Eyes on You
Chapter One Sneak Peek

NIKOLAI

It was kill or be killed—so I killed. I was born and raised in violence. What I’d just done didn’t even raise my heart rate. Knocking the guy’s teeth out with a crowbar and dumping him in the river was no sweat. For me, the worst part was the lack of sleep.

I needed a cup of coffee if I was going to make it through this day.

The streets around Central Park South were showing signs of life, with a few early risers clutching to-go cups and muttering curses. I’d been walking since before sunrise, cutting through the back alleys and side streets, every step heavy with the weight of too many debts owed, too many bodies buried. My phone buzzed again in my pocket—another message I wouldn’t read. Not yet. Not until I had caffeine in my veins. Not until the shaking in my hands was from something other than exhaustion. I hadn’t closed my eyes in days.

Late October in Manhattan came with a cold, biting wind that chilled you to the bone. It tore between the skyscrapers like a blade through flesh, slicing down the alleys and promising a season of brutality. Storm clouds lurked over the high-rises, sitting low enough to swallow their tops—as if the city’s sins had summoned the weather to hide them. Though the sun had already risen, the clouds and towers barricaded the light from reaching the streets below, conspiring to keep the city blind to the violence brewing.

I ducked beneath a stretch of scaffolding that turned the sidewalk into a tunnel. From my inner jacket pocket, I pulled out a pack of smokes and tapped it twice against my palm. One slid free. I caught it with my lips and lit it, appreciative of the reliable, sharp metallic snap and disciplined flame of my lighter. This was no clicky plastic bullshit; it was a sterling silver S.T. Dupont I’d won when I was sixteen, hustling a card shark from the Solntsevskaya Bratva in a rigged poker game. He should’ve slit my throat for it. Instead, he’d handed it over with a smirk. I’d beaten him at his own game. I’d been smarter, faster, and cooler under pressure. A reminder: the house only wins if you play by the rules.

The cherry flared red as it caught. Smoke curled up, mingling with the damp morning air. I took a slow drag, letting the smoke scorch my lungs, then blew a steady stream out through my nose. The cigarette hung from the corner of my mouth as I crossed the street. I didn’t worry about the poison. Men like me didn’t die from cigarettes. When my time came, it’d be bullets or blades—something loud and messy, befitting the life I was chained to.

Six hours earlier, in a Queens warehouse, I’d shattered a Mara Salvatrucha soldier’s face for thinking he could steal a shipment meant for one of my partners in the newly formed consortium of family businesses we affectionately called the Sin Syndicate. I’d owed Luca Genovese a favor for helping me out with a situation here in the city a couple of months back. Since then, we’d found ourselves with several common interests. So he’d pulled me into his grand scheme to realign the Northeast’s underworld and clean out the trash. MS-13 had crawled out of the gutters of El Salvador and latched onto the Mexican mafia like parasites. Now they marched through our city like warlords, branding themselves kings. But the Mara Salvatrucha weren’t royalty—they were trespassers. This was our kingdom to rule.

After ending the punk swiftly, I’d left him and his burner phone rotting at the bottom of the East River, the message loud and clear. And now, I watched the morning crawl over a city I barely recognized anymore.

The city used to have rules, lines that weren’t crossed even by the men who ran it. The old families handled business in the shadows, not in bloodbaths on public streets. But these new animals? They raped children, sold teenage girls like livestock, and started turf wars for sport. They pumped kids full of drugs, got them hooked, and then handed them guns and sent them out onto the streets to deal. Initiates earned their loyalty through torture and dismemberment. These lowlifes didn’t build empires—they left bodies in their wake and ash where order once stood.

Though I was a man of the Russian mafia, I wasn’t that kind of monster. Sure, I’d done bad things. I’d buried men alive. But I didn’t burn the world just to watch the suffering.

I was the reluctant heir of the Volkovi Notchi bratva. I’d been planning my exit strategy for years, but that had all blown up after my father, Viktor Volkov, botched the West Coast operation and got himself run out of Tacoma after kidnapping some mouthy redheaded nurse. What should’ve been a clean exit had turned into a war between old families, with my sister’s arranged marriage catching fire in the process.

Now my father was dead. My mother had sold her soul to our enemies back in St. Petersburg. And I was stuck holding the keys to a bratva I’d never wanted to rule.

But I did it anyway. For Anastasia.

The only thing keeping me from letting this city burn was the girl who called me brother. She was the one person I’d go to my grave to protect. And then there was Luca Genovese. The bastard hadn’t shed a drop of blood for me—he’d done something worse. He’d helped me put a bullet in the man who would’ve destroyed my sister, and he’d let his own wife die for siding with our enemies. My loyalty to him was the kind that couldn’t be bought.

Together, we were trying to clean up the mess my father had left behind and drive out the new sewer rats threatening what was ours. Over the past few months, we’d been working to unite his organizations on the East Coast with mine on the West Coast and in Russia, drawing lines in blood and making sacrifices to push back against Central American scum like Ciro Delgado, who ran the Mara Salvatrucha like a cartel and treated Manhattan like it was his to control.

Luca wanted to rebuild the old world. I wanted to burn the whole thing down before it collapsed on top of us. But I wasn’t in a position to make that happen, not when it was my sister and her unborn child who could pay the price for it.

But first, I needed a goddamn cup of coffee.

I flicked the cigarette onto the ground and crushed it beneath the toe of my boot. A street vendor down the block was unrolling fresh stacks of The Times. I handed him a folded five-spot and grabbed a copy without breaking stride.

A few steps later, I hooked a right onto a quiet side street and stepped into the warm hum of Cipher Coffee, the scent of roasted beans hitting me before the door even shut behind me.

Cipher wasn’t some tourist trap or sidewalk cafe that doled out burned espresso to hungover finance bros. It was the kind of place real New Yorkers protected like a secret—far enough from Broadway’s chaos to be uncrowded but close enough to smell its ambition. It was a dimly lit sanctuary with leather booths, flickering wall sconces, and the scent of caramelized beans hanging thick in the air. The regulars were a mix of old-money elites, young theater prodigies, and locals who craved silence with their caffeine.

Although Luca owned the place, Cipher was Carmine’s domain. He was the one who opened the doors before sunrise, kept the espresso brewed to perfection, and knew which regulars needed a quiet corner and which ones wanted to be seen. He was one of the old-school guys, a loyal Genovese foot soldier through and through. He curated the staff, controlled the flow, and protected the regulars who needed more than caffeine to survive the day. He ran the place the same way the Genovese ran the city. No questions. No trouble. No tolerance for outsiders sticking their noses where they didn’t belong.

Anytime I came in, he didn’t greet me with small talk or fake warmth. He simply nodded, made sure the back booth was clear, and took care of whatever I needed. That was how this world worked. You knew who mattered. And you made damn sure not to disappoint them. Carmine played his part well, and for a man with no rank above his name, he understood the rules better than most of the so-called bosses.

Normally when I came into Cipher, I slipped into the back-corner booth and let him fawn over me while I skimmed encrypted emails.

But not today.

Today, I was in a hurry. I just wanted a quick cup of hot coffee and five minutes to read The Times.

As I made my way to a seat, every head in the place turned. But not because they knew who I was. It was just instinct. When a predator walks into the room, the prey looks up, even if they don’t understand why.

I didn’t bother going to my usual booth. Instead, I stopped at a center table and shoved a chair back with my boot. Dropping into the seat, I let The Times unfold in front of my face. The front-page headline was: “Mayor Hayes Pushes City Contract to Unnamed Security Firm.” I didn’t need the byline to know which devil had signed that deal. Ciro Delgado was buying his way above the surface. He was no longer just a rat in the sewer. That butcher in a tailored suit, funded by his narco-backed El Salvadoran dictator, had crawled his way into bed with the city politicians with a handshake and a fat check.

Luca wasn’t going to take this lightly. The Genovese name had carried this city for decades. And now? It was being spit on—by a narco punk from the south and a mayor with no spine. I folded the paper slightly, my lips tight.

This city needed a purge.

“Morning, sugar! I’m Lyla.”

The voice scraped down my nerves like nails on a chalkboard. It grated against the rough edges of my exhaustion. Too cheery. Too sweet. And way too Southern for Manhattan. I clenched my jaw, already regretting the decision to sit here.

“What can I get you started with this morning? Hmm. You know, I heard the weatherman say it’s gonna be a gorgeous fall day after the rain clears out and the fog burns off. He said it might even hit sixty later this afternoon and that we’re gonna have a couple of sunny days. You know, with Halloween being tomorrow and falling on a Friday this year, all the kids are gonna lose their minds. No school the next day, just candy and chaos. Perfect for trick-or-treating. Dontcha think?”

Jesus Christ.

I didn’t even have to look up to know she was smiling. Anyone this chipper before six a.m. was either a psychopath or a problem.

NIKOLAI

I dropped the corner of the paper just enough to get a look at her.

She had wild blonde hair tied up in some kind of messy ponytail, and there was a wicked curve to her lips that was way too inviting for a girl who clearly didn’t know the sort of man she was standing in front of. Her eyes? Blue as a glacier melt and twice as dangerous—the kind of pretty that made men stupid. I clocked her instantly: young and naïve, with legs that belonged on a stage, and a thick country drawl dripping off every syllable. Tennessee, maybe Georgia.

Not my type. My women were usually tall, long-legged, and smart enough to keep their mouths shut—women who liked fucking but didn’t want to hang around long enough for a conversation. But this girl? She was pure temptation wrapped in inexperience. The kind of innocent that begged to be corrupted.

I stared at her like she was a bug I hadn’t decided whether or not to crush.

“Coffee. Black. To go. Hold the bullshit,” I snapped, flicking the paper back up between us.

There was a pause. A long one. Then she responded in a saccharine tone, “Well, bless your heart. I’ll be sure to add a shot of decency to that order.”

I stiffened.

She headed for a table by the window before I could snap back, but every cell in my body wanted to. Who the hell did this nobody waitress with an attitude think she was?

I subtly turned the paper, pretending to keep reading, but watched her in my periphery. She moved like she owned the damn floor. She was totally unaware she’d walked into a hunting ground, that the eyes tracking her weren’t admiring the view but calculating the distance. She was oblivious to me.

And the way she chatted it up at that table of theater wannabes like she was fucking auditioning for a Broadway production made my temples throb. That southern accent clung to her every word like syrup to waffles, and I didn’t even need her address to know she was a hick from some flyspeck town that thought Applebee’s was fine dining. She’d probably grown up barefoot, catching lightning bugs and thinking New York was where dreams come true.

What the hell had Carmine been thinking, hiring someone like her in a place like this?

But then…she laughed. Soft, bright, unfiltered—like nothing in the world ever made her sad. It was so fucking genuine it threw me off. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d laughed like that. Hell, I wasn’t sure I ever had. And now I was wondering what it would feel like to be the reason a woman smiled like that, to live in a world where happiness came from something as simple as serving coffee to strangers.

I folded the paper and laid it on the table, narrowing my eyes as she moved toward the bar.

Behind the counter, Trina, my usual server, stood with her arms crossed, glaring at the girl. Her gaze was keen, missing nothing. Her dark hair was pinned back perfectly, her black apron crisp, and she carried herself like someone who knew how to follow orders—or give them. She was mafia through and through—not by blood, but by understanding. She knew exactly who Carmine was, what Cipher really was. She’d been here since Luca first set up the lease with Carmine.

When Lyla moved from the table she was waiting on and started entering her orders into the terminal at the counter, Trina caught my eye and gave me a subtle nod before shifting her focus to Lyla.

The difference between the two waitresses was night and day.

Trina leaned in toward Lyla, lips tight, and then let her have it.

Lyla’s face twisted as she was scolded. Then she said something back—too quick, too loud. Trina didn’t flinch, just tilted her head and stared her down like a cat watching a mouse.

I slid my phone out of my jacket pocket, resting my arm on the edge of the table. I scrolled through messages, feigning disinterest, but my eyes never left Lyla.

One of the baristas handed off my drink to her, and Trina pointed toward my table like she was handing down a sentence.

Lyla took the cup, slapped on the fakest fucking smile I’d ever seen, and made her way back to my table—swinging her hips like she was in a beauty pageant.

She set the cup down in front of me with all the grace of a stage performer, her hand brushing mine just enough to send a jolt straight to my groin.

“Here you go, darlin’. One piping hot cup of silence, just how you like it.”

I didn’t look up, just waved her off with two fingers, the universal signal for get lost.

She didn’t move, waiting for a reply I wouldn’t make.

“You’re welcome, Mr. Sunshine,” she finally said, her tone honey-sweet with a shot of venom.

Slowly and deliberately, I dragged my attention away from my phone. Our gazes locked. “Tell me,” I said, raking my eyes over her from head to toe, “do all the girls from whatever backwoods shithole you crawled out of flap their mouths this much? Is that how they taught you to speak at the Possum Hollow Charm School?”

Unfair? Absolutely. But exhaustion had no filter. I was running on fumes and fury, and between the sleepless nights, the constant lies, and the bodies piling up, I’d snapped. So I’d aimed my bitterness at the nearest target. And Lyla had taken the hit.

Her smile dropped.

Then came the fire.

She leaned in, placing her hand on the center of the table, and with a voice low and sweet enough to rot teeth, she purred, “Well now, isn’t that rich, coming from a man who speaks English like he’s strangling on barbed wire. That accent’s thicker than your skull and twice as arrogant. Tell me, is demeaning women the national pastime where you’re from? What’s next? Teaching women their place with your fists and calling it culture?”

My jaw ticced.

But she wasn’t finished. Moving close enough that I could feel her breath on my lips, she said, “And while we’re judging accents, you might wanna wipe that murdery glint outta your eyes, mister. You aren’t foolin’ anyone with your expensive suit and newspaper. You look more like a Johnny Cash wannabe than anyone with an ounce of class. What are you, some KGB reject because you couldn’t spell intelligence even if it were carved into your vodka bottle? Did you flunk out of spy school and have to settle for criminal work instead?”

I leaned back, studying her with fresh eyes.

She wasn’t stupid. Just dangerously unaware.

A little lamb, tempting the wolf.

“You talk a lot for someone so…breakable.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“You threatening me, Boris?”

“I don’t threaten.” I smirked. “I promise.”

She straightened and crossed her arms. “You think you’re scary, but I’ve known worse men with dirtier hands and prettier lies than you, men who don’t need a Russian accent to make a girl afraid. I’ve met frat boys with more bark than you.”

I let a slow smirk pull at my mouth. “You’ve known boys who play rough. I’m not a boy. And I don’t play.”

She bit her bottom lip. Nervous tic or calculated move, I couldn’t tell, but it drew my eyes down to that goddamn mouth of hers. Soft. Full. Screaming to be ruined.

“You’re full of yourself,” she snapped, clearly catching my stare. “But let me guess. You think girls like me should be seen and not heard, right?”

“No,” I said coolly. “I think girls like you should be fucked face down until that pretty mouth learns when to stay busy and when to stay silent—until obedience stops being a choice.”

Her lips parted. Shock, maybe. Rage, definitely.

She hated me. I could see it all over her. And still, my cock stirred like it wanted to teach that mouth its place. So much fire in such a tiny thing. I wanted to throw gasoline on her ire—watch her burn and beg at the same time.

Before she had a chance to unload on me, Carmine barreled out of the back like he’d been summoned by Satan himself.

“Miss Oakley!” he shouted, loudly enough for the entire place to hear. “Back counter. Now.”

She shot me one last glare but didn’t argue, just spun on her heel and stalked off, muttering something about fascists and psychopaths.

Carmine, already sweating, turned to me and ran a hand down his face. His tie was crooked, and the color in his cheeks said he knew damn well how badly she’d overstepped.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Volkov,” he said in a low voice. “She’s new on mornings—been working lunches mostly, when family men are never around. She’s not used to…your sort.”

I arched a brow.

“She came with good references,” he rushed on. “I hired her quick—small-town girl, desperate for work. Sweet manners, good with the regulars. You know how people are—they like a little charm with their caffeine. I thought she’d be harmless.”

I reached for my cup. “You thought wrong.”

“I can let her go,” he offered.

“No,” I said, taking a sip of my coffee. “Don’t.”

His brow furrowed. “Sir?”

“She needs the money. Holes in her jeans say enough. Let her keep it. Just make sure she understands her place.”

“Absolutely.” He nodded quickly. “I’ll talk to her. She’ll be properly dressed, respectful, and in the back when you come in. You have my word.”

“I’m sure she’ll dive behind the espresso machine next time.” I chuckled, standing and folding The Times under my arm.

Carmine offered me a sheepish grin. “She’s usually a favorite, believe it or not. Got half the old bastards in here tipping double just to hear her say sugar. But I’ll make sure she doesn’t get too comfortable.”

“See that she doesn’t.”

He dipped his head and turned, already straightening his sleeves like a man about to serve justice. As I reached the door, his voice—low, sharp, and commanding—carried from the back of the shop.

I glanced back.

Carmine was laying into her, gesturing with clipped movements. But she just stood there, chin high, arms crossed, not flinching. And that mouth of hers was moving like she was giving him hell right back.

Defiant. Proud.

Fucking suicidal.

She didn’t understand this world.

She didn’t understand me.

But she would.

I stepped outside and turned toward the street, then slowed. I lit another cigarette around the cup in my hand and leaned against the bricks at the edge of the window. The smoke drifted up as I watched her through the glass.

She was laughing at something Carmine said. There was that fake smile again. Or maybe not fake. I wasn’t sure. I watched the way her hands moved, the way she talked with them. She was animated, expressive, like everything she said was a performance.

Lyla was a lamb in a city of wolves.

And I had just caught her scent.