Dmitry Nikolaev (Nikolaev Bratva #1)

by Naomi West

“Cut the shit,” Bastien, my other brother, growls. His pretty-boy face is as gloomy as I’ve seen it. “You spent so long getting ready because you were hoping that we’d leave you behind. Tough shit, bratan. If we have to be here, so do you.” Gavriil’s sharp features slacken from indignation to acknowledgement as he sighs.

Now, I’m the one scowling. Gavriil’s bad mood is infectious. But he’s not wrong.

Ronny Paulbrook exclaims in his maybe-maybe-not British accent.

Soft power, the ability to rule this city with a spoken word or gesture, is every bit as important as the power we wield with guns and muscle.

The woman is a whore for good publicity, like perfume to cover up the rotting stench where her heart should be.

Bernard the Blowhard, as Gavriil likes to call him behind his back. NYPD Captain Bernard, a gray-bearded man with a paunch like Santa Claus and a cocaine habit like Keith Richards.

We’re here for the same reason everyone else is: money and power. The only two things that have ever mattered.

“Just make sure you deal with her… delicately. That woman is one breakdown away from murder.”

She’s been dying for me to call her my girlfriend, when the truth is that she’s nothing more than an easy fuck. I ought to cut her loose.

But I’ve been busy with the meeting and other Nikolaev business lately, so I haven’t had time to release her back into the Manhattan wild properly.

“First off, my date du jour, Johnathan, grows pot in a closet in his apartment. I know what you’re thinking—I’ve hit the dating jackpot already, right? But wait, it gets better. Then he wants me to try every strain of pot he grows. Then, he tries smoking something that he claims makes him a ‘sexual god,’ takes off his shirt, and starts dancing spastically to some Insane Clown Posse. I thought he was having a seizure.” I grimace. “This was the first date?” “Nope.” Vicki sighs. “The second. The first one was at a café literally next door to his apartment, trying to convince me to come over and see his weed in the first place.”

“Shannon,” she deadpans, “I went on a date with a guy who later got arrested for trying to rob a bodega with a staple gun. No one has bad dating luck like me.”

“Even if he had, that wouldn’t crack the top ten of weird shit I’ve seen. I’ve matched with a professional juggler, a guy who directs furry porn videos, a dude whose claim to fame was supposedly inventing the phrase ‘dad bod.’ I’ve gone out with an art forger, a plumber obsessed with pulling off a bank heist, and—oh, let’s not forget the one who wanted me to get in an ice bath for an hour and then lie perfectly still while we had sex so he could pretend he was fucking a dead body.”

C’mon, Shann, this is why you gave me a key to your place—remember? So we could do fun stuff together on the fly!” I frown. “Pretty sure it was so you could keep my spider plant alive when I was out of town., but sure.”

“You sure you don’t want me to—” “No.” She shudders. “Just—no. Have we already forgotten grad?” “Okay, I am sorry for that,” I say for the trillionth time since the event she’s referring to. “But you have to admit, you gave me ten minutes and the instructions, ‘Make me look bold.’ I’m a comic book designer, not a makeup artist.”

“Shannon.” She looks at me long and hard. “You combined lime green and orange on my lids, then put red liner on my lash line. I looked like a Tim Burton character.” “But was it bold?”

early is on time and on time is late,”

“The only thing Rafael understands is violence,” I say grimly. “Lucky for him, that’s the language I speak best.”

“I’m not alone,” I retort. “I have Dumbass One and Dumbass Two here to keep me on the straight and narrow.” They chuckle,

“I don’t see why I would listen to a woman who knows fuck-all about our business.” “A wife knows you, sees you—deeply—here.”

I get only one step before a bullet strikes him in the head. My father’s unruly gray mane disappears in a cloud of blood.

“Kill me,” Vicki moans, splayed in the bed beside me. Her makeup looks like Heath Ledger as the Joker.

It’s a sense that I’ve had lately, more and more. I was only joking last night about my parents’ paranoia getting to me—but maybe there’s more to that theory than I realized.

one of the Russians have been keeping an eye on her

I hate it—the back-aching bending over, the arm-numbing scrubbing, the weird crumbles of substances unknown embedded into the tile. Luckily, I’m no longer in my baking or gardening phases, which came with food crumbs and soil galore. But still—where does all this grime even come from? I’m a clean person, I swear.

“You’re marrying Dmitry Nikolaev, the newly-crowned don of the Nikolaev Bratva,” Mom blurts out.

I can’t seem to rip my eyes off the family portrait of us on the wall opposite. Painted five years ago, it’s still clear as day in our smiles: that we were happy. But in the light of today’s events, that happiness just looks stupid. Oblivious. Blind.

This letter here, this revelation? It comes after your father has died defending you, defending this family. Don’t tell me that you mean to refuse his final wish.”

“You’re a Nikolaev.” “That doesn’t mean that I—” “Yes. It does.” “But—” “There are no ‘but’s, Gavriil. I’ve seen you out there with the men. You can talk to them, make them laugh, make them trust you. I need that. We balance each other.”

And you really think you’re ready?” “No,” I say. “But—” “That doesn’t matter, either,” I say. “I am a Nikolaev. We rise to the occasion. Father did the same when it was his time. We will put our skills to use.”

“You were something to aspire to,” Gavriil says to the blood-red sky. “You always were pushing us to be better, to live up to our name. I’m grateful to share your legacy. Thank you.”

“He was a good father. A good don,” Bastien says as he empties another fistful of ashes. “A good man. He will be missed.”

“My budem chtit' to, chto vy postroili,” I whisper. We will honor what you built.

Between that and the ironclad hands gripping me on either side, the only way I could run is if I somehow ripped both arms out of my sockets and left them behind.

The penthouse is absurd enough that it wouldn’t be the craziest thing in the world to open a random door and find a helicopter on a landing pad, waiting to ferry me away to freedom.

Running is probably in their freaking job description. I can see it now: Looking for Mafia Kidnappers/Killers. Must be big and ugly. Must work well under pressure. Must have dubious moral compass and top-notch cardiovascular stamina.

I feel like a stuffed animal in his lean arms for all the effect my thrashing has on his demeanor.

“Weren’t you told not to try escaping?” he asks in a bored drawl. “Yeah, sorry,” I scowl. “You’re right. I totally should have stayed put after being kidnapped by men with guns. Silly me.” “Ah, of course,” he returns. “Running away from men who could easily shoot you is much smarter.”

“Whatever. If you’re him—Dmitry Nikolaev—then I’ll tell you myself: get lost, go fuck yourself, et cetera. I want nothing to do with you.”

The guards provide an update: she stayed in her room the whole day, refused any food.

they act like it was a choice, but wasn't she locked in?

As soon as I felt the urge, though, I knew there was no denying it. So I took what I wanted. Like I was born to do.

she says, eyeing me as she purposely puts both elbows on the table, and starts chewing with her mouth open.

missing steps... Shannon was just sitting there staring blankly , then all of a sudden she is chewing with her mouth open.. when did she even take a bite?

Power has been an essential aspect of the human condition since the dawn of time. Some people have it; others resent them for it. If I didn’t have the power, I’d be subject to those who do have it. You either take it or get taken by it. And I don’t like not being in control.”

In one smooth motion, she goes over to my dresser, opens it, and takes out my sketchbook. “I would hate for something to happen to this.” I gape at her, then it hits me. “He told you. He told you that I love drawing.”

wow... it's a sketchbook. STAND YOUR GROUND, STOP GIVING THEM MORE AMMO

“No!” I burst out. “I mean… I can tell her that. That Dmitry and I are…” Ugh. “In love. Whatever you want to call it. Please, I’m… I’m begging you. I miss her. I need her.”

PATHETIC

If this was any other situation, I think I’d actually like Dmitry’s mom. This is textbook Stockholm syndrome, right?

The shorter the lie, the easier it is to tell.

It’s one thing if she expects me to say what she wants to hear. But enjoy it? Think again. They can make do anything they want, sure. They can’t make me like it, though.

Dmitry is a liar, a criminal, a beast. Of course he’s not going to tell this sweet twosome how his family basically purchased my life from the womb and had me raised as their perfect little pet.

“Come along,” he says, like I’m some kid or dog who has to obey. But kids can run. Dogs can bite. Dmitry should be careful of both.

“Why don’t we go out? Simone keeps texting me. She left me a death threat a few days ago, but we can find some new girls.”