2. Nik

2

I can't stop staring at the woman in the dangerously distracting black velvet dress.

As I sip my whiskey, I do my best to refocus my attention on the museum director's speech, but it's pointless. My gaze drifts to her again and again, almost as if irresistibly drawn by gravity's pull.

That dress ought to be illegal.

And I know a thing or two about illegal things.

As she glances around the museum's grand hall admiring the decorations, I admire her.

Her dark hair, artfully piled atop her head, temptingly exposes her neck. I wonder what she smells like.

She turns around, looking around the room, and I almost choke on my drink.

Mercy. I struggle to suppress my cough—her dress is backless.

The overhead light fixtures bathe her in their soft glow, and I can't help but imagine what it would feel like to run my fingers over that beautiful, mesmerizing stretch of skin.

I try to catch her eye, but she is lost in thought. She doesn't notice me at all, which makes me smile.

Many of the country's most powerful men and women are present at tonight's gala. There isn't much they wouldn't say or do for a few moments of my time. And yet, this slip of a girl doesn't seem to know who I am. She certainly doesn't realize she has my undivided attention.

Her careless disregard doesn't concern me in the slightest. I know how to get what I want. One does not rise from the direst, most remote parts of Siberia to reach the highest rank of the Russian bratva by being timid.

Over the decades, I have been many things. Most of them are, frankly, not any good. I'm not ashamed to admit it. Unsure of myself, however, is not one of them.

I have never been afraid of a challenge, either. In fact, it would be a rather welcome change from the wide-eyed, yes-sir girls I meet too often nowadays.

Truthfully, ever since the Forbes 400 list was published a few months ago, I have grown increasingly bored with the women who approach me. It's been too long since I've come across one so refreshingly uninterested in me.

It doesn't hurt that her eyes seem to glitter more than the Flame of Mir under the dim luminescence of the crystal chandeliers. Are they dark brown or deep blue? I can't tell from this far away.

Before the night ends, this breathtaking woman will be in my arms.

Any other outcome is unthinkable.

I lean against the wall, enjoying my drink and relaxing for a moment. Soon, the director will end his monologue, and I will get to make my move.

I only half-listen as the man almost reverently describes everything he believes makes my most prized possession, the Flame of Mir, so unique and precious.

The director has his facts right, at least. The Flame of Mir is indeed the largest red diamond ever found, and those are the rarest of all diamonds. But he doesn't know any of the things that make it truly special.

He doesn't know, for example, that I extricated it from the ground myself a long time ago.

The man also could never comprehend what the discovery meant for me back then or how it altered the course of my life.

He doesn't understand that I almost certainly wouldn't be a multibillionaire or the pakhan of the Russian bratva if I hadn't found the massive blood-red gem in the Siberian Mir mine.

Just like my identity as the owner of the Flame of Mir, these are secrets I only share with a selected few. It's how I like to handle my affairs. Many years ago, I learned that all information is worth its weight in gold and that very few people deserve my trust. I am as careful with it as I am with the safety of my diamond.

It occurs to me that I know nothing about this beautiful stranger who has thoroughly captivated me tonight. This is an unsettling realization, to say the least, since I personally vetted everyone in attendance this evening.

Well, not exactly personally. I have people for that, of course.

However, I inspected the guest list, reviewing dossiers on all guests of interest and on anyone whose name was unfamiliar. If it had included her name or face, I would remember.

I can't say I'm surprised to find party-crashers among us tonight. It is, after all, par for the course with such a highly anticipated, star-studded event. The Flame of Mir has always been the subject of great curiosity.

Of course, with a face befitting an angel—and a body made for sin—this woman had no trouble sweet-talking the security guards posted outside into letting her sneak in to enjoy the festivities.

I force myself to stop gazing at the object of my sudden fascination for a second to search the room for a specific someone.

A moment later, I spot Dmitri Ivashkov, my favorite shestyorka, leaning against an adorned Corinthian column in a darkened corner.

I tasked him with investigating tonight's guest list and bringing anything or anyone even remotely worthy of a second look to my attention.

As the leader of the Russian bratva and the somewhat anonymous owner of the world's most valuable diamond, I had to ensure that none of the guests were a threat to the gemstone or my organization.

Dmitri finally realizes I'm glancing his way. Aware of my silent command, he walks over to me.

With amusement, I watch as women, young and old, discreetly—or not so discreetly—notice the young man. As usual, Dmitri is unaware of the attention he effortlessly attracts from the fairer sex. Tall and athletic, he cuts a striking figure in his tuxedo, even when he won't stop fidgeting with his longish hair.

As misplaced as it might be, I'm often struck by how proud I am of the remarkable man he has become. For many unfortunate reasons, I am one of the few who have been around enough to see him grow up. His mother—God rest her soul—would be proud of him, too.

Once Dmitri reaches my side, he smirks at me, cockily raising an eyebrow as if asking, you called?

Such petulance would land anyone else in my bratva into considerable trouble, but I let him get away with a lot—perhaps too much.

Still, even within the bratva, a lot can be forgiven when it comes to someone with so much promise. As I learned once he became my employee, Dmitri has an almost unparalleled ability to get shit done. I have never met anyone so obsessively single-minded. You can't lose people like that. No matter the cost, you retain that kind of talent.

"Do you see the brunette in the black dress next to my diamond?" I ask.

"You bet I do. How could anyone miss her? And before you ask, Nik—I don't know who she is. She isn't on the guest list. I checked. One of the museum's security guards must've let her in here."

"I figured as much."

With a sigh, Dmitri runs his fingers through his dark blond hair. "Well, I wouldn't worry about her, Nik. We knew we were bound to attract party-crashers tonight. At least it isn't Erin McGuire, anyway. Now, that would be a problem."

I shoot him a warning glance. "The last thing I need in my life right now is another one of my associates stirring up trouble with the Irish. Don't bring up Erin McGuire. If I never hear that name again, it will still be too soon."

"Interesting words from the man who invited her father to tonight's event."

"Vladmir's right," I say with a sigh. "One of these days, I'll have to teach you what respect for authority means."

"I think I'll take a rain check on that, Nik. Indefinitely." He has the nerve to wink at me.

The museum's factotum ends his interminable speech, inviting the party's attendees to step outside for refreshments and music, and Dmitri walks away, chuckling to himself.

I search for the woman I have spent most of the night studying from afar, but I have no luck locating her. She must be out in the gardens. I can't blame her. With the sizable crowd gathered inside the exhibition hall, it's too warm in here.

Thankful for the chance to leave the stuffy room, I step outside, still searching for her. Instead, I find Maxim.

"Nikki," he says, offering me a fresh whiskey. "There you are. I was looking for you."

With a smile, I take the offered drink.

It's good to have Maxim back home. Strange, but good. Even weeks after his return from Russia, I'm still somewhat startled whenever I walk into a room and find him standing there. I do my best to hide it and not let him notice it, but having him back on this side of the Atlantic still feels surreal.

Maxim has been my best—and sometimes only—friend for most of my life. Even before the bratva and the Flame of Mir, there was Maxim. And not much else, truth be told.

Long ago, I learned trust is too rare a commodity to be carelessly shared. Yet, once upon a time, I freely shared it with Maxim. Before Erin McGuire. Before he made me regret it.

But none of that matters now—not anymore. The past is in the past—at last. It's time we put it behind us. I must make amends with Maxim if I can. Somehow. Ultimately, that's what tonight is all about for me. No matter what it may cost me or the bratva, I'll make it up to him for all he had to sacrifice in the last year.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" I ask.

"Sure. I can't complain, Nik. Beautiful night, beautiful women. What more could a man want? Besides not having to look at Patrick McGuire's unsightly face, of course. It's the damnedest thing—even after all this time, I can't shake the feeling it would look so much better if someone were to fire a few dozen shots at it."

The Irish family's boss must sense our gazes on him because he smirks at us, raising his glass in a mock toast. He doesn't break eye contact with Maxim. As a matter of fact, he doesn't even blink.

With his longtime rival a few yards away, it's easy to see Maxim as the rest of the world sees him instead of as my oldest friend. In this instant, he's every inch the avtoritet—the authority, the cold-blooded enforcer of the bratva. Even within our circles, Maxim's name is feared. No one is better than my friend at his gruesome line of work.

"Maxim," I say in warning. I barely manage to suppress a sigh.

"I know, Nik. Trust me. I'll play nice with the man. Don't even worry about it. I'll do it for you."

I study him with concern for a moment. A welcome, cool breeze blows his thick brown hair over his eyes, but he doesn't flinch as McGuire stares him down.

A particularly ominous feeling grows inside me, and I struggle to hide my frustration. "Listen, Maxim. It's not like I love him any more than you do. But going to war with the Irish family won't make my life or yours any easier."

"I know. You're right, Nik, as usual. That's why you are the pakhan while I'm…well, I guess I'm the man who got sent to fucking Siberia of all places for thinking with the wrong head."

He laughs humorlessly before taking a healthy swig of his drink.

"Maxim—"

"I don't mean to sound ungrateful. You did the best you could. I owe my life to you. And believe me, after my long exile, I can't wait to get back to living the rest of it. There's so much left to do. I sure have a lot to make up for, and I've already wasted so much time. So I'm glad to be back. Really, I am. And I missed you, Nikki."

"It's good to have you back, Maxim. It wasn't the same without you here."

"Well, I don't know about that, Nik. You seem to have managed pretty well in my absence. When I left, you were still making a name for yourself within the Seven Families. Now, none of them can touch you. You sure seem to have more money now. I'm sure there are more women, too."

Maxims's striking blue eyes shine with humor, and, for a brief moment, things between us are just as they have always been.

Before I can remind him he's in no position to give anyone a hard time about women, I spot her from the corner of my eye. Instantly, I lose my train of thought.

She is strolling about the garden, holding a glass of champagne. Her full lips are stretched into a pleasant, casual smile.

Maxim disrupts my reverie. "Who is that?" he asks.

I reluctantly tear my eyes from her to glance at him. To my utter dismay, Maxim is unabashedly studying her from head to toe. Like me, he seems to like what he sees—a lot.

"As far as you and any other men at this party are concerned, she is out of bounds."

Still shamelessly eyeing my attractive brunette, Maxim shoots me a look, not bothering to hide his shock.

I tried to sound as calm and unaffected as possible, but maybe I came off as a little too possessive about someone who is, after all, a stranger.

I can understand why my childhood friend is surprised to see me act so territorial about a woman when I have never done so before tonight. Not in all our many years of friendship.

I can't pretend to fully understand this perplexing behavior of mine any better than he does. But somehow, I know without a shadow of a doubt that I couldn't handle seeing her in another man's arms.

Mine. For all intents and purposes, she's mine.

Luckily, few men on this earth would dare stand between me and what I want. Even fewer would have the audacity to try to take what is rightfully mine.

And she is mine. At least for the night. I won't tolerate anything else.

"Okay," Maxim says in a peculiar tone. He stares at me as if I have grown a second head. "If you want her so bad, what are you still doing here with me? Why don't you go get her?"

"That's the plan. I'm leaving with her tonight. It's as good as done."

Soon, I will inform her of the same.

"Is that right? Well, I guess we're drinking to your good health then, my friend. Godspeed and God bless you, Nik. Vashe zdorov'ye!" Winking at me, he cheerfully drains his glass at once.

I finish my drink, too, before setting the empty crystal tumbler down on a nearby table.

She walks among the guests, skirting around the edge of the dance floor. To everyone else, she most likely seems to be merely strolling around the party, but it's obvious to me she's gradually making her way to the back of the gardens.

Perhaps for an illicit encounter with a lucky bastard who managed to get to her first? If so, I feel sorry for the man. He stands no chance. I will happily destroy him if that's what it will take to get this beauty all to myself.

A moment later, it becomes clear that she's moving towards the service alleyway.

Leaving so soon? I don't think so.

So I quickly shorten the distance between us, dodging politicians and movie stars who try to get my attention in vain. I almost have to jog to catch up to her.

She suddenly stops by an empty table a few feet away from me. I can't see her face as she turns her back to me.

Up close, I notice things that had escaped me earlier tonight. Her glossy dark hair, for example, has a distinct warm chocolate hue, and her long nails are blood-red.

Distracted by these details, I take too long to realize we are on a collision course. Before I can move out of her way, she runs into my chest. As a reflex, my arms shoot out to hold on to her, ensuring she won't fall.

Her skin is so incredibly soft. She glances up at me, looking right into my eyes.

Fuck me.

Finally, I have an answer to my question from earlier.

Blue. Deep, dark blue.

Fuck. Me.

I'm a goner.