Nikolai Volkov Book Novels & Stories

I decide that the mob boss probably wouldn't locate his bedroom close to the servants living space and head down the empty hallway. While I carefully take small, nervous steps down the hallway, I notice many pictures of many different (what seems to be) mafia leaders who are all Russian. The first one is from the 1800's and I follow more and more until I finally stop at the last one: the man who's attention I had caught this morning. His name is Andrei Volkov. As I start to admire his handsomeness on the picture even more, I notice there's a door right beside me. The closer I come to the door, I begin to hear someone yelling very angrily in what must be Russian.

I continued, voice lowering, “but to rebuild and restructure.” “Rebuild what?” Kazuo asked. “The world thinks the YBA is crumbling.” I smirked gently then replied, “Let them, Because while the media watches the smoke, we’ll be moving underground.” I turned to the large iron door behind me. With a nod, it opened slowly—revealing a man in a dark navy suit, his presence cold, clean, and quiet. “This,” I said, pointing at him with my index finger.“is Nikolai Volkov. From Russia.”

Lila, halfway down the stairs in her pajamas, froze at the sight of the men on the threshold. Four of them. Black coats, black gloves, faces carved from stone. The one in front was the tallest—broad-shouldered, dark-haired, with eyes the pale gray of winter skies over the Neva River. A scar cut through his left eyebrow, giving him a permanent look of disdain. Nikolai Volkov. Even she knew the name. Head of the Volkov Bratva in New York. Ruthless. Untouchable. Vincent’s voice cracked. “Nikolai. I asked for more time—”

Who did they choose? "Nikolai Volkov." Summer opened a photo on her phone. I turned it to show us. “Ex-Russian FSB, ex-deep cover. Freelance specialist now. His specialty is in locating people who have both the means and the skills to avoid detection. As far as professional success rate, he is one hundred percent. He has never not found a target. Never." The photograph featured a man in his early forties. Completely bland forgettable face. Average build. The type of person who could disappear into any crowd and not be seen or remembered.

Something deeper. And then, like a puzzle falling into place, realization struck me like a slap to the face. This wasn’t random. This wasn’t just some street fight gone wrong. "Luca…" My voice turned deadly quiet. "Who did this to you?" His throat bobbed, hesitation flashing across his face before he finally whispered a name that sent ice through my veins. "Nikolai Volkov." I froze. The name alone was enough to make my blood run cold. Nikolai Volkov. The Bulgarian devil. The man whose very presence turned grown men into cowards. He wasn’t just dangerous—he was lethal, ruthless, and completely untouchable.

My breath caught as Nikolai clicked into a folder labeled simply Legacy. Photographs. Grainy scans of birth records. A young boy, maybe eight or nine, with the unmistakable sharp Volkov features—dark hair, piercing eyes that mirrored Nikolai’s in intensity but held a colder edge. The name beneath it: Viktor Volkov. Son of Elias. Born in secret twenty-two years ago. Trained off-grid. Groomed as the “pure heir.” Nikolai went deathly still beside me. I felt the tension rippling through his powerful frame, his fingers tightening around mine until it almost hurt.

Nikolai Volkov, second-in-command of the Bratva, always answered the same way—flat, unimpressed, like Alessandro was wasting his time. Alessandro smirked. “Let’s keep this short, Nikolai. I don’t have all night.” Nikolai let out a low chuckle, devoid of humor. “No pleasantries? You did blow up four of our warehouses.” Alessandro swirled the whiskey in his glass. “You say that like it wasn’t deserved.” Silence. Then, Nikolai’s voice sharpened. “You’ve made enemies, Moretti.” Alessandro’s grip on the glass tightened. “I was born with them.”

Viktor’s tone was tight, a clear indication of the precariousness of the situation. I nodded, a grim resolve settling over me. “Let’s not keep him waiting.” **** The air in Volkov’s private study was thick with the aroma of cigars and subtle threats. I sat across from him, the polished desk was the only barrier between us. Volkov’s face, still bearing the faint mark of Leni’s assault, was filled with cold fury. “Nikolac,” he growled, his voice a low rumble, “the escort, your escort attacked me without a cause.”

"Define them." "The Volkov Bratva wants the ledger reduced to ashes," Luca begins, tapping a finger against the cracked leather cover. "Sergei Volkov knows that whatever Alexei documented in these pages is enough to eradicate the Russian foothold on the East Coast permanently. They don’t want leverage, they want destruction. And they’ll slaughter anyone standing between them and the fire."

He hit a puck, and the sound of it slamming against the boards. "That’s him," Bianca whispered. She was standing on my other side, looking small in her fur-trimmed coat. "Nikolai Volkov." I watched him. He was brutal. He didn't just play; he dominated the space. He came to a hard stop right in front of us, spraying a fine mist of ice over the glass. He pulled off his helmet, and my heart stopped. Blonde hair, matted with sweat. Sharp, high cheekbones. And those eyes.