The dim yellow lights buzzed overhead, casting long, sharp shadows along the concrete floor of the warehouse. Dust hung in the stale air like a veil, catching the fading rays of sunlight that filtered through the narrow windows near the ceiling. The warehouse was silent except for the low hum of voices and the occasional clink of steel against steel.
Nikolai Volkov sat in one of the leather-backed chairs positioned around the heavy oak table in the center of the room. His face was unreadable, sharp as always, his fingers drumming slowly on the surface. He didn't want to be here—not today, not now. His thoughts weren't on weapons, or shipments, or the Feds. They were on the woman he had just dragged back across the Atlantic. The woman carrying his child.
Mikhail, seated at the head of the table, leaned forward. His white hair was slicked back, a deep scar running from his temple to his cheek—a souvenir from a war no one dared to ask about. His presence was oppressive, not loud, but heavy. Commanding.
"The next shipment of firearms has to go smoothly," Mikhail said, his voice calm but laced with warning. "We can't afford any more slip-ups, especially not now that the Feds have gotten cocky. If one gets in our way, we wipe him out. Like we always do."
"Yeah, yeah. Can I go now?" Nikolai muttered, already rising from his chair.
Dimitri, Nikolai's father, sat beside Mikhail, sipping black coffee with the same disapproval he wore on his face. He raised one brow.
"Why are you in such a hurry?"
Viktor, lounging lazily in his seat, smirked. His dark curls fell over one eye as he leaned back. "Probably got promised to get laid today."
Nikolai shot him a look that said careful, the same look he'd worn growing up every time Viktor overstepped.
"Before you run off with your pants around your ankles, we need to talk," Mikhail said.
Nikolai stopped in his tracks. The tone wasn't casual. His back stiffened. He turned slowly. "About what?"
Mikhail's eyes locked with his. "Your girl. And the heir."
The word heir hung in the air like a blade. Nikolai tensed.
"How did you find out?" he asked, tone clipped.
Mikhail leaned back in his chair, hands steepled beneath his chin. "You do realize Sergei was personally trained by me for Dimitri, yes? I raised that boy. Took him in when he was twelve, trained him until he could kill a man with his bare hands by sixteen. His loyalty doesn't lie with you or your father. It lies with me. Always has."
Of course. Nikolai should have prepared himself for that. Sergei was his right hand, yes. But Mikhail was the architect behind the monster. The man who built the steel inside Sergei's bones. Loyalty wasn't taught—it was forged. And Sergei had been forged by Mikhail himself.
"Don't interfere," Nikolai said, his jaw tight.
"She's carrying a Volkov," Mikhail said simply.
Viktor whistled low. "Wait—you knocked her up? Jeez, bro. And here you kept lecturing me about condoms."
Nikolai glared at him, and Viktor raised both hands in mock surrender.
"Shut up, Viktor."
Dimitri finally spoke. His voice was low, but every word hit like a gavel. "You know the rules. No Volkov is born out of wedlock. Not under my name."
Nikolai exhaled sharply through his nose. "We're not exactly on good terms, so marriage shouldn't be forced right now. It'll only make things worse."
"Fine," Mikhail said after a beat. "Then she moves into the Volkov mansion. Today. She will be protected. Watched. That is not up for discussion."
Nikolai's stomach twisted. Elara would never accept this. She hated what the Bratva stood for—what he stood for. The mansion was no sanctuary. It was a prison. A gilded cage filled with dangerous men who lived by blood and bullets. How could he bring her there, surround her with that kind of danger, and still look her in the eyes?
But this wasn't a democracy. Not in the Volkov bloodline. Orders weren't requests.
He nodded reluctantly. "Fine. I'll see what I can do."
Without another word, he turned and walked out of the warehouse.
The air outside was thick with humidity, the sky painted with smudges of smoke-gray clouds. As he walked toward his car, rage bubbled just beneath his skin. Sergei. That traitorous bastard. He deserved to get his ass handed to him for this.
Except… Nikolai wouldn't get the chance. Sergei would knock him out before he could even land a punch. That's how good he was. That's how well he'd been trained.
Sergei had taught him how to fight. How to disarm, how to cut, how to kill. He'd taught him how to read a man's fear, how to see hesitation in the twitch of a wrist, or the shift of a foot. Sergei let him threaten him, let him curse and promise murder—but only because he knew. Knew Nikolai would never follow through.
Because deep down, Sergei was still untouchable.
And he was right.
Nikolai climbed into his matte black SUV and slammed the door shut. As he drove back toward the penthouse, he mulled over how the hell he was going to break this news to Elara. That she wasn't just under surveillance now—she was being moved into the lion's den.
She'd scream.
She'd curse.
She might even try to run again.
But she wouldn't get far.
And this time, she'd have to learn to accept the truth:
She was his. And she was carrying a Volkov heir. That meant she belonged to them.
Whether she liked it or not.
----------
Nikolai walked into his penthouse, expecting silence or perhaps Elara sulking in some distant corner, still seething from the morning's sarcastic exchange. What he didn't expect was the scene that greeted him.
There, in the living room, Sergei sat cross-legged on the carpet, poker chips stacked in neat towers in front of him. Across from him sat Elara, her brows furrowed in utter concentration, her lower lip caught between her teeth as she glanced between her cards and Sergei's unreadable face. Her eyes darted up when the door opened, and then narrowed in mock irritation.
"One more round," she said, tossing her cards down. "I swear I'll beat you this time."
"That's what you said four rounds ago," Sergei replied, amusement flickering across his otherwise impassive face.
Elara groaned dramatically, grabbing a fistful of chips and muttering, "Maybe I should switch to blackjack."
"What are you two doing?" Nikolai asked, his tone landing somewhere between disbelief and suspicion as he stepped further inside and set down his keys.
"I was hoping to beat this guy at poker," Elara said without looking at him. "Oh, and he's going to be our baby's godfather."
"Our baby," Nikolai corrected automatically, walking closer and loosening the collar of his shirt.
"My baby," she shot back with a saccharine smile, still not sparing him a glance.
Nikolai sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Anyway, Sergei, get someone to clear out Elara's things. We're moving to the Volkov mansion."
The casual way he said it, like he was asking someone to fetch coffee, was enough to make Elara freeze. Then she stood abruptly, the cards falling from her lap.
"What?"
Sergei muttered under his breath as he stood, brushing invisible lint from his slacks. "Can't say I didn't see this coming."
Elara whirled on Nikolai, crossing her arms over her chest. "Nikolai, what the hell do you mean, 'we're moving'? I didn't agree to anything."
"I wasn't asking," he said flatly, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.
She scoffed, pacing in a tight circle before turning back toward him. "So that's it? You just barge in, drop that bomb, and expect me to smile and follow along like a damn puppet?"
"You'd prefer I drag you there like I did from Lisbon?" he asked, lifting a brow.
Elara took a step closer, face flushed with indignation. "You are out of your mind if you think I'm moving into that den of criminals. Your family runs on blood and vodka. I want no part in it."
"You're carrying a Volkov heir, Elara," Nikolai said, voice low and controlled. "And my grandfather just found out. That means everything changes now."
"Of course he did." She glared at Sergei, who looked unimpressed and entirely unbothered.
"He trained me. He trained my father. Of course he has eyes everywhere," Nikolai continued.
"You lied to me again. You told me you had everything under control."
"And I do. That's why we're moving—so I can keep you safe."
"Oh, how generous of you. And what happens when your grandfather or your father starts telling me how to breathe, eat, speak, or raise this child?" she demanded. "Do I get a say in anything, Nikolai?"
Nikolai walked up to her slowly, lifting a hand and brushing a lock of hair away from her face.
"You get to live. That's already more than most people in our world get."
Elara slapped his hand away.
"This isn't living, Nikolai. It's surviving. And I want more than that—for me, and for this baby."
Sergei cleared his throat. "Should I go supervise the packing, or…?"
"Yes," Nikolai said without looking away from Elara.
"I hate you," she whispered.
"No, you don't," he whispered back. "You hate that I'm right."
She turned her back on him. "You may have gotten me here, but don't think for a second that I'm going to fall into your world like I belong in it."
Nikolai walked to the kitchen, opening a bottle of water, his voice calm as ever. "I don't need you to belong in it, Elara. I just need you in it."
She spun back toward him. "Why? Why are you doing this? Is it because of the baby?"
He turned, eyes narrowing with a flicker of something she couldn't place—pain, maybe.
"No," he said quietly. "It's because it's you."
Her chest tightened, and for a moment her anger softened—but just as quickly she shoved the feeling away. She wouldn't let him disarm her again.
"You're not going to get what you want, Nikolai. You might think you have control now, but I will never stop fighting you. Never."
He leaned against the counter, watching her like a storm waiting to break.
"I'll take that over you running again."
"Don't be so sure."
Nikolai pushed off the counter and walked toward her. She didn't move.
"We leave in an hour. If you want to pack anything yourself, now's the time. If not, Sergei's already taking care of it."
Elara said nothing as he brushed past her. When he disappeared down the hall, she looked at the poker table still littered with chips and cards.
"Godfather, huh?" she muttered under her breath.
Sergei, who'd returned to supervise from the hallway, simply smirked.
"Told you this family was insane."
Elara sighed. "You did. And yet here I am."
He gave a slight nod, almost sympathetic.
"You're here because you matter. To him. That means you matter to all of us. Even if it doesn't feel like it yet."
Elara sat back down in the chair, arms wrapped around herself.
"We'll see how long that lasts."
And with that, she looked around the penthouse one last time, knowing full well that her world was about to change all over again.