Chapter Two
Nikolai Volkov stood in the upper floor of the club, back to the glittering skyline of Atlanta, eyes fixed on the flicker of security footage rolling silently across the mounted screen.
A woman. Two dogs. Stillness. Command.
And absolute fucking control.
The clip had come in encrypted minutes ago — raw feed from the dash cams of the SUVs. His men were already enroute back to the city, quiet and rattled. He hadn’t asked for details. He didn’t need them.
He watched it all in her body language.
The way she stood, unshaken.
The Glock on her hip.
The blade strapped to her thigh.
The way her dogs moved without a word.
Lethal. Beautiful. Disrespectful.
“She knew it was us,” he muttered. “Didn’t even blink.”
Behind him, Maksim shifted.
“You want me to send someone who won’t get walked like a fucking tourist?” he asked.
Nikolai didn’t reply. His emerald eyes remained locked on the frozen image of the woman as she stepped forward. The black dog — female — moved with her, perfectly in sync. A shadow with teeth.
“They said her name’s Anika Carter,” Maksim added. “24 years old. Ex-military adjacent. Her father was a Navy SEAL — killed in action. She doesn’t deal with the public. Referral only. Lives out near the Chattahoochee. Off-grid. Loaded. Smart.”
“She trained the dogs that hit our stash houses?”
“Not directly. But the guy who did trained under her. Briefly.”
Nikolai’s jaw ticked.
“Then she’s connected,” he said. “Or someone’s using her reputation to cover their tracks. Either way…” his voice dropped into something cold, something lethal. “She’s now involved.”
He turned from the monitor and poured himself a glass of vodka. The tattoos across his hands shifted with the motion — serpents and saints, devils and stars, black ink etched deep into hard-earned scars.
“Men died. Product vanished. Attack dogs like goddamn phantoms. And now some girl with a Glock and a death stare turns my men away like they're door-to-door salesmen.”
He took a slow sip. Let it burn.
“She just made herself interesting.”
Maksim stayed quiet. He knew the rhythm of Nikolai’s mood — and when it turned dangerous.
Nikolai leaned forward, bracing one hand on the steel table, the other holding the glass. The screen still flickered. Anika and her dogs, flanked by shadows.
“Send someone better,” he said. “Not just muscle. I want a sharp edge. Someone who knows how to listen before they talk.”
Maksim nodded. “And if she still doesn’t play ball?”
A smirk curled cold and slow across Nikolai’s face.
One without humor. One that promised fire.
“Then I’ll go myself.”
Anika —
The scent of fresh coffee curled through the air, warm and grounding. Pale light filtered through the tall pines outside, casting golden shafts across the polished concrete floors of Anika’s home.
She sat cross-legged on the leather couch in joggers and a tank, hair damp from her shower.
Nyx lay nearby, long and black as midnight — her breathing soft, but cropped ears twitching with every creak. Ares, fawn-colored and massive, was stationed near the front door, unmoving. Silent sentinel.
The house was quiet. Purposefully so.
Anika’s laptop sat open before her, security feed running — a grid of clips from every camera on her property. Driveway. Gate. Kennel building. Training yard.
She rewound.
Watched the SUVs follow her through the gate.
Paused. Zoomed in.
Caught the glint of the dash cam indicator blinking from both vehicles.
Her brows drew together.
Amateurs wouldn't record. Not visibly. Not unless it was intentional.
She leaned back and sipped from her mug. It trembled slightly in her hand, but not from fear.
From calculation.
“They were testing the waters,” she muttered.
Not an ambush. Not an interrogation.
Recon.
She set the mug down and stretched, spine cracking. The tattoos across her arms caught the light — the soft ones on the right, delicate curves of flowers, dogs, and horses. Her life before. The light side. And the hard ones on the left — flames, skulls, weapons, and demons inked in black and shadow. Her reality. Each one a story.
She’d heard the rumors. That dogs had been used to rip off Bratva stash houses. That trained animals had killed and maimed men — taken entire caches of guns and drugs clean out from under their noses.
She hadn’t trained those dogs.
But she had trained the man who did.
And she’d cut ties when she saw the kind of work he was after.
She also knew the kind of men the Bratva would send. She’d done her homework.
Nikolai Ivanovich Volkov. Pakhan. Bratva royalty.
Ruthless. Cunning. Scarred by blood and fire. Rumor was he had killed his father and took over the Bratva at 24 years old. Over the past 12 years he has made a name for himself, a name that most feared.
He was the kind of man her mother used to whisper about in fear, and the kind her father had trained her to kill.
But fear?
No.
She wasn’t scared of Nikolai Volkov.
She was watching for him.
Nikolai —
Downtown. Penthouse. Morning.
Steam still clung to Nikolai’s skin from the shower. His towel hung low on his hips as he stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows, the skyline stark against the pale sun. His tattoos — The cathedral spanned his entire back — sharp, gothic lines drawn in black and gray. To the untrained eye, it looked like artistry. But in their world, every dome in that design had weight.
Each one marked a sentence survived. Years locked behind walls. A permanent reminder that he'd endured, ruled, and came out stronger.
Barbed wire circled his wrist — no beginning, no end — a vow inked in the yard, meaning he’d never again be bound by another man’s chains.
Wolves guarded the cathedral on either side. Not symbols of protection — symbols of domination. Lone predators that didn’t run in packs unless they led them.
And a crucifix at the base of his neck, positioned so that it stared down every man he faced in a fight. Not for faith. For judgment.
These weren’t just tattoos.
They were warnings, and he was covered in them.
He listened as Maksim spoke through the phone speaker on the desk behind him.
“She spotted the cams. Zoomed in. She knew she was being recorded.”
“She’s sharper than I thought,” Nikolai said.
He dropped the towel and started dressing — black slacks, matte gunmetal holster. Shirtless.
Maksim’s voice came again. “You want another contact?”
“No. I want proximity.” Nikolai’s voice was low, exact. “I want someone inside her world. Not just knocking on the gate.”
“I have someone in mind.”
“Good.”
He pulled a fresh white shirt from the hanger, crisp and sharp, then buttoned it slowly.
“I want her comfortable,” he said. “Let her believe the message was heard. Let her think she’s in control.”
“And after that?”
Nikolai adjusted his cufflinks. Black steel. No shine. No compromise.
He turned toward the mirror and met his own eyes — not cold, not warm. Just certain.
“Then we pull the thread…”
A pause.
“…and see what unravels.”
