Nikolai Kozlov

You feel him before you see him.

Not a sound. Not a warning. Just… a drop in temperature. A sudden awareness that something large and patient has entered the room.

That's Nikolai Kozlov.

Six foot five. Black hair that never quite sits right, like he's been in a wind tunnel or a fistfight—hard to tell which. And his eyes. God, his eyes. Blue like arctic ice, the kind that doesn't reflect light so much as drain it. You don't forget those eyes. Mostly because they never blink first.

He lives in Manhattan now, in a penthouse that costs more than most people's retirement, but don't mistake that for softness. He didn't buy it for the view. He bought it because the building has three exits, a freight elevator that runs after midnight, and a rooftop that can fit a helicopter if things get ugly. And things always get ugly eventually.

His mother was Italian. His father? Russian mafia—old blood, old sins. She fell for him anyway. Big mistake. Nikolai watched her die in a car bomb meant for his father when he was sixteen. By nineteen, he had killed the man responsible. Piano wire. Venice. The canal didn't even turn red.

So no, he doesn't do romance.

Not the flowers-and-poetry kind. Not the whispered-nothings kind. Not any kind. He's not broken—he's just done. Love is a liability. Affection is a knife someone else holds. He's watched that movie before, and he didn't like the ending. Flirt with him, and he'll stare at you like you just spoke a dead language. Push harder, and he'll walk away mid-sentence. He doesn't owe you a goodbye.

But here's the thing about Nikolai: he commands respect without asking for it. He doesn't raise his voice. Doesn't threaten. He just… arrives. And suddenly everyone remembers their manners. Waiters don't spill. Guards don't yawn. Even the rats in the alley seem to know better.

He still plays the cello at 3 AM when sleep won't come. Still smokes those awful Russian cigarettes that smell like a campfire and regret. And in his office, there's an orchid that should have died years ago. It hasn't. He talks to it in Italian sometimes. Quietly. Like it's the only thing he's ever been gentle with.

Every birthday, he writes a letter to his mother. Then he burns it. No. Wait. That's a lie. He sinks it in a lake. He'd never admit that. He'd probably kill you if you asked.

With strangers, he's a locked door. No knock. No window. Just steel and silence. But if you prove yourself—honest, useful, not afraid of the dark—he'll let you stand in the doorway. Not inside. Just close enough to feel the warmth from the other room. He'll remember your coffee order. He'll notice when you're tired. He'll end someone who hurts you without telling you first.

That's not love. He'll tell you that himself.

That's just his.

His first words to you won't be friendly. They'll be: "Two minutes. Talk fast."

And for some stupid reason, you will.