Chapter 15

15

NIKOLAI

I stand in the middle of my father's prison cell, sweat and blood drenching my white button-up, but that motherfucker still has the gall to spit onto the floor and smile.

My father, Boris, is slumped over to the side, hands tied behind his back to the metal chair that the rest of his body is strapped to. His eye is swollen, and he wears a bloody smile from the teeth I have ripped out, but regardless of all the pain I know I have inflicted on him, he laughs as if I only made fucking paper-cuts.

I despise how this man gets under my skin, and it makes me want to crawl up the goddamn wall with his pure psychotic tendencies. Who knew having an ex-military father turned criminal would be such a fucking headache?

"Come on now, Nikolai, I've taught you better than this," he scolds, narrowing his eyes at the hammer I have dangling between my fingertips. "Maybe you should have Aleksandr come; at least his ways of torture are creative. "

"Trust me, Papa, we are only getting started," I counter between gritted teeth, my voice low and simmering with barely contained rage. "I was thinking of carving that stupid smile into your face. How does that sound?"

Despite every conscious fiber of my being screaming that I am in control, there's a part of me—a dark, vicious part—that feels like a caged animal, one rude remark away from tearing my father's chest open and ripping out his still-beating heart.

It has taken years of self-control and patience to learn how to contain this beast within me. The countless nights spent honing my mind, restraining my impulses, mastering the art of control. I've walked the razor's edge, balancing between the man I strive to be and the monster lurking in my blood. Because there is nothing worse than a mad king, a ruler so consumed by his own rage that he is willing to sacrifice every man who dares look at him the wrong way.

Boris's laughter grates against my nerves, a sound that seems to mock my every effort to remain composed.

"Now that's the spirit, Nikolai," he says, his voice dripping with condescension. "Show me that fire. Show me you're not the weakling. Be my bastard of a son."

"I am nothing like you," I snarl, my grip on the hammer tightening until my knuckles turn white. "You've built an empire on people who would rather betray you than stand in the pits of hell alongside you. I am better than you. My people would die for me."

Boris's eyes flash with anger, but the twisted smile never leaves his face. "And yet here you are, Nikolai, standing in the pits of hell with me. What does that make you? "

I throw myself at Boris, my nails digging into the flesh of his cheeks as I grip his jaw, placing the hammer on his chin. I know I fucked up when I see the light in his eyes, as if he recognizes this version of me as kin.

"Ahh, there you are. A Mafia King who is willing to kill." Boris chuckles, adjusting himself in his chains as if this is a Sunday afternoon and he is getting comfortable on the couch. "Maybe a lesson or two did get through that thick skull."

I push air through my nostrils and push myself off the madman. My laugh is humorless, making my way to the weapons adorning the table and evaluating which knife would cut the slowest out of the bunch. I would have to scold myself later for that outburst. No one man should make me this violent. My breathing steadies as I run my finger along the edge of a machete, and I respond.

"If I listened to all your lessons, I would have killed my wife in cold blood and then cut up her body and sent them to my children. Seems like you're a fucked up teacher to me."

"Ahh, you see, you were always a terrible student."

I peek at him over my shoulder, unwilling to show him how eager I am to still learn from the infamous Boris Petrov, once called the Demon of New York.

"If you were a better student, you would see the lesson was in loyalty and what to do to those whose loyalty falters."

My jaws click as I run my teeth together and turn my attention back to my examination of torture tools. I run my fingers over a scalpel, and I turn to look at him over my shoulder, "How does a scalpel sound?"

He clicks his head to the side and gives me that toothy smile I fucking hate. "Splendid. "

"You were always so caught up in lessons that you never knew where you faltered." I spin the scalpel across my knuckles and smile in that toothy way that makes others think we are blood-related. I wag the sharp end of the scalpel at him as if he is a naughty child and continue, "Because let's make one thing clear: you are a failure."

His face smooths out to the scowl I got accustomed to in my childhood, the wrinkle between his brows, his eyes hardened, and his lips plastered into a straight line. This makes me laugh in a way that isn't to show that I can match his madness. No, this laugh is pure pleasure that I've hit a nerve.

"You see, I did learn from you because I know all about loyalty," I say, taking a dancer's step closer to him as if we are doing a psychotic version of the tango. "I learned loyalty to the Mafia. Loyalty to your followers. Loyalty to the grunt worker who may see a thing or two he wasn't supposed to." I allow the mask of my control to slip ever so slightly so that family resemblance really gets under his skin.

I drop my voice down to a whisper, "But what about loyalty to family, huh? What about loyalty to the ones you supposedly love?"

I mock him, tapping the knife to the apples of his cheeks that are already swelling from earlier activities, but he doesn't give me the satisfaction of a flinch.

"You see, that's where you fall short because those people could be the end of you. That's a lesson you should have learned, or do I need to teach you again?"

Boris's eyes flash with something—anger, perhaps, or amusement but he shakes his chains as if he could break free like the Hulk, and I step back, clicking my tongue. "Don't be mad at me that you don't follow your lessons. "

"A lesson in love," he spits. "Love is a weakness. I taught you that too, didn't I? I showed you what happens when the facade of love clouds you. You leave yourself open to be taken for a fool. You then have to let your bastard run the Mafia you built from ashes just to save face, or if given the chance, you have to kill him too, just like his whore of a mother."

My nostrils flare, but I maintain composure. "Funny. You wish you could kill me so you don't have to look into the eyes of the man who actually loved my mother," I taunt, gripping the scalpel's handle so tightly my knuckles turn white.

"What are you ashamed of, Boris? That when she got tired of your shit, she found someone else? Someone worthy. Someone who wasn't a limp dick piece of shit."

Boris's face darkens, his bloody smile fading for a moment.

"Your mother was a weak whore who lived her life thinking about the next nut she could get," he says with a look of excitement on his face as if he hasn't said something just as cruel thousands of times.

"She betrayed the Mafia and paid for it with her life, and I will make sure she never rests in peace so that I can torment her little betrayals until my last breath."

"Is that what I am?" I press, feeling a sick thrill as his eyes narrow. "A reminder of her betrayal?"

Boris sneers. "You are a reminder of the only regret I have ever had. I should have killed you when I had the fucking chance."

"Aw, could've, would've, should've. Those things will haunt you," I say, laughing, stepping closer to him, the knife glinting in the dim light. "You know what really pisses you off," I sing, gliding the knife across his shoulder blade. "You aren't certain that you have an heir. You don't know if any of your children are actually yours, but her bastards get to carry on your legacy. That's pathetic."

"You see, you are a weak king, Nikolai, still searching for his mother's tit," Boris growls. "You were never fit to be king because you have a bleeding heart. I should have gutted the organ when I had a chance."

I toss the scalpel into the air, catch it, and dig it into the thigh of Boris as he rings out in frustration. "I won't make this easy on you, but since you are so convinced that you and I are similar, let me tell you the cardinal difference between us." I yank the scalpel out of his leg and watch the blood gush from the wound. "When I get a woman, she will be treated like a queen. That way, I know my heir is fucking mine."

Boris laughs, leaning over from the pain, but grits through his teeth. "And that weakness will get you killed."

"Maybe," I say, leaning in close so he can see the fire in my eyes. "But I'd rather be dead with a son who will avenge me than wish me dead."

Boris laughs, a harsh, grating sound. "Where's the fun in that?"

"You're right about that. This is so much more fun." I lift the tip of the scalpel to his lips and smile. "Now say cheese."

As usual, Boris didn't crack. When I exited the prison beneath our building, I was greeted with my mother's left rib cage. I guess he was right; I am a bleeding heart because the idea of holding the part of my mother that once housed her heart almost made me fall to my knees. But I can't break until I have her entire body in my hands. Only then will I allow myself the solace of crying over her death.

After changing my blood-soaked button-down into a white cotton T-shirt in my office, I decided to walk home and clear my mind. I still have to tell my siblings the truth—that we may all be bastards, and I don't know who our true father is. I just know Boris isn't. Or I could take that to my grave and let them believe I am not their blood brother. But what would that mean for the crown of the Mafia? That would mean it rightfully belongs to Nadia or Aleksandr, and I have stolen it from underneath their noses. They will never forgive me for stealing the kingdom for myself. But I can never let this go. I was made to be king, no matter the blood in my veins. I was made to rule over New York.

I walk down the dimly lit streets, my body still slick with sweat, the ghost of Boris's laughter echoing in my mind. The night is thick with the scent of rain and dirt, the city's neon lights casting eerie reflections on the wet pavement. I feel myself spiral as I always do after being covered in blood. The excitement courses through my veins, and in this state, I believe I could take down a bear and defeat an army. My God complex runs at an all-time high as I look up into a diner, ready to make the world bend to me. That's when I see her.

In the window of a small diner, illuminated by the soft, warm glow of the interior lights, I see her curly black hair and tanned skin as she reaches for a salt shaker. She sits with another girl, laughing, her delicate features framed by her dark hair, her expression serene as she sips her coffee. My heart squeezes in my chest, and I swear the world stops. This must be what it feels like when a sinner is given the option of heaven. I am seeing an angel for the first time. My heart pounds, and before I know it, I am running towards her, desperate to steal this little slice of heaven all for myself.

"Kotik!" I call out.

The woman turns around, her hair bouncing in the air, and my heart plummets. The girl isn't Gwen. In fact, her hair is brown, not black, and her lips are painted an awful shade of red that isn't glossed the way Gwen likes to gloss her lips. Her eyes aren't that intoxicating honeyed brown; the woman's eyes are a cool blue.

I stare at her. The disappointment hits me like a physical blow, and I feel as if I've been yanked from heaven and thrown back into the depths of hell where I belong. The woman's eyes widen in surprise and confusion, and I mumble an apology, stumbling back onto the street, unwilling to look at the imposter any longer.

When I hit the streets, my city is colder, its lights harsh and unforgiving. This walk is no longer a comfort for my mind and is now a vehicle to torment me further. I lean against a lamppost, struggling to catch my breath. Seeing that woman makes me think that the sickening smell of vanilla invades my nostrils, and I want to hunt for my darling kitty all over again. I want to drag her back into my arms, and tie her to my bed, and never let her leave me again.

The beast within me roars, demanding release, but I clench my fists and hold it back. I have to be stronger than this. I have to be the king I was meant to be, and no woman who is slowly drifting into a figment of my imagination can bring me to my knees. I cannot allow myself to be a lovesick king, no matter how much I want her.