Chapter 33
Nikolai
Maybe this girl has a death wish. Maybe she wants to be fucked until it kills her. Because there’s no reason—no rational, sane reason—for her to be touching me. My pulse is steady, my hands controlled, but inside… I’m not sure I’ve ever wanted anything as much as I want to crush her and keep her right here, right now, under my power.
“You should not touch me, malyshka,” I whisper, keeping my voice low and threatening. My eyes lock on her hand, falling from my wrist, and I feel a flash of something—anger, frustration—maybe.
“I—” She struggles, her words barely audible. “I want to talk to you now.”
It takes everything in me not to let any emotion play across my face. Any sign of weakness could be catastrophic.
The De Luca princess… she’s so strong, so stable in this massive, chaotic world. I could rip her to shreds without blinking. But every instinct I have—the ones I’ve honed over years, the ones I’ve trained into near perfection—screams at me to keep her here.
“You will,” I say finally, just above a growl. “But I have a meeting, and Ivan needs to get you some new chains.”
I pull myself away from her, turning my back, forcing myself to leave despite the tug of every nerve in my body screaming to stay. To press close. To take just one more second with her warmth, with her defiance, with that fire in her eyes that doesn’t belong in a cage.
She says nothing, just watches, and I have to remind myself: she doesn’t know yet how deadly I am. She doesn’t understand the stakes. And she’s already testing boundaries I rarely allow anyone to approach.
I walk toward the door, each step measured. My eyes flick to Adrian, beaten and bloody in the corner, his chains rattling faintly against the concrete. His incompetence to follow orders has once again almost cost him his life. Proving, I can’t trust anyone to do what needs to be done.
As I step into the hallway, the weight of authority and danger settles on my shoulders, her scent follows me. It lingers in my mind, burning my thoughts. Everything in me is screaming that she is mine, that this fragile, impossible girl is the only thing that matters in this prison of my own making.
* * *
I run the messy edges on Vostralya. The island tastes like diesel and lemon peel at the docks, a smell that says deals in the morning and bodies in the night. My ledger lives in my head: who pays, who blinks, who can be bought with a smile.
Nightshade. It’s the synthetic cocktail that turns addicts into devout disciples. Powder as white as salt, packaged in tiny black vials stamped with a moon that isn’t real. Nightshade goes through the clubs and high-risers of Ravetta dressed as perfume, and returns to Vostralya in cash and favours. Everyone on Vostralya calls it a product; I call it a problem that pays for silence.
Silk Passage is uglier. That’s the name for the network that moves women through our ports; not a thing to be proud of, just a ledger line I balance when necessary. I will help them eventually, but right now Viktor is the one with final judgment. I try not to think about what it does to the girls; I think about who smiles when it happens, who loses a meal ticket when it doesn’t. In my world, human lives are inventory the same way the crates are. I don’t pretend otherwise. I manage the paperwork, the appearances, the way people look at me when they ask where the girls come from. I give them an answer that nods politely and keeps the palms that matter greased. Then I kill them for even requesting such a disgusting matter. I choose wisely, not letting Viktor notice a drop in client count, and so far it’s worked enough to leave me with some shattered soul left.
Everything in my world is a routing problem: which port, which warehouse, which man with the right kind of loyalty. I keep the obscene parts off Viktor’s shelf. My job is the noise, the petty wars that keep the world looking elsewhere.
This is why I love Vostralya. It’s noisy.
Maksim slides into my office, an envelope balanced on gloved fingertips. “Manifest from Sector Three,” he says. “Deputy Captain Steel. Unscheduled. Paid in cash.” He watches me, waiting for the twitch that says I care.
I slice the seal. “Who signed off?” I ask.
“Mirov. Says he has family in Anova,” Maksim answers. “He’s new to this lane.”
New men are mistakes in motion. New men leak. “Tell Mirov his family is safe,” I say, my tone casual. “For a fee.”
He nods.
Night falls slowly over the docks, first painting everything orange, then a raw, iron-black. The freighter horns sound and little men become ants with crates.
I watch the men watching me until my attention shifts to the broker who tipped her hand last month, sitting on a bench by the warehouse, her fingers counting invisible coins. She looks happy to see me—but trust on Vostralya is always transactional, and I’ll never trust a soul who willingly thrives in this business.
Designer drugs, trafficked girls, black-market diamonds—they all draw attention, business of all kinds, and I prefer to keep them separate from the things that truly matter when running an empire. Everything that is delicate and permanent stays in Drotkic. Exactly where I’ve kept Aurelia. The rest… the noise, the chaos, the expendable, it belongs here.
I exchange bitter business until I can finally leave and move on to the more interesting part of my evening.
* * *
I push open the doors to the velvet-red room. Glittering chandeliers, flickering over the bodies of girls dancing to the slow music, this place screams my father. Every shadow, every curve of light is meticulously designed for control. This is the safest place I could invite my company; it’s the place where deals are made and no one walks away without my say so.
As I step into the back room, two hooded figures sit tied to steel chairs. The calm in their posture and the lack of any defensive movement almost make me smirk. They don’t know what to expect, and that’s good. They’ll find out soon enough.
