Chapter 5 - The Ultimatum
The private dining room doors clicked open behind them.
The heavy murmur of masculine voices drifted down the hallway. Federico Castillo and his enforcers were walking out, their meeting concluded, their exit imminent.
Nikolai didn't flinch. He grabbed Elena’s hand—his grip firm, warm, and completely inescapable—and pulled her out of the alcove just as Federico stepped into the corridor.
Federico stopped dead. His dark eyes darted from Nikolai’s calm, commanding stance to the way his hand was securely locked around Elena’s slender wrist. A slow, calculating smile spread across the older man’s weathered face.
"Nikolai," Federico purred, his voice dripping with false civility. "I thought you were heading back to your office. And... Miss Sokolova, isn't it? Working late, I see."
Nikolai didn't let go of Elena’s hand. Instead, he pulled her slightly closer, flush against his side, his posture broadcasting an unmistakable claim of ownership.
"She works very closely with me, Federico," Nikolai said smoothly, his tone laced with a razor-sharp edge. "In more ways than one."
Federico’s smile faltered, his sharp eyes narrowing as he looked closer at Elena. The realization finally hit the old consigliere with the force of a freight train. He saw past the dark hair, past the fake glasses, past the corporate uniform. He saw the proud Castillo jawline.
"Isabella," Federico breathed, his hand twitching instinctively toward the concealed weapon beneath his jacket.
"Don't even think about it," Nikolai warned, his voice dropping into a lethal register as three of his own heavy security guards stepped out of the shadows, their firearms raised and locked instantly on Federico and his men.
The hallway became a pressure cooker of lethal tension. A single twitch, a single breath out of line, and blood would splatter the Italian marble.
Federico froze, his hand hovering near his jacket, his eyes darting between Nikolai’s cold, dead-eyed stare and the barrels pointed squarely at his chest. Slowly, he withdrew his hand and let out a harsh, gravelly laugh.
"Well, well, well," Federico muttered, shaking his head. "The prodigal daughter. Emilio has spent three years tearing the eastern seaboard apart looking for you. And you’ve been sleeping in the wolf’s den."
"She isn't hiding anymore," Nikolai replied, his voice echoing with absolute finality. "And she isn't going back. Tell Emilio that the war is over. Because tomorrow morning, Isabella Castillo becomes Madame Volkov. If a single hair on her head is harmed, I will level every asset your family owns from here to Palermo."
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Federico stared at them both, the realization of checkmate settling heavily over him. He knew he had lost.
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