Nikolai Petrov Novels & Stories

He took a step forward, his voice rising. “So, you’re saying Nikolai paid off my guards to escape?” Marcelo Petrov, leader of the Petrovskaya Mafia, shifted in his seat. His voice carried across the table, calm but cutting. “Yes. That is what it seems. And all of this has happened just as we finally agreed to name you as the future Pakhan.” The council murmured. Eyes darted between Mikhail and Marcelo. The insult was open, deliberate. Eli Romanov slammed his hand on the table. His voice rose in defense. “You have no right to speak to the future Pakhan in that tone.”

“That was before I knew she had what it took to follow in my footsteps.” I say nothing for a long moment, studying him like the specimen he is. If he were anyone else, his tells would be obvious—darting eyes, crossed arms, flushed face. But Nikolai Petrov isn’t just anyone. He’s a respectedpakhan, feared and connected. Which makes this whole charade all the more suspicious.

, Nikolai greeted the man. “My boy! You have grown up to be a man since the time I last saw you!”, The man who Nikolai referred to Mr Petrov, said. It was too obvious up close how much Elena resembles the man. He was tall even at his age, profound cheekbones, deep stares and the way he raises the side of his lips screams Elena. “Well, I got shaped in this rough world to be a man too quickly”, Nikolai responded making his father and Mr Petrov laugh.

Instead, he reached for a particular page among the files and held it out to me. I took it, scanning the words carefully. It was a bank statement—money being funneled into an offshore account under a familiar alias. A name that made Damian’s expression turn to stone. Mikhail Petrov. The name sent a chill down my spine. Petrov had once been Damian’s right-hand man, a trusted confidant who had helped him navigate the treacherous waters of the mafia world. But years ago, something had happened between them. Something Damian never spoke about.

Floor-to-ceiling windows that made the city look small and far away. And on the desk-her name, on a printed card. ANYA PETROVA. BENEFICIARY. She sat down slowly. The silence roared. Outside, cabs honked in distant bursts. Her heart kept time. The door opened, and a tall man with steel-gray hair, glasses, and the posture of a cathedral entered. He didn't smile. "Miss Petrova," he said. "Thank you for coming. I'm Edmund Graves, counsel for the estate of Nikolai Volkov."

He was grayish colored and a smoke-like substance billowed around him. "Hurry or not I have all the time in this world or the next," he muttered. Against my better judgment, I approached him and sat in the chair provided. "I am Niamh Petrova, daughter of Nikolai Petrova and I am here to bring back my marked mate Lucian Sokolov. He was taken under false claims …well all but the toxin he was infected with by the moon Goddess," I said assuredly and his soulless eyes followed after me giving me goosebumps.

Despite the intense hostility I harbored toward Victor—the phantom sting of his palm still lingering on my cheek—I was forced to objectively admit that his selection of tactical retreats was flawless. Nikolai shifted his weight on the lounge, his shoulder pinning lightly against mine as he extended a dark bottle of fermented root brew from the cooling crate. Smiling, I accepted the offering, twisting the seal and taking a long, deep draught. "So," I began, shifting my torso to nudge his shoulder playfully. "What is the next phase of the itinerary, Petrov?"

“I'm not going to let the tantrums of a little boy throw that all away.” Since Kelvin didn't take it upon himself to introduce us, I stood there awkwardly until the man turned to me. “And you must be Laura, right? The woman who's got Stacy's feathers all ruffled!” I just smiled, inclining my head politely. “And you are? I don't believe I caught your name…?” “Petrov. Anton Petrov, at your service.” To my surprise, he bowed, and I put out my hand for him to kiss, slightly uncomfortable.

He cursed and turned around to leave. “You are just a loud little dog, Maskim. Go find a bone to chew on!” Nikolai yelled behind him. I gently elbowed him. “You are such a bully, you know that right?” He laughed and pulled me closer. “I’m so happy, it feels good to be free.” “Certainly it does,” Mr. Shostakovich chirped as he approached us. “Mr. Vetrov, how do you like your new found freedom?” “Philip, you kept to your word.” Nikolai said. “Thank you.”

There was something there—hunger, yes, but not the kind she could feed. “No,” he said. The doors opened. He stepped in. Alone. The doors closed on her faintly stunned expression. Nika tried, too, in her own way—quips in staff briefings, hands brushing his when she handed him files, offers to “help you forget certain blond liabilities.” His responses ranged from sharp to non‑existent. The rumors spread accordingly. Kael Petrov was done with wives. Kael Petrov was done with softness. Kael Petrov had remembered he was made of stone.