7. Nik

Chapter 7

Nik

I can’t stop thinking about her. It’s the most aggravating thing.

The moment I step out of the empty room and into the museum’s gardens, I’m bombarded by people eager to chat. I couldn’t care less about the mindless small talk, mainly because everything around me seems to remind me of her.

I find myself comparing every woman who approaches me to her. They all come up short.

If they have blue eyes, their gaze isn’t as intense or as vivid as hers. If they’re brunettes, their hair is a mousy, unappealing brown, lacking her rich, dark sheen. When I catch a hint of someone’s perfume, I have to suppress a sigh—none of them come close to her scent.

I even resent having to shake hands. After touching her smooth skin, I don’t want to feel anything else. And each time the conversations lull, I can almost hear her breathy moans echoing in my head.

Naturally, I down drink after drink, hoping the alcohol will lear my mind, but each bitter sip only reminds me of how sweet she tasted. I’m hopeless—a pathetic, lovesick fool, and at the worst possible time. I have to forget her, put this distraction behind me, and focus on fixing things with Maxim.

Just as I’m drowning in my own thoughts, too busy suffering in silence to listen to this man droning on about some topic I can’t bring myself to care about, I feel a tap on my shoulder. Grateful for the interruption, I turn to see Vladmir Smirnov, one of my bratva associates.

“Nikolai,” Vlad says, leaning close. “There’s something you need to see.”

He keeps his tone casual, but I know him well enough to sense that something’s seriously wrong.

“If you’ll excuse me,” I say to my unwanted companion, already turning away.

I let Vlad lead me through the crowd. He’s been with the bratva for over half a decade. Some question his quick temper and impulsive nature, but I keep him around because of his quiet reliability. Whatever the job, no matter how grim, Vladmir gets it done.

As we navigate the party, I study him. He’s taller than most of the guests, with his usual buzz cut and neatly trimmed beard. But tonight, he’s tense. He runs his hand over his mouth, then over his head, avoiding my gaze as he guides me toward the museum’s main building.

An ominous feeling creeps over me. Vladmir’s usually quick to show his emotions, sometimes recklessly so. But I’ve never seen him this uneasy. His forehead glistens with sweat, and he keeps scanning the area around us.

We reach the marble steps at the museum entrance. Once we cross the threshold, I’m surprised to see most of my men inside. I thought they’d be enjoying the festivities in the gardens.

I can think of only a handful of reasons for them to gather like this, and none of them would be good news.

Many of them avoid looking at me as I follow Vlad down the dim hallway, eyes turned down or away.

He leads me down a long corridor that’s been closed off for tonight’s event. The hall is deserted.

As we approach the entryway, I see more of my men outside the door. These aren’t the jittery shestyorka out front—these are seasoned members of the bratva . The vori hold my gaze, their expressions somber, and my dread deepens.

Dmitri stands by the door. I move quickly toward him, but he stops me with a hand

“Nik, hold up. You need to prepare yourself.”

I don’t wait for him to finish. I brush his hand aside, push open the door, and step into the exhibition room, ready to end this suspense.

The first thing I see is Caravaggio’s The Taking of Christ , dark and magnificent on the far wall. I’m surprised it’s here; I thought it was at the National Gallery of Ireland.

The room’s dim lighting and scarlet wallpaper give it a gloomy, almost oppressive atmosphere. The darkness makes it hard to notice the body at first.

When I finally see it, I can’t make out the identity of the man on the floor from this distance. The room is too poorly lit to allow that.

I walk toward the figure, my heart hammering as that sense of dread tightens its grip. I reach the body, and the moment I recognize his face, it feels like my heart comes to a sudden, screeching halt. Utterly shocked, I inhale sharply.

Maxim.