Loving The Bratva Boss

Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9 — Nikolai's POV

A history written in blood and brotherhood.

War did not begin tonight.
It began years ago—long before Isabella ever stepped into my world.
Long before the name "Kirov" became a threat.

Long before I learned what betrayal truly tasted like.

But tonight, standing in my study with the Kirov Syndicate's insignia burning like a brand in my palm, I can feel the past pressing against my ribs—sharp, insistent, demanding to be acknowledged.

I take a slow breath and turn away from the fire.

I force myself to remember where this really started.

With Mikhail Kirov.

With the friend I once would've died for.

And who, now, I will likely kill.

⸻

FLASHBACK — YEARS AGO

St. Petersburg, Russia — Winter, Age 16

Snow fell in thick sheets that night—soft enough to muffle footsteps, heavy enough to hide the sins beneath it.

Mikhail and I trudged through the alley behind the old textile factory, boots sinking into the drifts as we carried crates of stolen ammunition on our shoulders. We were both barely sixteen, but already too hardened to be called boys. Raised by different families, but shaped by the same streets, the same hunger, the same violence.

He walked ahead of me, tall even then, laughing too loudly for the risk we were taking.

"Hurry up, Kolya," he called over his shoulder, using the nickname only he ever got away with. "You're slower than my grandmother."

"She's faster than you," I shot back. "And more useful."

He barked a laugh, breath forming clouds in the air. "If your father heard you talk like that—"

"He'd beat me unconscious," I finished. "And you'd carry my body home."

Mikhail grinned. "Exactly."

That was our friendship: simple, reckless, absolute.
He wasn't just my closest friend. He was the closest thing I had to a brother.

We moved the crates inside the factory where a dim lantern flickered. Mikhail dropped his load and flopped onto a crate.

"You ever think about leaving this shit behind?" he asked suddenly.

"Leaving?" I scoffed. "Where would I go? America?" I picked up a shell casing from the ground, turning it between my fingers. "This is our life."

"It doesn't have to be," he said.

His voice softened—a rare thing. Mikhail was loud, aggressive, always ready to fight. But that night something in him cracked open enough to show the vulnerable truth beneath.

"My father wants me to take over the Syndicate," he said. "At eighteen."

I froze.

"That soon?"

"He says I'm ready." Mikhail snorted. "Because apparently being able to shoot a man from forty feet away qualifies me to run a criminal empire."

"Doesn't it?" I smirked.

He elbowed me in the ribs, but his smile didn't reach his eyes.

"Kolya... I don't want it."

I raised a brow. "You don't want power?"