Maxim's Promise (The Commission #1)
1. Maxim
CHAPTER ONE
maxim
Maxim - age 12
My father’s hand clamped down on the back of my neck, his grip relentless, his nails pressing into my skin so hard I knew they’d leave marks. With a growl, he shoved me forward, and I stumbled, but I didn’t resist. I didn’t have the size or strength to push back—not yet. But I held onto a tiny, powerful hope: one day, I would grow. One day, I’d be stronger than him, and when that day came, I’d make sure he never laid a hand on me again.
I would kill him. I swore it on all that was holy and everything unholy.
We stopped in front of a nondescript building with darkened windows in the roughest part of New York, a place where even the daylight didn’t seem to reach. I was only twelve, but I knew places like this weren’t suitable for children. Although those were details that my father didn’t care about. Men like my father didn’t bother hiding their business in a nice part of town. In fact, they preferred these shadowy corners.
The bouncer at the door nodded to my father, not even glancing at me. “Mr. Volkov,” he acknowledged, stepping aside like I was invisible. I could try to resist, but it’d only make things worse.
“Over there.” My father jerked his chin toward a corner booth, and I moved forward, knowing better than to drag my feet. The thumping bass of the music rattled the floor as a woman on stage slinked around a pole, her movements mechanical, her gaze vacant. She looked drugged, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she were, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it — yet. A few men sat around the room, glassy-eyed and looking like they’d been here for days. But in the back, at the booth where my father’s gaze was locked, there were men of a different breed—calculating, cold-eyed, and each with a boy my age by his side.
One of them called out to my father with a drunken, cheerful voice, “Alexei! It’s been a while!” He was already half-slouched over, his thick, meaty hand resting possessively on a boy beside him—a kid who grimaced at the touch.
My father narrowed his eyes at the boy and then addressed his friend. “Yianni, it’s good to see you.” He squinted, looking at the boy. “Is this your youngest?”
“This is Ilias.” Yianni ruffled his son’s hair, and Ilias jerked away, clearly disgusted.
My father gripped my shoulder, pressing hard enough on his latest belt marks to make me flinch. He pushed me forward, and I caught a quick, subtle glance from Ilias that said he knew exactly what I was feeling. “This is my oldest, Maxim.”
I nodded politely, staying silent. I knew better than to speak up in front of these men. I’d learned that silence was survival, especially when my father was around. I scanned the booth, eyeing the other men and the kids they’d brought along, trying to figure out why I was there. He’d never brought me into something like this, and my mind raced with the worst possibilities. Was he trading me off? Using me as collateral? With my father, nothing was off the table.
The boys looked tense, with a quiet, uneasy energy between them. Except for one—an older kid with reddish-blond hair who stared defiantly at the stage, his jaw set, breathing evenly, refusing to acknowledge the men’s presence. I admired him for that; he was stronger than me in that way. I tried to mimic his look, setting my gaze on the stage, but I could still feel the sharp stares of the men at the table. It made me uncomfortable to look at the woman, so I finally had to look away.
After a few minutes of lewd comments and laughter, one man finally got to business. “Where’s the lawyer?” he grumbled, irritated.
As if on cue, a thin man hurried over, out of breath. “Apologies, gentlemen,” he wheezed, pulling out a stack of papers and a small, polished box. “Traffic was a nightmare.”
No one laughed, but he seemed immune to their indifference, setting the papers on the table and flipping them open with a flourish. “Right, let’s get started. These are the terms you discussed in the previous meeting. I outlined them for you.”
He pushed a piece of paper toward the center, and each man took it in turn. My father scanned it, nodded in satisfaction, and said, “I’ll sign first.”
The lawyer opened the box, revealing an ink pad and a short protruding tack that looked very sharp. My father pressed his thumb to the tack without hesitation, wincing only slightly as a drop of blood formed. He smeared it onto the pad, then pressed his bloody thumbprint onto the paper beside his signature.
I blinked, surprised by the ritual, until the lawyer looked at me, his eyes cold and expectant. “Your turn, Maxim.”
My father leaned over, his breath hot against my ear. “Remember Dimitri,” he hissed in Russian. “You don’t want anything to happen to him, do you?”
The weight of his words settled over me, and I knew exactly what he was doing. Dimitri was all I cared about, the only person who mattered. My father discovered years ago that my baby brother was my weak spot. I wouldn’t be so foolish as to risk his safety. I skimmed the document, ignoring my father’s glare, catching phrases like “alliance,” “open lanes of trafficking,” and “the Commission.” This contract bound us—the Volkovs, O’Kellys, Santellis, and Anthakos’. A twisted pact that tied us all together through blood and, one day, through marriage.
Marriage. My stomach churned, but I shoved the thought aside. That was a problem for the future, something to worry about later. What did I care about marrying some dumb girl? I pressed my thumb down on the tack, harder than necessary, feeling the sting as my skin broke. With a grimace, I left my mark beside my father’s, the blood seeping into the paper.
I wasn’t so stupid or so young that I didn’t understand what it meant to put my blood and my name onto a document. In the bratva, or any mafia, you were making a promise — a bond that couldn’t be broken.
“Feck, he’s a bloodthirsty one,” commented a red-haired man across the table—Cormac O’Kelly, head of an Irish gang of some kind. He chuckled, nudging his surly-looking boy named Conall, who barely reacted. “Watch him, Conall,” Cormac muttered, but Conall’s gaze stayed fixed on his father, his expression defiant yet detached.
There was a brief commotion when the Italian boy, Angelo, refused to sign. His father snapped, grabbing him by the collar and delivering a harsh slap across his face. Angelo snarled, swearing in Italian but finally relenting, pressing his bleeding thumb to the paper with a sneer.
I admired his defiance, his resistance. But unlike him, I didn’t have the luxury of rebellion. I had a baby brother to protect, and there was no room for bravado when Dimitri’s life was on the line.
“Remember, gentlemen,” the lawyer said as he rolled the document up. “You’ll be expected to provide a female from each of your families. This is a blood oath, and it cannot be broken. Copies will be mailed. The original will be held for safekeeping.”
The joke was on them. I had no female siblings for my father to marry off.
The document was passed around, and the final thumbprints were made, sealing a bond thicker than ink. I leaned back, biting down on the nausea rising in my throat. Today, I’d bound myself to a future I didn’t want. But for now, it was just another hill on the road, another step toward the mountain where my father’s shadow loomed.
“My comrades. A toast,” my father declared. “To the newly formed Commission.”
One day, I would be ready, I promised myself. One day, I’d be strong enough.
And on that day, the blood I’d spill would be his.