Page 122 of Mission Shift

I didn’t take it.

He dropped his arm, unfazed. “You’re uneasy around me. I get it. I’m not exactly the type of person you trust easily.” He hummed, something like amusement crossing his face. “You think you know me, don’t you?”

I shifted, resting a hand on the bar beside me, tracing the rim of a crystal tumbler.

Nikolai’s eyes followed the movement. “Let’s make something clear—I’m not my father. Just like you’re not yours.” His voice had lost its casual tone, something sharper sitting beneath it. “I could give you a rehearsed speech about how I don’t work for any government, but let’s just say my loyalty has never been to any flag. My priority has always been my sister.”

Something about that surprised me. I wouldn’t have taken him for a loving brother.

Nikolai tilted his head slightly, watching me. “Anastasia—she was taken from our home in St. Petersburg when she was twelve and shipped off to the US under a different name, all to further our parents’ ambitions. She was the only person I ever gave a damn about. The only one who has ever mattered.” His jaw tensed briefly before he relaxed it. “Maybe you understand that type of loyalty. Maybe you don’t.”

I swallowed, slowly edging my way to the other end of the bar and putting more space between us. “From where I stand,” I said, “you’ve always seemed happy to do your father’s bidding. Every time I’ve seen your face in the press, you’ve been smirking while reveling in whatever cruelty you’ve orchestrated. Why should I believe you’re any different than he is?”

Nikolai smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Why should I trustyou?” he asked, lifting a brow. “You haven’t just been your father’s tool—you were the Kremlin’s. And let’s not pretend you weren’t damn good at it.”

My fingers curled around the wooden bar top. He wasn’t wrong.

Nikolai stepped behind the bar and reached for a bottle of liquor, his movements casual and unhurried. The gold label on the bottle flashed in the low light—Louis XIII cognac, a kind of brandy meant for kings and criminals.

“You’re not the only one who had to claw their way out of their father’s shadow,” he said, his voice even as he uncorked the bottle with a twist.

He poured a measured stream of the amber liquid into two snifters. The liquor pooled rich and deep in the crystal.

Nikolai placed them onto a brass-plated spirit warmer, a polished stand that cradled the delicate glasses just above a controlled blue flame. The warmth licked at the crystal, coaxing the liquid to life.

“Are your accommodations to your liking?” he asked, his gaze sweeping across the windows. “I asked the chief steward to provide you with everything you would need for a comfortable voyage.”

“Thank you for thinking of me,” I said politely.

The brandy shimmered as the heat worked its way through, releasing the aromas of spice and dried fruit into the space between us. Nikolai intently watched the flame flickering over the glasses, doing so in the same way someone might watch the second hand of a clock, waiting for the precise moment when the brandy would be perfectly warmed. Then, with a steady hand, he lifted the glasses from the flame. He tested the heat against his palms and moved to stand in front of me.

“Perfect,” he murmured, offering me one without ceremony. “Have a drink. You look like you need it.”

I hesitated, but eventually my fingers closed around the bowl of the glass, brushing against his as I took it. I swirled the liquidlazily before taking a drink. It was just warm enough to soften the bite but not dull the edge.

Nikolai tapped his glass against mine and then took a slow sip, watching me over the rim. “You and I”—he set the glass down—“have both made some assumptions about each other.”

I leaned against the bar, rolling the warmed brandy in the glass. “That’s an understatement.”

He smirked. “You think I’m just my father’s heir. A puppet, just like you were supposed to be. A coldhearted asshole who doesn’t care about anyone but himself.”

I didn’t argue.

“But you?” Nikolai’s eyes narrowed slightly, assessing me. “You’re not as made of stone as you and everyone else think, Melnichenko. You’re not so unreadable. I watched you at Malinov’s, and again when you arrived a few minutes ago, and I see the way you look at Braxton—with a mix of betrayal and uncertainty, as if he handed you over to Malinov like other men who used you and threw you away in the past. I hate to break it to you, but Braxton’s about the only honest guy I’ve ever met. And trust me, I don’t say that lightly.”

My fingers tightened around the glass. “Honest men don’t lie.”

Nikolai let out a short breath and shook his head. “He didn’t lie. There was no right time or way for him to explain how he knew me. Besides, you don’t know the half of it.” He rubbed a thumb along the rim of his glass before leveling me with a steady gaze. “Braxton and his brothers got thrown into the underworld by accident. You ever hear about what happened to his brother Atticus’s fiancée, Samantha?”

I said nothing, but the name did ring a bell.

“Her father sold her to my father,” Nikolai continued. “Viktor kidnapped her, tried to rape her, and was about to take her back to Russia before Atticus and his brothers got involved.” His head tilted slightly. “You know that drill.”

My stomach tightened. I’d just been sold like property to Yakov Malinov. So yes, I knew very well, but I didn’t give him a reply.

Nikolai let the thought sit before continuing. “Long story short, Sam and Atticus’s ordeal got Viktor chased out of the US by the FBI. Coincidentally, my security firm—the one my father had no idea existed—was hired by Atticus to protect Sam. My relationship with my father was always complicated, at best. The irony? I was the one sent to clean up the mess Viktor’s removal left behind in the Pacific Northwest.”

I studied him carefully. Hisclean uphad likely involved a lot of dead bodies.

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