Chapter 40 Chapter 40
Chapter 40
Nina’s POV
The rotors kept thumping, relentless, like they were counting down to something I couldn’t stop.
Isabela’s red silk dress snapped in the downdraft as she took one deliberate step toward me. Her heels clicked once on the tarmac sharp, accusing. Floodlights turned her skin porcelain-pale and her eyes black pits.
“You disgusting bitch,” she hissed, voice slicing clean through the engine whine.
“Do you know the trouble you made us go through? You should be locked in the dungeon and chained, forgotten, rotting.”
Her hand flashed up, manicured nails gleaming like tiny knives. I flinched on instinct, shoulders hunching, already tasting the sting that was coming.
It never landed.
A gloved hand clamped around her wrist mid-swing was hard enough that the bones in her forearm shifted visibly under the skin. Isabela gasped, high and startled.
“Don’t you dare,” the biker said.
Low. Calm. Lethal.
The first words I’d ever heard him speak.
Isabela’s mouth parted in shock. She tried to yank free; he didn’t let her. Instead he released her wrist only to reach up with both hands and pull the helmet off in one smooth motion.
Black hair tumbled free longer than I expected, swept back, still damp from the ride. Golden-hazel eyes caught the floodlights and burned. Sharp jaw, faint scar slicing through one eyebrow, mouth set in a line that promised violence without raising his voice.
Nikolai.
My breath caught like glass in my throat.
I should have known. The way he moved—silent, precise, economical. The deference from the hangar guards. The way the city itself seemed to part for him.
But he never spoke in the house. Not to me. Not to anyone except maybe Dante in clipped Russian when they thought no one was listening.
He was the shadow Enzo joked about, the one Nanan called “the quiet one” with something like fear in her eyes. I’d seen him maybe five times total—always in the background, watching.
And I’d underestimated him completely.
Isabela stared at him like she’d been slapped. “So it was you?” she whispered.
Nikolai didn’t answer her. His gaze flicked to me for half a second long enough that heat crawled up my neck then back to her.
“Don’t baby this idiot,” Isabela snapped, trying to reclaim control. She rubbed her wrist where red marks were already blooming.
“After all the debt she owes, she only keeps making everyone lose money and time. I should be at the salon getting my hair and nails done, but no—we have to chase this bastard motherless brat across Italy—”
Nikolai’s head turned toward her slowly.
The shift was instant.
The air thickened. His eyes narrowed to slits of molten gold, and every line of his body went still in a way that made the rotors sound louder by comparison. Isabela’s words died mid-sentence. She took one involuntary step back, heel scraping the tarmac.
“Apologize,” he said.
Quiet.
But the word landed like a guillotine.
Isabela blinked. “What?”
“You don’t insult anyone’s mother. Especially not a dead one.”
His voice was ice over steel—rare, deliberate, carrying the kind of weight that made people listen whether they wanted to or not. I’d never heard him speak more than two words at a time before tonight. Now every syllable felt like it could cut stone.
Isabela’s lips trembled. She glanced at me, then back at him. Tears shimmered in her eyes but didn’t fall. She was too proud for that.
He took one step forward.
She flinched.
He reached out, fingers closing around the front of her silk dress—not hard enough to tear it, just enough to bunch the fabric and drag her forward until she was forced to her knees on the cold tarmac. Gravel bit into her skin; she hissed in pain.
“Apologize,” Nikolai repeated.
Isabela’s chest heaved. Her perfect makeup couldn’t hide the way her jaw clenched. She looked up at him—really looked—and whatever she saw made the fight drain out of her shoulders.
“Sorry… bitch,” she muttered, barely audible over the rotors.
I stepped forward before I could stop myself. “I didn’t hear you, Isabela.”
Her head snapped toward me. The look she gave could have curdled blood—pure venom, promising payback later when Nikolai wasn’t watching.
“Sorry,” she forced out, louder this time, “for insulting your mother.”
The words tasted like victory, small and bitter. I smiled—slow, deliberate.
“Good.”
Nikolai released her dress. Isabela scrambled to her feet, smoothing the silk with shaking hands, cheeks flushed with humiliation. She didn’t look at either of us again.
“Everyone in,” Nikolai ordered.
No room for argument.
The guards moved first, opening the chopper door wider. I was pushed forward—gently, but firmly—by one of Nikolai’s hands at the small of my back. The diamonds were still clenched in my fist; I didn’t dare let go.
I climbed in first. The cabin smelled of leather, expensive cologne, and the faint metallic bite of gun oil. Seats were cream, pristine. I slid into the one closest to the door, knees pressed tight together, bare feet curling against the cool floor.
Nikolai ducked in after me. He took the seat directly opposite—long legs stretching out so his boots nearly brushed mine. Isabela climbed in last, choosing the farthest seat, arms crossed, staring out the window like she could burn holes through the glass.
The door sealed with a heavy thunk.
The pilot didn’t wait for permission. The rotors accelerated; the chopper lifted, tilting slightly as it rose. My stomach dropped with the motion.
Silence pressed in, thick and suffocating. Isabela started humming under her breath some sharp, mocking little tune that grated against my nerves.
I couldn’t look away from Nikolai.
His helmet was gone now, resting on the seat beside him. Golden-hazel eyes locked on mine—unblinking, unreadable.
Heat crawled under my skin everywhere his gaze touched: my throat, my collarbone, the blood-streaked palm still clutching the chain. My body tingled, traitorously aware of him.
The silence stretched until I couldn’t stand it.
“How did you find me?” I asked, voice small against the roar outside.
One corner of his mouth lifted not quite a smile. More like amusement at a private joke.
“You underestimated us,” he said. His accent curled around the words, soft Russian edges sharpening them. “We knew the moment you left the fashion house. Decided to let you enjoy your little fantasy for a bit.”
He leaned forward slightly. Elbows on knees. Closer.
“But I couldn’t watch that idiot touch what’s ours.”
His knuckles whitened on the edge of his seat. The leather creaked.
Ours.
The word landed heavy in my chest. I swallowed.
I tried to hold onto defiance. “At least you shouldn’t have beaten that old man. He was the only one who was nice to me. We have to go back and make sure he’s okay. Or I’ll jump out of this chopper, I swear—”
I didn’t finish.
His hand shot out fast, controlled. Warm fingers caught my chin, wrapping around my neck tilting my face up.
Then his mouth was on mine.
Firm. Demanding.
Heat exploded through my shock, fury, something darker and hungrier I didn’t want to name. His lips tasted faintly of smoke and metal. One hand slid to the back of my neck, holding me exactly where he wanted me.
The other braced on the seat beside my hip, caging without touching.
My heart slammed against my ribs. The diamonds dug into my palm between us.
He kissed like he fought precise, ruthless, no room for retreat.