Page 83 of Beautiful Ruin

He doesn’t speak much during the drive. That in itself isn’t unusual lately. Since everything with Ivan, silence has settled into him differently. He spends most of the ride staring out the windshield as he drives.

The moment the car turns off the main road, his fingers slide over mine, then lock with them tightly. The contact is instinct now, something his body reaches for without conscious thought. He lifts our joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles as if reminding himself I’m still here, still his.

The gesture makes my chest ache with love so fierce it borders on pain.

The safehouse interior is sparsely decorated. There is none of the polished grandeur I’ve come to find typical in each of the Pakhan’s estates I’ve visited over the past month. Just narrow hallways with reinforced doors on either side and men who watch us with barely contained suspicion.

Nikolai waits for us in a simply furnished room.

He sits in a dark leather chair that is cracked and worn from years of use, one leg crossed neatly over the other, posture loose in a way that somehow makes him look bored. His ice-gray eyes roam over me when I take the chair across from him, darting up only for a moment to take in Rowan positioning himself right next to me before returning.

“Hello, Sofia. It’s good to see you. How have you been?” His tone is calm and courteous. Almost ordinary.

I don’t waste time with pleasantries. “I need your help finding my father so I can hang him for betraying my family.”

Nikolai doesn’t blink in surprise or lift his brows like a lesser man might at the intensity in my tone. He simply leans back slightly as a slight crease forms around his eyes. A faint flash of amusement crosses his otherwise neutral features.

For some reason, since meeting him officially after my uncle’s death, he has found it entertaining that I don’t bother with bullshit. Maybe because everyone else around him does it or he’s used to people dressing up violence in diplomacy to sound more civilized. He knows I have every reason to hate the mind games and nothing left to lose by refusing to play them.

Nikolai studies me for a long moment, that pale gaze moving over my face like he’s reading not just my words but everything underneath them.

Finally, he says, “That is certainly one way to open a conversation. And what do I gain from helping you?”

I roll my shoulders back, lifting my chin while holding it gaze. “I will be taking full control of the Kuznetsov syndicate within the next week. Once I become Pakhan, the transition of power will rebalance itself. The Iron Pact will not have to worry about trying to find some kind of temporary Band-Aid to fix what has been broken. I’ll do that for you.”

The words leave me calmer than I’m expecting.

There is no gentler version of this story left. With Ivan gone, the syndicate is splintering under the weight of grief, fear, and opportunism from all sides. Men who once stood ramrod straight at the mere sound of his footsteps now glance at one another in the hallways with distrust in their eyes. Lieutenants who built their entire identities around his rule are suddenly drifting without purpose, some drowning in their loyalty to a dead man while others are already sniffing around the edges like starving dogs circling fresh meat. The city feels it too. Weakness always has a scent, and Moscow’s underworld has never been shy about following blood in the water.

The Bratva no longer has the luxury of taking its time choosing its new master. If we pause, if we hesitate for any longer and allow this transition to become a mourning period instead of a seizure of power, the cracks will spread too far and too fast to seal shut.

Rivals will start testing borders. Internal factions will form around whatever old grievances Ivan kept buried under force of will alone. Men who would never have dared to act too boldly before will begin deciding which version of the future serves them best. Trust will become unstable, loyalty will become negotiable.

That type of unrest is exactly how syndicates die. I know that now with the kind of certainty that only comes from being dragged through the ashes of ruin and surviving long enough to study the fallout.

There is no softer path waiting for me. I will have to step into Ivan’s absence before the echo of his voice fully leaves. I will have to make our syndicate look at me and understand that the Kuznetsov name did not weaken with his death. Whatever softness they think they see in me will earn them the same rude awakening others have gotten when underestimating me.

I feel Rowan shift slightly beside me and have to fight the urge to reach for him.

We have been discussing this together for weeks now. Not as some pretty fantasy whispered in bed after sex while we’re both still a little high from the comedown, but as the only answer for our mutually assured survival.

Nikolai’s expression remains unreadable. “It seems you are just as relentless as your uncle.” Then he drawls, “Hopefully, without his obsession for world domination.”

I nearly blink in surprise at the lilt in his tone. In another room, from another man, it would have barely qualified as dry humor. But coming from Nikolai Malyshko, it feels almost surreal. I have never, not once, thought him capable of teasing.

For a split second, I just stare at him.

The great, terrifying leader of the Iron Pact has just made a joke.

Alina is going to have a field day when I tell her.

“Well,” I say, recovering just enough to lift one brow, “if that does happen, you already know what to do.”

Next to me, Rowan lets out a barely perceptible snort.

Nikolai’s lips curve with the faintest hint of a smile. It is gone almost as quickly as it appears, but not before I catch it. “Indeed.”

I push up from my chair and lean forward, stretching my hand out in the space separating us. For one brief second, the room goes very still again. Rowan tenses at my side, a silent, watchful force hovering beside me as I offer my hand to one of the most dangerous men in Moscow.