They don’t need to see the twisted satisfaction that coils in my chest when bones snap and joints bend the wrong way.
They don’t need to know the look on his face when he begged me to stop. That raw, pitiful fear was the best part.
A cold smile tugs at the corner of my mouth as I pull my shirt over my head. I’m not proud of the work I do. But it’s the only part of the family business that scratches the itch I actually enjoy.
The locker room swirls around me, teammates taping sticks, yanking jerseys, smart-ass comments flying my way.
I cut through it all as if I owned the place.
Not because of the C stitched on my chest.
Because in my world, respect isn’t handed out with a captain’s badge. It’s earned
Earned in blood, in silence, in fear. And today the suit did its job.
The banter bounces off me; I barely listen.
This is the dirtiest bunch I’ve ever worked with. They play like they’ve got nothing to lose, fight like unpaid rookies with everything to prove, and it works, because wedolose a lot.
Off the ice, it’s worse. These guys are fucked up in every way: gambling debts, ugly divorces, underground brawls. Name a vice, they’ve done it.
And me? I’m no angel. I don’t bother with small-time sins.
Mine are bigger, more dangerous. I run anenterprise—an organization that thrives in the shadows.
The violent streak I can’t suppress? It fits right in with both on the ice and in the life I’ve been handed.
Beating the shit out of lowlife losers is my favorite part of running U.S. operations for the Barkov crime family.
My phone buzzeson the bench, distracting me. I glance down at the screen and see the picture of my sister, Misha, pop up. She has dark eyes that mirror mine, the look I grew up with. And she’s the courage that helps me through everything.
“Shit,” I mutter, snatching the phone.
But before I can swipe it, Conor is already leaning over from his locker, the fucking asshole grinning like he’s just hit the jackpot.
“Bro,” he says, glancing over at the screen. “Misha again?” He raises his eyebrows. “Man, I swear to God, your sister could put half the fucking city to shame just by walking down the street. She’s?—”
Before he can finish, I turn to him sharply. “Don’t,” I warn him, the growl in my voice deepening as my thumb hovers over the screen. My mind flashes to how I’ve always protected her. Nobody, especially a loudmouth like Conor, gets to talk about my sister like that.
Conor chuckles, ignoring the warning in my voice. “Oh, come on, Nik. You gotta admit it. Misha’s got that, you know, fire in her eyes. I’ve thought about her, man. In the shower. A lot. Hell, probably more times than you’d care to know.”
The words hang in the air, and the locker room seems to go still for a second as I feel my blood gush in my veins. She’snota fantasy. She’s my sister. And now? Some idiot just treated her like she’s… a thing.
My heart races, and my hands clench into fists, but I try not to react.
Dominic looks up from his gear bag, meeting my eyes. His face gives nothing away, but I know he feels the change in me. Calm on the surface, fury simmering underneath.
He knows what sets me off —Family, especially when it comes to Misha.
Conor, ever the idiot, doesn’t seem to realize the line he’s just crossed. “Man, I gotta tell you,” he keeps going, oblivious. “She’s the one girl I’d go after, if I weren’t so busy with... well,otherthings, you know?”
I don’t reply.
The words ring in my ears, but I try not to let it show. I’ve learned how to keep my cool in the most dangerous situations.
But this is different.
This is Misha. My sister. My blood. The one thing that gets under my skin fast and deep.
