Nikolai spotted his father exiting the warehouse, his face set in that impenetrable mask of composure he always wore after handling the dirtier sides of the business. Blood on his knuckles, sleeves rolled up, that quiet, terrifying calm that came with decades of knowing exactly who he was. There were few moments in Nikolai's life when he hesitated to call for his father's attention—this was one of them. But the question eating away at his insides could no longer be contained.
"Papa," Nikolai called, voice rough.
Dimitri paused mid-step, turning toward the sound of his son's voice. His pale gray eyes squinted slightly in the sunlight as he motioned for Nikolai to come closer. Nikolai walked up to him, every heavy step crunching the gravel beneath his boots.
"We need to talk," Nikolai said.
Dimitri lifted an eyebrow. "Is it about what happened in there?"
Nikolai shook his head. "No. It's Elara."
That got Dimitri's full attention. He sighed, adjusting the cuff of his bloodied sleeve, then nodded. "Alright. Let's talk."
They stepped away from the bustle, rounding the side of the warehouse where no ears would listen. The smell of rusted metal and salt from the sea clung to the air. Nikolai leaned back against a cargo container, eyes downcast, fingers twitching.
"She hates me," he finally said.
"She's afraid of you," Dimitri corrected calmly.
Nikolai looked up at him. "It's the same thing, isn't it?"
"No," Dimitri said. "Fear can change. Hatred runs deeper. Right now, she's trying to hold onto her morality in a world she doesn't understand. That doesn't mean she doesn't love you."
Nikolai blew out a frustrated breath. "I don't know what to do anymore. I try to talk to her, but she looks at me like I'm a stranger. I thought maybe if I gave her a reason to stay... I even thought about getting her pregnant."
Dimitri stared at him for a long moment, then chuckled grimly. "You want advice from the man who once threatened to chain his wife to the bed just so she wouldn't leave?"
Nikolai blinked, unsure if he heard him right. "You what?"
"You heard me," Dimitri said. "Your mother was just as fiery as Elara is now. Maybe worse. Every time she found out more about the things we did—the girls, the guns, the violence—she packed her things and left. Every. Single. Time."
Nikolai looked at his father with wide eyes. "How did you get her back?"
"I went after her," Dimitri replied, unapologetic. "Again and again. I didn't give her space. I didn't give her the peace she wanted. I gave her me. Unfiltered. Brutal. Honest. And eventually, she stopped running. Not because she accepted the life, but because she accepted me in it."
He crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze unfocused as he spoke like a man remembering a different version of himself.
"She decided if I was going to drag her into hell with me, then she'd damn well make sure she was the reason my blood pressure skyrocketed every night. She stopped trying to run and started trying to make the place hers too. Kicking down doors, arguing about the files she found, especially when it came to the girls."
Nikolai nodded slowly. "She still does that?"
Dimitri gave a bitter laugh. "Every damn time she comes across something she can't stomach, she demands we free them. I tell her I can't. We fight. She throws things. Kicks me out of our bedroom. But she stays. Because she knows, even in all the horror of this life, I will never betray her. Not in word, not in loyalty, not in love."
"So you just... never let her go?"
"Never," Dimitri said. "Even when I hated myself for it. Even when I felt like a monster. She was my light. My balance. The part of me that wasn't covered in blood. I needed her, and I wasn't strong enough to let her walk away."
Nikolai looked down again, his voice barely above a whisper. "That's exactly how I feel."
"Then you're already halfway there," Dimitri said. "But you can't force her. Not truly. The minute she feels like a prisoner, you've lost her heart. And once that's gone, there's nothing left."
"So what do I do?"
Dimitri exhaled through his nose. "You love her. Relentlessly. Recklessly. Give her your darkness and your honesty. Don't sugarcoat it. Don't make promises you can't keep. And if she wants to run... follow. Until she stops."
Nikolai stared at him for a long time, silence stretching between father and son like a thread neither wanted to cut.
Finally, Dimitri spoke again, softer now.
"This life breaks people. You know that. But if she's the one thing that makes it bearable, you don't let her go. Even if it means she'll hate you for a while. Even if it means hating yourself for keeping her."
Nikolai swallowed hard, the ache in his chest heavier now, but oddly clearer.
"You ever stop regretting it?" he asked.
Dimitri shook his head. "No. But I regret her absence more than I regret her suffering. And if she'd left, I would have become the kind of man even you would fear."
Nikolai let out a breathless laugh. "You're not exactly sunshine now, Papa."
Dimitri smirked. "Exactly. So imagine the alternative."
They stood in silence for a while longer before Dimitri clapped his hand on his son's shoulder.
"Go home. Talk to her. And remember, you're not your mother's idea of a prince charming. You're a warlord with a wounded heart. But sometimes, that's exactly what a woman needs—a storm that would burn the world just to keep her warm."
Nikolai nodded, silent gratitude in his eyes. He turned toward his car, ready to go home—not just to see her, but to fight for her. Even if it meant going to war with himself.
Because if Dimitri Volkov, the coldest, cruelest man in the Bratva, could earn Natalia's love through blood and devotion—then maybe, just maybe, Nikolai could do the same.
Even if it took a lifetime.
The sound of the door unlocking echoed softly in the vast stillness of the penthouse as Nikolai stepped inside, the quiet hum of the city far below muffled by thick glass walls and towering silence. He set his keys down, his mind still heavy with the conversation he'd had with his father. The words haunted him—"sometimes you'll hate yourself for caging her." He already did. Every time Elara looked at him like he was the villain in her story, a part of him cracked a little more.
He loosened the collar of his black shirt and made his way down the hallway, stopping in front of the guest bedroom—the one place in his own home that felt the most foreign now, only because she was in it.
He hesitated. His hand hovered over the door. He gave her the courtesy of knocking first—twice, then a third time, lighter this time, as though hoping she'd respond if he softened. But silence greeted him. No "come in," no sigh of resignation, not even a muffled "go away."
So he sighed, already anticipating the storm, and opened the door.
Elara didn't flinch. She didn't even lift her eyes. She was seated at the small writing desk he had brought in for her when she moved in—well, when she was forced to move in. Her laptop was open, a stylus pen in her hand as she made quick, precise edits to a layout plan, her brows furrowed in focus, or maybe in frustration.
"I'm busy," she said flatly, not bothering to look at him.
Nikolai closed the door quietly behind him, but he didn't move any closer. Not yet.
"I need to talk to you," he said, his voice quieter than usual. Measured.
"I'm working," she replied, still not turning to face him.
"Elara, please."
There was a beat of silence. Then she exhaled harshly, setting her pen down with a soft thud and finally looking over her shoulder at him. Her eyes were tired, the skin beneath them faintly shadowed, and her lips were pressed into a thin line. He hated how exhausted she looked. He hated even more that he was the reason.
"You said that yesterday. And the day before that. And the day before that," she said. "What is it this time, Nikolai? Another lecture about how I'll understand one day? Or are you here to tell me again that I can't leave you?"
He stepped further into the room, slowly, like approaching a wild creature that might bolt at any moment. "I'm not here to trap you," he said. "I just... need you to hear me. Please."
She turned back to her screen. "You've said all you needed to say."
"No," he said. "I haven't. Not everything."
He walked over to the edge of the bed and sat, his elbows resting on his knees, head bowed for a moment before he looked at her again. "I spoke to my father today."
That got her attention. She paused, eyes narrowing slightly. "And?"
"I asked him how he did it. How he kept my mother. How he made her stay when she hated the life he gave her."
Elara scoffed. "Let me guess—he threatened to chain her up?"
Nikolai looked at her sharply but didn't answer right away. His silence made her eyebrows rise.
"You're not denying it?"
He gave a humorless laugh. "No. That's exactly what he said. But that wasn't the part that got to me. He told me something else... he said that eventually, she stayed because he gave her a reason to. Love, loyalty, a home, even if it was in hell."
Elara folded her arms, turning fully toward him now. "And you think that's supposed to make this better?"
"No. I think it's supposed to make me honest." He looked at her, eyes tired and raw. "I don't know how to love you without holding on too tightly. Without wanting to chain you to me—metaphorically. I swear, Elara, I would never hurt you. But I also can't let you go. That's the truth."
She swallowed, jaw tight. "That's not love, Nikolai. That's possession."
"Maybe," he admitted. "Maybe it is. But it doesn't mean the love isn't real. I think about you all the time. Every room feels hollow when you're not in it. I see you even when you're not here. You've taken up permanent space in me."
She said nothing for a long time, and he didn't try to fill the silence. Finally, she said, softly, "And yet... you won't give up the one thing that makes me feel like I'll never be safe with you."
His throat tightened. "The bratva isn't a job I can resign from, Elara. It's a blood oath. I was born into it. Leaving isn't an option. Not unless I want a bullet in my head and one in yours. That's the reality."
Her shoulders slumped slightly, and she pressed her hands against her eyes. "So what do we do then?"
He stood and slowly crossed to her, kneeling in front of her chair. "We try. You give me time. I give you honesty. And maybe one day, you'll believe that I can protect you from the worst of it."
She looked down at him. "And until then?"
"Until then," he said, reaching up but stopping short of touching her, "I'll stay in my corner of this penthouse, and you'll stay in yours. I won't force you to share a bed, or even a meal. But I won't let you leave either."
"That's still a cage, Nikolai."
"Then let me turn it into a home."
Her eyes shone with unshed tears, and her voice was barely a whisper. "You can't fix this with flowers or whispered promises."
He nodded. "I know. But I'll keep showing up. Every day. Because I'm not giving up on us, Elara. Even if I'm the villain in your story right now."
He finally stood, letting out a long breath, then turned toward the door. "I'll let you get back to work," he murmured. "Dinner will be ready in an hour... in case you're hungry."
She didn't respond, and he didn't expect her to. But he saw the way her hands trembled when she picked up the stylus again.
It was a war between the heart and the soul.
And Nikolai was willing to bleed for both.