It was noon, and sunlight filtered lazily through the towering windows of Nikolai's penthouse, casting dappled golden patterns across the hardwood floors. Outside, the city thrummed with its usual chaotic rhythm—cars honking, people hurrying, the occasional distant wail of a siren—but inside, it was quiet. Too quiet.
Nikolai sat hunched over a wide black table cluttered with papers, his laptop screen lit up with detailed floorplans and coded files. His expression was focused, jaw tight, lips pressed into a grim line as he reviewed another document. At first glance, it looked like legitimate hotel paperwork—blueprints for luxury suites, supply chain logistics, hiring protocols—but every square inch of it was layered in coded purpose. This wasn't just a new Volkov property; it was a Bratva command post, thinly veiled beneath polished marble, velvet walls, and five-star service.
Guests would come and go without ever suspecting that beneath the gleaming lobby, behind certain "staff-only" doors, was a network of hidden rooms, vaults, and private corridors where only trusted members of the organization could pass. The staff would be loyal. Trained. Selected with more scrutiny than presidential cabinet members. Each element, from the spa to the underground loading dock, was a calculated part of a much bigger machine.
Nikolai's mind was deep in the details—transport routes, security rotations, coded entries—when the sound of sharp, deliberate heels echoed through the corridor.
Click. Click. Click.
Like stilettos against marble, each step was precise, authoritative, and dramatic as hell.
Nikolai didn't need to look up. He sighed. "Mother."
And there she was—Natalia Volkov—sweeping into the room like a hurricane wrapped in Chanel.
She wore an ivory trench coat cinched perfectly at her waist, blood-red heels that looked like they could be used as murder weapons, and carried a bottle of vodka and a pink pastry box in her perfectly manicured hands. Her lipstick matched her heels. Her nails matched her lipstick. And her smile?
That was pure mischief.
She strutted straight to the couch like she owned it—because in her mind, she did—plopped the vodka on the table, and opened the pastry box. The scent of lemon-glazed croissants wafted through the room.
"Put away your Bratva crap," she said, waving at his papers with a dismissive hand. "And listen to me."
Nikolai raised an eyebrow. "To what do I owe this dramatic entrance?"
"Don't look at me like that," she said, grabbing a croissant and nibbling at it like royalty. "I know exactly what you're working on. I saw the plans in your father's study. Do you know how close I came to setting them on fire? Inches. Inches, Nikolai."
"And you didn't?" he asked, genuinely surprised.
She grinned wickedly. "Nope. I did something worse. But I'll get to that."
Nikolai leaned back with a groan. "What did you come here for, Mama?"
Natalia reached for the vodka, unscrewed the cap, and poured herself a generous splash into a crystal tumbler she found on the bar cart. She held it up like a toast. "Because, darling, I am in a very good mood today."
He narrowed his eyes. "What happened?"
"So glad you asked." She took a sip. "Your father and I are getting a new vacation home."
He blinked. "Isn't this like... the fourth one?"
"Fifth," she corrected him, "but the one in Prague doesn't count, it's haunted. Or at least the cellar is. I'm convinced it's cursed. The wine always goes bad there."
Nikolai smirked. "Maybe that's just father's taste in wine."
"Touché," she said with a wink. "Anyway, this one is going to be by the coast. Big, sprawling, bright… my dream escape. And guess what?"
"Dare I ask?"
"Your girlfriend is the interior designer."
Nikolai froze. "What?"
"Elara. That lovely girl who looks like she could bake cookies and stab a man in the same hour. Turns out she works at the firm we're using." Natalia beamed. "She didn't know I was the client either. You should've seen her face when she walked into that meeting room. Glorious."
"Did you scare her?" he asked, his voice flat.
"Oh relax," she said, rolling her eyes. "I didn't bite. I complimented her sketches, gave her a few absurd demands just to test her, and she passed with flying colors. Told me she doesn't appreciate last-minute changes and that she needs creative control."
"Did she really?" He looked half annoyed, half impressed.
"She did," Natalia said proudly. "Honestly, if you can't keep her happy, I will."
Nikolai coughed. "She's straight, and you're my mother. And very much married to Father."
Natalia gave him a sly smile. "I meant I'd adopt her, not date her. Although, if I were ten years younger and a little more flexible—"
He held up a hand. "Stop. Please."
"Fine," she said, laughing. "I'll settle for making her my designer daughter-in-law. You better keep her, Nikolai. She's rare. She's got spine. And class. She's not like the girls you usually attract with your leather jackets and moral ambiguity."
He sighed. "She still hates the Bratva part of me."
"Well, that's fair," Natalia said with a shrug. "Who doesn't?"
"Thanks for the encouragement."
"Darling, just be glad she didn't run screaming. That means she still cares."
He rubbed the back of his neck. "She almost stabbed me this morning for trying to cook breakfast."
Natalia smiled like she had just won the lottery. "See? That's love. If she didn't care, she'd let you burn the apartment down."
Before he could respond, her phone buzzed on the couch beside her. She glanced at it, her grin growing devious.
"Ah. Speak of the devil."
"What is it?" Nikolai asked.
She held up the screen. "Your father just texted. 'Have you seen my favorite silk tie? The navy one with the gold stripes?'"
Nikolai narrowed his eyes. "Did you take it?"
"Take it?" she said sweetly. "No, darling. I threw it in the fireplace."
His jaw dropped slightly. "Why?"
"I needed an outlet," she said matter-of-factly. "I couldn't burn your plans for the hotel, so I burned his most prized tie. Fair trade."
He stared at her in disbelief. "You are terrifying."
"Thank you," she said brightly.
He shook his head. "You're supposed to be the normal one."
Natalia stood up, adjusted her blazer, and poured herself one last shot of vodka. "There is no 'normal' in this family, sweetheart. Only varying degrees of madness."
She paused at the door. "Anyway, I just came to brag and tell you I like your girl, I know I have said this a million times but don't mess it up."
With a final swish of her heels and a toss of her hair, she disappeared down the hallway, leaving behind the faint scent of vanilla pastries and vodka—and a stunned, slightly unnerved Nikolai still holding a blueprint and wondering if he was the least dangerous Volkov in the entire damn house.
Elara stepped into the penthouse, her heels clicking softly against the marble floor. The sun had long dipped beneath the horizon, leaving the city awash in a soft indigo haze beyond the towering windows. As she shut the door behind her and exhaled a tired sigh, the silence of the place immediately told her something—he wasn't home.
She slid off her shoes by the door, rubbing the arch of her foot with a soft groan. The only illumination came from the strip lights beneath the kitchen counters and the ambient glow from the skyline. The place looked untouched, not a light turned on, no sign of Nikolai lounging on the couch or sipping whiskey with that signature brooding expression of his. That alone made her stomach twist—he was never this quiet unless he was out doing Bratva errands.
Her suspicions were confirmed when she reached the kitchen and spotted a square white note stuck to the refrigerator door.
His handwriting was neat, slanted slightly to the right. Bold and quick.
I have to run some errands. I might not come back today. Didn't have time to make dinner. I'll see you when I come back. —N
She sighed.
"Errands," she muttered under her breath, yanking the note off and tossing it onto the counter. That was code for Bratva business. She didn't have to ask—she knew. The kind of work he didn't talk about. The kind of work she tried not to think too hard about because every time she did, her stomach turned and her mind went to the worst possible places.
Still in her work clothes, she dragged herself to the bedroom. The stress of the week had settled into her shoulders like a thousand bricks. She peeled out of her blouse and slacks and headed into the shower. The hot water ran down her back like silk, but no amount of steam could completely loosen the knots in her muscles. Not when her brain was still buzzing with project deadlines and furniture arrangement patterns.
Once she was clean and dry, she slipped into a loose, oversized t-shirt and cotton shorts. She left her hair damp, tied into a lazy bun, and padded barefoot back into the kitchen. She opened the fridge, stared into it for a good thirty seconds, then groaned. "Too much effort."
Her fingers found the cereal box instead. She poured herself a bowl, grabbed some almond milk, and sat at the kitchen island like a defeated college student after finals.
Comfort food. That's what she needed.
Her iPad sat at the end of the island. She opened it and pulled up her files. The project for Natalia Volkov—the intimidating woman who managed to combine elegance, wit, and barely-concealed threats like a second language.
The vacation home looked like something that belonged to Cleopatra. Columns, water features, Mediterranean hues, chandeliers that would need their own engineering team. Natalia didn't want simple. She wanted unforgettable. And Elara had to deliver.
---
By Friday evening…
Elara was a mess—but a productive one.
Her workspace was cluttered with sketches, swatches, mood boards, and empty coffee mugs. The project was almost done. Not complete, but close enough that she could breathe without panicking. She had two complete drafts submitted, and both had been approved with nothing but compliments. Natalia had even called her "a miracle worker," which, from what she'd heard, was the design equivalent of sainthood.
Elara felt a little proud. A little smug. And entirely exhausted.
Her boss, Mr. Lenox—aka the sadist in a suit—had surprisingly left her alone. No extra assignments. No "urgent" meetings. No new impossible clients. Maybe he was finally respecting her work ethic, or maybe he just didn't want to interfere with anything involving the Volkov matriarch.
Either way, she wasn't complaining.
Her hand ached from sketching. Her brain was mush. Her fingers had practically fused with her iPad stylus. And yet, she couldn't stop. Not until it was perfect.
---
Saturday morning…
The alarm went off at 9AM, but she didn't hear it. Not at first.
Her body felt like it had been through a warzone. Her limbs were sore. Her eyes dry. Her brain foggy. When she finally opened her eyes, she groaned and dragged herself out of bed with the grace of a wounded animal. Her oversized shirt was twisted from tossing and turning. Her bun had come undone in the night, and strands of hair clung to her cheek.
She shuffled down the hallway toward the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
And there he was.
Nikolai.
The smell hit her first—coffee, eggs, something buttery. The soft sizzle of bacon from the stovetop. The smell was warm, comforting. It made her stomach grumble even though her body hadn't fully woken up yet.
He stood by the stove, wearing a plain black t-shirt and a pair of grey sweatpants. His hair was damp, like he'd just showered, and his expression was soft—relaxed even. It made her chest twist a little. Because he looked normal. Like a man, not a monster. Like her man, not a Bratva enforcer.
He turned when he heard her footsteps.
"Good morning," he said, a little smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
She yawned in response, dragging her feet to the bar stool. "Morning."
"You look tired," he said, flipping an egg.
"I am tired. Designing for your mother is no child's play," she muttered, dropping into the stool like a sack of flour.
"Tell me about it," he said, placing a plate in front of her.
"Thanks," she said, eyeing the food like it was sacred. "I feel abused. But at least my boss has been surprisingly generous. Since I started this project, he hasn't dumped any new work on my table."
Nikolai poured her a cup of coffee and slid it across the island. "That's progress. Maybe he's scared of her."
"Who isn't scared of her?" Elara said, taking a sip. "She could probably overthrow a government with one phone call and a stylish purse."
He chuckled. "That's actually not far from the truth."
She raised an eyebrow, then shook her head. "Don't tell me."
The two of them ate in silence for a moment, the kind that wasn't awkward but comfortable. Like they could exist in the same space without needing to fill it. She appreciated that about him—even if everything else was complicated, even if his world terrified her—he knew when to just be.
When she finished, she pushed the plate away and looked up at him. He was already watching her, eyes thoughtful.
"What?" she asked.
"Nothing," he said, but the way he looked at her said everything.
There was admiration there. Fondness. And maybe, just maybe, the tiniest thread of hope.
He leaned forward, elbows on the table. "You're doing amazing, Elara."
She blinked. "Are you... being nice to me right now?"
"Don't get used to it," he smirked. "I have a reputation to maintain."
She rolled her eyes, but a small smile tugged at her lips.
After breakfast, she cleared the plates while Nikolai poured himself another cup of coffee. Her mind was already starting to drift back to work mode—she had more design drafts to refine, mood boards to adjust, and color palettes to finalize.
But for a brief, rare moment, she felt something close to peace.
Despite everything. Despite him. Despite the Bratva shadow hanging over them.
He was here. She was here. And they were eating breakfast like a normal couple.
Even if they were anything but.