53. Nik

Chapter 53

Nik

I made a fatal mistake.

I was wrong.

I was so fucking wrong .

When Kat left me—not even bothering to glance back at me as she sauntered away, stomping my heart into a billion broken pieces—I was stunned at first. Devastated, even. Then, my devastation gave way to anger. And my anger burned hot, boiling over and scorching everything in its warpath.

For so long, I held back, striving, for some reason, to be better than my baser instincts. I denied myself the simple pleasure of surrendering to what came naturally instead of worrying about pleasing a self-absorbed, untrustworthy creature. So, if Kat wanted to leave, fine. One less problem to deal with.

If she thought she was better than me, that was her mistake. I wasn't about to mope around the place, suffering for a woman who didn’t care about what she was giving up.

Good riddance, I told myself. Her loss, not mine.

But then, night came.

When the sun set and the penthouse quieted, as my house staff wrapped up their shifts and my men departed for theirs, I grew restless. Worse, when the lights dimmed, and the noise faded, I grew lonely. I became painfully aware of everything I was lacking. Of my neediness.

Not just for any company—which could easily be arranged, even of the female kind. No, my need was specific and unmistakable. Unforgettable and irresistible, too. With big, blue eyes and legs that go on for miles.

Big fucking deal, I thought. This wasn’t the first time I’d wanted something I couldn’t have, and it wouldn’t be the last. So I didn’t feel as good as I thought I would after this whole break-up nonsense. Who cares? It didn’t have to mean anything unless I let it.

So I distracted myself. I turned on the news for background noise, then music when the TV annoyed me. I exercised. I worked. I handled it—like I always do.

But then, the night grew late.

And inevitably, I had to try to sleep. And sleep meant facing that bed. Our bed. The one where I used to watch her sleep every morning until she woke up and gave me that lazy, seductive smile. The bed where we fucked, made love, and, after, held each other, laughing at our inside jokes and sharing never-told- before secrets.

And that , as it turned out, was more than I could handle.

Still, I persevered. I had options. Other bedrooms. Hotels. Houses. Other apartments.

But I couldn’t let go. Not once—not even for a second—did I consider simply getting rid of the damn piece of furniture.

Shamefully, I found myself clinging to what little remained of her. I slipped back under the covers she once slept in, inhaling the faint remnants of her scent. I didn’t dare move a thing she left behind—her makeup, her clothes, her toothbrush. God forbid I misplace something, as if she might come back and need it.

It— I —was pathetic. And I knew it.

Others knew it, too. Dmitri, in particular, seemed concerned. His worried glances said enough. But I didn’t care. Hurricane Kat was gone, likely forever, and nothing else mattered.

I stopped leaving my room. Most days, I barely got out of bed. My bed. Not ours. Not anymore.

Instead of wasting my time and energy doing things I don’t care about with people who don’t matter, I spent those long, empty hours replaying every moment of our time together. Over and over again, I remembered the stupidly reckless, heartbreakingly brave woman who risked her life to retrieve my diamond. To protect me— me! —from the dangers of protecting her .

What I wish I could forget—what I’ll never forgive myself for—is how I failed her. How I betrayed her.

I don’t deserve her forgiveness.

But I’m too much of a selfish bastard to care.

So I call her. Repeatedly.

By the time I hit over two-fifty unanswered calls, it finally sinks in—she’s not going to pick up. She’s not calling back. Honestly, she’s probably blocked me. She clearly doesn’t want to talk to me.

So I do what any totally well-adjusted, not-at-all-obsessive guy would do: I track her phone.

Was it stalkerish? Maybe. Psychotic? Sure. Did I care? No.

While I’m at it, I pull up surveillance footage from her neighborhood—because why not?—and check her internet activity. Turns out, she’s been Googling “how to move on from a toxic relationship” and binge-watching Lover, Stalker, Killer on Netflix. Oh, and Fatal Attraction . Subtle, kiska . Real subtle. When she starts playing Eastern Promises on repeat, I start to get worried.

My concern rapidly escalates to full-blown alarm when I check her credit card statement and see how much wine and ice cream she’s purchased in the past few days. And designer shoes. So many pairs of designer shoes.

But for the first time in days, I feel something close to hope.

I jump out of bed, shower, dress, and race to her. The traffic is maddening—I should’ve taken the chopper—and I curse it the whole way.

Because I can't wait.

I have to see her.

When I get to her apartment, the door’s wide open.

Someone’s inside, rifling through her belongings.

I step in quietly, careful not to make a sound.

Usually, nothing would have delighted me more than thoroughly examining Kat’s place and all the little things that make it her home. But as I take in the ransacked living room and the blonde woman rifling through her belongings, snooping is the last thing on my mind.

She stands with her back to me, wearing a light sweater and jeans, her blonde hair a chaotic, haphazard mess. When she turns and spots me, she gasps, clutching her chest as if I’m the intruder.

“Who the fuck are you?” she demands, her voice sharp and breathless.

“Who the fuck am I ? Who the fuck are you? Where’s Kat?”

She narrows her brown eyes at me, huffing like I’m the one in the wrong. “That’s exactly what I’d like to know.” She crosses her arms. “And, unlike you, I happen to be a concerned party with keys to this place and every right to be here. So I’ll ask you one more time, mister: who the fuck are you, and what are you doing here?”

Her attitude tempts me to call her bluff, but I hold back. The last thing I need is to antagonize this woman. In fact, getting her on my side could be my best move yet.

“You must be A.J.,” I say under my breath. I hold out a hand. “I’m Nikolai Stefanovich. I’m looking for Kat.”

A.J.’s eyebrows shoot up so high I half expect them to disappear into her hairline. She reluctantly shakes my hand, scowling. “Oh, I bet you are, Nikolai.”

Her tone catches me off guard. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, I think you know.” She crosses her arms again, staring me down. “I’ve heard all about you.”

I let out a humorless laugh. “I sure hope not.”

“Obviously. And I don’t blame you. If I were you, I’d be embarrassed, too.”

Her words are cutting, but before I can respond, something catches my eye—a cell phone lying on the floor just outside the kitchen.

I walk over and pick it up, turning it over in my hand. “No wonder she hasn’t been answering my calls,” I mutter to myself.

Behind me, A.J. gasps. “Shit.”

I turn, narrowing my eyes at her. “What is it? Tell me,” I demand.

A.J. needs no further encouragement, talking a mile a minute. “The reason I came here in the first place is because I was on the phone with Kat—sharing some pretty spectacular news, by the way—when she just went quiet. Totally unresponsive. Then the call dropped. I called back a bunch of times, but she never picked up. Never called me back, either. That’s not like her. I just had a bad feeling about it.”

I have a bad feeling, too.

“Tell me everything you discussed with her,” I say sharply, urgency coloring my tone.

A.J. hesitates, her lips tightening. “Is this about Salvatore?” I press.

Her eyes widen as she gasps, scanning me from head to toe. “You know about the stronzo ?” she asks, her voice tinged with surprise.

I frown. “Who?”

“Giuseppe Salvatore. The Italian family boss. Kat and I call him the stronzo —it means asshole in Italian. Did she tell you about him?”

I nod tightly. “Yes. I know about the fucker. Were you two discussing him?”

A.J. shrugs nonchalantly. “In a way. Earlier today, I finally got my hands on the motherlode—a boatload of records about his dirty little secret. As I’m sure you know, the stronzo only holds his position as boss of the Italian family because of his wife, Gianna. If her father hadn’t passed the mantle to his daughter’s deadbeat husband before dying, maybe we’d never have to deal with him. You’d think that would've kept him in line, right? But nope. Rumors about him stepping out have always been around, but until today, they were just that—rumors.

“Now, I have solid proof of his screw-up, and trust me, I’m not afraid to use it. As soon as I find Kat, my next move is meeting Gianna Salvatore to tell her all about her husband’s secret love child, this guy named Dmitri Ivashkov.”

My heart screeches to a halt. Every muscle in my body tenses as her words echo in my head.

“What did you just say?” I ask, my breath catching.

A.J. barely skips a beat. “I said I have to find Kat ASAP so I can pay Gianna a visit. Then maybe Kat and I will jet off to Ibiza. You’re not invited, of course, and?—”

“No.” My voice cuts through her rambling. “The son’s name. What did you say it was?”

“Oh,” A.J. says, blinking. “It’s Dmitri Ivashkov. Why? Do you know him? I didn’t want to be rude and ask you outright. You know, wouldn't want to imply all Russians know each other or something.”

“You must’ve heard it wrong,” I say, my voice flat. “The name. That’s not him. It can’t be.”

A.J. shakes her head firmly. “Nope. I’m sure of it. Dmitri Ivashkov. Early twenties, super hot in a himbo kind of way. His mother was one Elena Ivashkov. The stronzo sent them money every month for over eighteen years without fail. I’ve got loads of documentation to prove it. Even a copy of his birth certificate. Trust me, it’s him. Here, see for yourself.”

She hands me her phone, and with growing dread, I glance at the screen. My worst fears are confirmed.

File after file. Photo after photo. Every detail is undeniable. Dmitri— Dmitri —is Giuseppe Salvatore’s secret son. The bastard child of the Italian family’s boss.

I hand the phone back to A.J., my hand trembling slightly. My gaze goes unfocused, staring blankly ahead as I struggle to process the impossible.

I don’t want to believe it. But deep down, I know.

I pull out my phone and call Dmitri. Maybe there’s an explanation for this whole madness…

He doesn’t answer.

Panic begins to coil tight in my chest as I dial Vladmir next. He picks up on the first ring.

“Boss,” Vladmir says, his tone steady.

“Is Dmitri with you?” I ask without preamble.

There’s a brief pause on the other end before Vladmir answers. “No. I’ve been wondering where he is. He was supposed to meet me an hour ago, but he never showed up. He’s not answering his phone, and no one’s seen or heard from him since early this morning.”

No, Dmitri.

Not you.

Anyone but you.

“If you see or hear from him, call me immediately. In the meantime, drop whatever you're doing and find him. Text me his location as soon as you do.”

I turn to A.J. “Is there somewhere safe you can go?” I ask, my tone sharp and direct. “If not, I’ll drop you off at my place. You can wait there until I bring Kat back. You’ll be completely safe.”

Her scowl deepens. “What the hell are you talking about? What’s going on? If you know where Kat is, tell me right now. And you’re not dropping me off anywhere. If you’re going to look for her, I’m coming with you.”

The last thing I need right now is someone else to worry about, but there’s no time to argue. With a frustrated sigh, I relent. I shut my eyes for a moment, steeling myself for what comes next.

I finally understand now. It all clicks into place, with painful clarity.

I was so stupid.

Kat was right. As always.

Giuseppe fucking Salvatore played me.

McGuire never had anything to do with Maxim’s death. He didn’t kill my best friend.

Dmitri did.