Take them to the clinic and fix it."

"This isn't a fucking charity."

She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly aware of how cold the room felt. Her heart battled her mind, each side shouting over the other. No, this can't be. Nikolai isn't like that. He's warm, he's kind… he's not a monster. You're being dramatic. He would never—

But she heard him.

And even if her heart refused to accept it, her brain had already launched into survival mode.

With trembling fingers, she reached for her phone. Her thumb hovered over the browser icon, her chest rising and falling unevenly. She was scared—scared that whatever she found next would shatter the world she thought she knew. But she had to know.

She had to confirm it.

Her thumb tapped the screen.

She opened the search bar.

Her fingers shook as she typed.

Volkov Bratva.

It felt like she was inviting a demon into her life. Her entire being screamed at her not to look—that once she saw the truth, there would be no going back. No unseeing it. No pretending Nikolai was just a charming man with a mysterious past and a wealthy family.

The search results loaded.

And just like that, her world began to crack.

The first few links were articles, forum threads, scattered news stories. But then came a Wikipedia entry—one that nearly made her drop her phone.

Volkov Bratva — Russian Organized Crime Syndicate.

She tapped on it, her mouth dry.

> "Founded in the 1970s by Aleksandr Volkov, the Volkov Bratva rose to power in Moscow during the Soviet collapse. After Aleksandr's death, control passed to his son, Mikhail Volkov, who currently heads the syndicate as its Don…"

Elara's eyes widened.

Mikhail Volkov.

That was the name she'd heard Nikolai call his grandfather. She remembered him vaguely from conversations Nikolai had mentioned over breakfast, always brushed off like an eccentric old man who liked chess and cigars.

Her pulse roared in her ears as she read on.

> "The Volkov Bratva initially focused on narcotics but expanded to include arms trafficking, human trafficking, money laundering, and black market operations throughout Europe, the U.S., and parts of Asia. Though cloaked behind legitimate business fronts such as construction companies, nightclubs, security firms, and tech investments, much of the organization's wealth is built on illegal trade and violence…"

Legit businesses… That sounded exactly like the empire Nikolai had once vaguely mentioned. His vague, almost boastful line came back to her now: "Our business runs itself. It's old money."

Old money.

Old blood.

Old crimes.

Her stomach twisted painfully. She continued reading, her hand tightening around the phone.

> "While Mikhail Volkov remains the head of the organization, his children and grandchildren have assumed roles in the family operations. The names of his descendants are not widely publicized, but known relations include… Nikolai Volkov."

There it was. Her breath hitched.

Nikolai Volkov.

Listed as a grandson of the Don of the Volkov Bratva. Not just a wealthy heir. Not just a playboy with hidden depth.

No.

He was Bratva.

He was in it.

And the man who had held her so gently that morning, who had made her laugh over waffles and whispered sweet things in bed… was also the man who was calm and cold while discussing trafficked women on the phone.

Elara's throat burned as the air suddenly became harder to breathe. Her hand pressed to her chest, trying to stop the rising panic.

Desperately, she turned to social media. Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe it was someone else.

She opened Instagram and searched the next name she could think of.

Anya Volkov.

Nikolai's teenage sister. He had mentioned her enough times. The name wasn't uncommon, but one profile stood out: A pretty girl in uniform. Pouty selfies. Mall trips. A few tagged posts in fancy restaurants.

And then Elara found it.

A family photo.

All of them sitting in a luxurious living room, probably one of their family estates. Natalia Volkov—their mother—smiling over a teacup. Viktor, looking bored and holding up bunny ears behind Anya's head. A tall, gray-haired man sitting by the fireplace with a familiar smirk…

Mikhail Volkov.

She zoomed in, her eyes narrowing.

Those eyes. That hard stare. That intensity.

She'd seen them before.

Nikolai had the same eyes.

And just to the side of the photo, playing chess with the old man, laughing at something—was him. Nikolai.

There was no denying it now.

The evidence was irrefutable.

She stared at the screen until her vision blurred.

Nikolai was part of it.

He wasn't just born into a rich family. He was the descendant of a crime dynasty. A living, breathing part of one of the most dangerous criminal syndicates in the world.

And she had just spent the night in his bed.

A soft sob escaped her throat as she lowered the phone. Her hands were trembling. She stood up but felt dizzy, gripping the edge of the nightstand to steady herself.

What the hell was she supposed to do now?

Was it already too late?

If he found out what she knew, what she'd uncovered… what would he do?

Would he still smile at her the same way?

Would he gently kiss her fingers, whispering sweet promises?

Or would he change?

Would he become the monster she'd just read about?

The stories were out there—rumors of what happened to people who tried to expose the Bratva. Torture. Disappearances. Deaths made to look like suicides or accidents. These weren't men who let go of loose ends.

And now she knew.

Too much.

Elara wiped a tear that slipped down her cheek. Running wasn't an option. Not without a plan. If she vanished, he'd come looking. And he would find her.

She had to think.

And she had to think fast.

Because the man she thought she loved wasn't just dangerous…

He was lethal.

And the moment he realized what she knew, everything would change.

Forever.

The moment Elara heard the soft creak of the door opening, her breath caught in her throat. She quickly minimized the app on her phone and turned the screen face-down on the bed just as Nikolai's voice drifted in.

"There you are," he said, his tone light, casual—like always.

But to Elara, it was laced with something new now. Not because his voice had changed—but because she had.

Her heart pounded with the weight of everything she now knew. She sat on the edge of the bed, clutching the hem of his oversized shirt like it might anchor her to reality.

Nikolai stepped in fully, leaning against the doorframe, casual and gorgeous in a plain white T-shirt and gray sweatpants. His hair was slightly messy, like he'd run his fingers through it a few times, and the outline of his muscles flexed as he crossed his arms over his chest.

"You hungry?" he asked, the faintest curve to his lips, eyes scanning her like they always did—like she was the only person in the world that existed to him.

Elara forced a smile, small and shaky. She avoided his eyes, pretending to look at her fingernails, the floor, anywhere but at him.

He frowned instantly, pushing off the frame and stepping further into the room. "What's wrong?" His voice dropped into that soft, concerned tone that used to warm her heart. "You look… shaken. Are you hurt or something?"

Elara's throat tightened. She couldn't look at him. Not yet.

"No, I just…" she swallowed. "I'm not feeling too well."

That made him freeze. His entire posture shifted. The concern in his eyes deepened, brow creasing, eyes flickering to her from head to toe like he was scanning for injuries. "Not well how?" he asked carefully. "Did something happen? Should I call someone? A doctor?"

She shook her head quickly, panic surging. "No! I mean—no, it's okay. I think it's just... fatigue or something. I'll be fine."

Nikolai didn't look convinced. His eyes narrowed slightly, not in suspicion, but in worry. "You sure?"

Elara nodded and forced another smile. "I promise. I just need to rest a little."

There was a pause. His gaze lingered on her, almost like he could sense the shift in her energy—the way her smile didn't quite reach her eyes, the way she sat stiffly on the edge of the bed instead of curled up in the sheets like earlier.

But instead of pressing, he exhaled slowly and nodded.

"Alright," he said gently. "What would you like for lunch?"

She hesitated, not trusting her voice. "Surprise me," she said with a shrug.

His lips quirked upward again, that charming, teasing grin returning as he leaned in and kissed her softly on the lips. "Then prepare to be amazed," he murmured. "Just wait and watch."

She managed a nod.

And with that, Nikolai walked out, his footsteps retreating down the hallway.

The moment the door clicked softly behind him, Elara let out a long, trembling breath. Her shoulders sagged and she covered her face with both hands, biting down on a whimper that threatened to escape.

How was it possible?

How could someone so warm, so attentive, so careful with her body and feelings—be capable of being part of that world?

She leaned forward, pressing her palms to her eyes to fight back the sting of tears. Her heart wanted to scream that it wasn't true, that this was a mistake, that maybe he was estranged from that side of the family—but the video call, the tone in his voice, the names… the shipment of girls. It was too real. Too specific.

She reached for her phone again, her fingers trembling. She needed to look again. Needed to double-check, to convince herself that it was a misunderstanding.

Back on Anya's page, she scrolled further down. There were more family photos—luxurious settings, vacations, birthday celebrations at estates so pristine they looked like royal palaces.

One photo hit like a punch to the chest.

It was an image of Nikolai and two older men standing on the balcony of what looked like an old Russian mansion. Mikhail Volkov stood in the center, raising a glass. The man next to him, dark-haired with a stern face and icy posture, was Dimitri Volkov—Nikolai's father. She recognized him from other photos. And there was Nikolai, standing tall, glass in hand, the wind tousling his hair, his mouth curved in a smirk.

He didn't look out of place.

He looked like he belonged.

Elara's breath hitched again as she played a short clip Anya had uploaded a few months back. It was filmed indoors, cozy and informal. The camera pointed at Nikolai lounging on a couch, feet propped up, scrolling on his phone.

Anya's voice, chipper and playful, was behind the camera.

"Elara," she said in the video, "who do you think is cooler? Grandpa Mikhail or Dad?"

Nikolai didn't even look up from his phone. He sighed dramatically. "They're both lame."

Anya burst out laughing. "Be serious!"

"I am serious," he said, grinning. "Between the lectures and the chess matches, it's a miracle I'm not completely traumatized."

"So you're saying you're the coolest Volkov?"

"Obviously." He glanced up at the camera with a wink.

The video ended.

Elara let the phone fall onto her lap.

There was no doubt now.

Nikolai wasn't just associated with the Volkov Bratva. He wasn't just some distant relative caught up in old family stories.

He was in it.

He had grown up with them. Knew them. Ate dinner with them. Laughed at their jokes. And now… now he was running a part of it.

Her heart ached as memories of their time together flashed across her mind like a cruel montage. Him cooking breakfast shirtless. Him holding her hand while they walked in the park. Him kissing her forehead after sex, whispering that she made him feel things he didn't understand.

What did it mean now?

Was it all fake?

Was it all just a part of a game?

Or… was it possible that he really did care for her—but still carried blood on his hands?

Elara sat motionless, the silence around her pressing in tight.

She couldn't stay.

She couldn't just… pretend she didn't know.

But running wasn't simple. Not with a man like Nikolai. Not when the people in his world made sure that anyone who knew too much didn't get the chance to speak.

She had to think. Strategize.

She couldn't confront him—not when she didn't know how he'd react.

She couldn't tell anyone—what would she even say?

So maybe… maybe the best option was to end things.

Quick. Clean.

Lie, if she had to.

Maybe she could say she needed space. Maybe tell him she didn't think it was working out, that it wasn't him—it was her. Or even better, maybe she could say she did something horrible. Maybe she cheated.

He'd hate that.

But maybe that was the point.

If he thought she'd betrayed him, maybe he wouldn't bother with her anymore. Maybe that would be enough to push him away… to protect herself.

Even if it broke her heart in the process.

She sniffed hard and wiped under her eyes.

She needed to gather her courage. Find the right words. Wait for the right moment.

Because now… her life might depend on it.