Loving The Bratva Boss

Chapter 12

NIKOLAI'S POV

Nadia's voice reaches me before I even turn the corner.

Of course it does.

My sister has never entered a room quietly in her life.

I find her in the main corridor, posture sharp, expression impatient, one hand on her hip, the other gesturing wildly as she finishes some dramatic retelling of... something.
And across from her—

Isabella.

Wide-eyed. Pale. Frozen like a deer caught under stadium lights.

Perfect.

Exactly what I needed after being out all night tracking a mutilated corpse.

I exhale, long and slow.

I like seeing my sister.
I do not like her showing up unannounced.
But I'm grateful it wasn't the twins bursting into the house first — those two would have given Isabella a heart attack.

And God only knows what Isabella must have thought seeing Nadia.
My sister is many things.

Subtle is not one of them.
Approachable is certainly not one of them.

"Enough terrorizing my houseguests," I say, stepping forward.

Nadia turns, grin stretching across her glossy red lips.

"There he is," she says, swatting my arm like I'm late for brunch. "Your security is slipping if little Miss America here can wander around without supervision."

I ignore the jab.

I nod to Isabella — a small gesture of reassurance — then grab Nadia lightly by the elbow.

"Walk."

She arches a brow. "Oh, we're doing the dramatic mafia-sibling power stroll? Fine."

Once we're out of earshot, her expression shifts. The humor drops, replaced by the razor-sharp focus only the Volkov bloodline seems capable of producing.

"Well?" she demands. "You look like death, Nicky. What happened?"

I fill her in — the missing shipment, the Kirov card, the mutilated guard Domenico and I found, the complete absence of usable intel. The growing threat. The war brewing at the edges.

Nadia listens quietly — which is rare enough to be concerning — tapping one manicured nail against her forearm.

When I finish, she exhales through her teeth.

"The Kirovs aren't being subtle," she mutters. "He wants you rattled. He wants attention."

"I know."

"And you're going to give him bullets instead."

"Obviously."

A sharp grin flashes across her face. "Good. That family has always been arrogant enough to think they can poke the bear and not get mauled."

She leans one shoulder against the wall, arms folded.

"As for my branch," she says, shifting into business mode, "my girls brought in a new shipment of clients from Dubai. High spenders. You'll get the cut next week. But there's something else."

I raise a brow. "What?"

She hesitates — only for a moment — then continues.

"There's chatter," she says. "Someone's been offering my girls money for information. About you. About the estate. About shipments. About a girl... about her."