Chapter 18

Nikolai

When I left Hannah in that dressing room, my dick was throbbing. Anger, frustration, and confusion were fighting for dominance inside my head. I wanted to find the easiest fuck I could to burn off this lust and rage. To push Hannah and her hot fucking body out of my mind. After getting in my car, I even went so far as to scroll through my phone to find an easy lay.
I found a girl listed as "Blonde from Club." I was such a dick, but I didn't care. I opened our chain of text messages and stared at the phone. I hated that I was hesitating to text her. I hated even more that I knew the reason for my hesitation was in a dressing room in the mall. Fuck.
I was saved from making a decision either way by a knock on the window of my car. My father's head enforcer, Drago, stood there, looking at me with a smirk. I knew the reason for that fucking smirk, too. This was how soft Hannah was making me. The Nikolai of two weeks ago would have noticed this guy five cars away. I would have clocked him immediately, because that’s how I’d been trained. I needed to get this fucking female out of my head.
I got out of the car, leaned against it, and crossed my arms, carefully adopting an expression of boredom.
"What's up, Drago?"
"You getting soft, boy?" Drago asked in a soft Russian accent, still smirking. I hated when he called me boy—he was only in his late twenties, for Christ’s sake. However, Drago was huge, around six feet four inches of solid muscle. He had ruthlessly short dark brown hair that was slightly longer on the top and grey eyes that looked like two pieces of flint. I guessed he would’ve been considered good-looking, in a mean, rough-looking way, if it weren't for a scar that ran from his left temple down the side of his face and curving under his jaw—a memento from tangling with some Yakuza members in Chicago.
I ignored his mocking question. “Fuck you. What do you want?"
Drago immediately dropped the smile.
"We need to talk." He took a deep breath and looked me in the eye. "Things are changing. Your father, he’s making bad decisions."
My eyebrows shot up in surprise. Speaking against my father to another member of the organization was a death sentence. Even though I actually agreed with Drago, it was dangerous to initiate a conversation like this.
"I know you have been slowly distancing yourself from the family, and I know why."
Unsure of where this conversation was going, and if he was maybe testing me, I gave him a blank look. “What do you think you know?” My father was a crazy fuck. It would not be unheard of for him to send Drago to fuck with my head.
“I know what you found out this summer, about the girl. You did a pretty good job hiding it, but I’ve known you a while, Nikolai. I could see the change in you. Your father may not have understood what happened, but I did. And you know why your father didn’t see it? Because I covered for you.”
I searched Drago’s face to see how he was planning to use this information but stayed silent.
“You think someone can just disappear without us noticing, Kolya?" Drago asked, using the Russian diminutive of my name.
Drago was talking about the issue that had driven me away from the organization I had once coveted. When working for my father at the beginning of the summer, my role was expanded due to my availability and anticipated entry into the organization full time. My father looked at this as an internship of sorts. A way to initiate me into the organization before I became a vor.
Initially, I was eager to become involved in all the nefarious activities associated with the Bratva: enforcing, breaking legs, guarding shipments of drugs or weapons—I wanted to be a part of all of it. I didn't really care that it was all illegal. There were always women around, women who thought being with a Russian mobster was exciting and sexy. But they were all there of their own free will.
About a month into the summer, I walked into the basement of the building we own as a front for our illegal operation and I saw a girl sitting in the hallway. She looked very different from the girls that usually hung out there. Those women were usually put together, trying to get themselves a guy who brought not only the thrill of danger, but also the thrill of expendable cash.
This girl looked strung out, broken, and young—so young, too young. Like she belonged in junior high, not a dirty hallway with makeup smeared on her petite features, her eyes glassy and vacant, wearing a cheap, baggy dress. At first, age aside, I thought she was just on drugs, and she probably was, but that wasn't the problem.
After I asked her a few questions, I realized she didn't even speak English. She was Russian. After more questions, she gave me a few mumbled responses with tears rolling silently down her pale cheeks. She’d been abducted from a town near St. Petersburg. I didn’t have to ask what happened after she was taken. It was obvious what happened, and it hit me like a two by four to the chest. I knew we were into illegal shit—it was the mob; it came with territory. But this was fucked up, next level shit. I felt helpless as I looked at her, how damaged she was. I asked about other girls. She didn’t speak, just slowly and sadly nodded her head.
I got her out—I couldn’t just leave here there. I used my own money and connections to get her an ID and managed to get her back to St. Petersburg. However, I never found out where they kept the other girls. My father had always been a rotten motherfucker, but this was a new level of depravity. Human trafficking. Every time I thought back to that girl's traumatized, empty expression, I wanted to punch my fist through a brick wall.
At the time, I felt helpless to do anything more extensive about the situation, so I pulled myself back from the syndicate, told my father I wanted to enjoy my youth and finish high school. In the back of my mind, though, I had always planned on stopping my father, but I needed to distance myself from the Russian girl's disappearance.
Obviously, I didn't distance myself enough.