I know Lars just wants me to have the opportunity to be with someone I could love and to have a safe space of light in my own dark world. But Misha’s safety is at the top of my list right now.
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, sure, sir. I’ve got bigger things to worry about. I’m going to check on Misha’s security.”
“Perfect, son. Do what you need to do.”
I sitwith a half-empty glass of vodka, staring into the past like it might change if I look hard enough.
When our parents died, and I was angry enough to swallow the world. But Lars’s wife, Volya, was warm, motherly, and steady, a rare safe place in the chaos.
While Lars channeled my rage into hockey, teaching me to fight and handle a weapon, Volya was the one who sat by my bedside when I woke up screaming in the night.
Her presence made the darkness more bearable, gave me a foothold in a world that had already tried to crush me.
Volya was a traditional Russian woman from a small town. I’m still dumbfounded she ended up married to a half-Russian, half-Swedish criminal mastermind.
From a child’s perspective, their marriage was a strange, bright light in a grim world. Their relationship was the most normal thing about growing up in the Barkov organization.
The rest of it? Hell.
People came and went through the house, men and women alike. The estate was massive, remote, and part of it was a prison.
Hostages, pain, torture, things I wasn’t supposed to see. The family wing kept me and Misha insulated, but curiosity is a dangerous thing.
By the time I hit my teens, it got the better of me. I started sneaking into the business wing, watching punishments unfold.
I couldn’t stomach rape, but a man taking a well-placed punch? That made my pulse spike. The crack of bone under a fist. The desperate gasp as air left a man’s lungs. It was intoxicating in its own dark way, not cruelty, not enjoyment, but control. And power.
Proof that I could survive.
That I could strike back.
That in a world built to break me, I wasn’t broken.
That same instinct follows me onto the ice. Every hit, every check, every clash of sticks is a release, a measured strike against a world that tries to control me.
I don’t just play hockey as Nikolai Ivanov, I play as Nikolai Barkov, the side of me that thrives in chaos, that doesn’t flinch from the pain of others, that turns anger into fire. Every time I hit the ice, I hear that echo of bone snapping, and I know I’m alive.
Truly alive.
I am thankful to Lars for taking us in. But I am not happy.
Not happy about the Commission. Not satisfied with the turf war that seems to be brewing.
Not happy that my little sister is potentially in danger.
I drain the glass and call Misha.
“Hey,” she answers, voice a mix of boredom and amusement.
“You okay?” I ask. “I just…want to make sure you’re careful. The Commission is stirring, and things aren’t quiet. Don’t do anything stupid.”
“Wow,” she says, laughter in her voice. “Nik Barkov, playing the protective big brother. How sweet.”
“I’m serious, Misha,” I snap. “I’m not joking. Watch your back. Keep your head down.”
She sighs theatrically. “I’ll be fine. Maybe I like a little danger. Ever think of that?”
“Not this kind. Not with what’s coming. You know it’s not a game.”
