CHAPTER TWENTY
Maxsim
I open one eye slowly, seeing the room is still dim. The early morning light filters in through the heavy curtains, and I feel Ari lying beside me. Her breath is slow and steady, and she’s curled into my side like she’s always belonged there.
Strange.
And Peaceful.
I close my eyes again and realize how rare it is to wake up beside someone and feel contentment. Absorbing the warmth radiating off her skin, I feel the remnants of last night linger.
Something shifted.
The way she looked at me…and how her body softened. Hell, it was like she almost didn’t hate me.
I study her face, the curve of her cheek, the way her dark hair spills across the pillow. She’s peaceful and a little vulnerable. A stark contrast to the fire and defiance she carries around like armor.
My hand itches to touch her, but I know I should get up. There’s work to be done—meetings, plans, the constant grind that waits for no one.
The Cartels are still a problem, we may have a traitor, and the Cosa Nostra is fending off a possible takedown from the inside. The day won’t be any easier than yesterday and yet…my body feels rooted to the bed.
What the hell is happening?
Control. Distance. That’s how I always operate. But right now, I can’t bring myself to move. A part of me wonders what it would be like to have this every morning—a quiet moment, just us, without the weight of everything else pressing down.
Familiar tension coils in my chest. So many fucking balls to keep in the air. I study my wife again. Her hair is tousled from the night, dark against the pale sheets. A strand falls across her face, and I brush it away before thinking.
Softness is creeping in.
What will it mean?
Nothing good, that’s for damn sure.
Irritated, I feel Ari stir beside me. Her breath catches, eyes slowly fluttering open. For a second, we just look at each other. No words, just the soft morning light filtering through the curtains and the quiet between us.
I’m used to silence—commanding it, relishing it—but this feels... different. Almost comfortable.
Her gaze lingers on me, sleepy but curious, as if she’s waiting for me to say something. I don’t. Instead, I reach over and trace the curve of her jaw.
My touch is careful, as if I’m concerned about breaking this moment. I’m not used to being gentle, not with my hands, not with anything. Everything in my world demands precision, force, control. But none of that applies here.
“Morning,” she whispers, a faint smile pulling at her lips. There’s a playfulness there, but something else too. It’s in the way her eyes search mine, like she’s trying to figure me out.
“Morning,” I murmur, keeping my voice low. There’s an urge to say more, to let her know that this—whatever this is—is new for me. But the words stick.
“Didn’t take you for a morning person,” she teases, her voice still soft, but there’s a spark in her eyes now.
I smirk, feeling the weight of the conversation shift. “Not usually. But I’m making exceptions.”
Her smile widens, and for a brief moment, everything feels simple. The tension from the last couple of weeks has faded. Leaving us in this weird space that neither of us knows how to navigate.
I should create some distance.
Instead, I move closer, letting the warmth of her skin chase away the long ass to-do list I need to tackle.
The comfortable silence is broken when I feel Ari roll on her side and prop her head on one hand. “Am I gonna like whatever is about to come out of your mouth?”
“Probably not.” She smiles like a fallen angel. “But we should probably get to know each other a bit, don’t you think?”
I raise an eyebrow. “I run my hand up the center of her body. “I think we know a lot about one another.” There’s a lightness in my voice, but I know where this is going.
“Oh, I know plenty about your... skills. But I’m talking about something a bit deeper.”
Of course she is. I lean back against the pillows, crossing my arms over my chest, and give her a look. “What exactly do you want to know?”
She shrugs, but there’s a glint of curiosity in her eyes. “Tell me something real. Something that matters.”
Real. That word carries a weight I’m not sure I want to unpack. But there’s something about the way she’s looking at me, a quiet demand that pushes me to respond. My interactions with women have always been transactional. But Ari is my wife. And while this isn’t a love match, making an effort to know the person who sleeps beside me is probably not a bad idea.
I let out a slow breath, my gaze shifting to the window for a moment before returning to her. “Alright. You want to know something real?” I pause, searching for the right place to start. “I’ve never liked being the spare heir to the Volkov Syndicate.”
Her expression shifts, curiosity deepening. “Go on.”
“Just like the Cosa Nostra, the firstborn gets the crown. Alexey was groomed for it from the moment he took his first step. And I was taught to… make sure everything runs smoothly. I don’t get the throne, but I sure as hell better keep it standing.”
There’s a pause, and I wait for her to say something, to ask the question that’s probably on her mind.
Ari tilts her head, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Does that bother you?”
There it is. The question I knew was coming. I let out a short, humorless laugh. “It used to. Maybe it still does, sometimes.” I glance down at my hands, the fingers that have done more damage than I care to remember. “I love my brother. Respect him. But being ‘spare’ is a shit job. It’s... frustrating. Knowing that no matter what I do, no matter how much blood I shed, it’ll never be enough to take the top spot.”
Her gaze softens, and I see a flicker of understanding in her eyes. She’s smart—she knows the weight of family expectations, the pressure of living up to something beyond yourself.
“So you’re the one doing all the dirty work while he... what, sits in an office and pulls the strings?” she asks, her tone laced with curiosity but also something like sympathy.
I consider the question and shake my head. “He gets his hands plenty dirty and never asks for something he won’t happily do himself. I pause, trying to find the words. “Alexey is the strategist, the visionary. And he’s good at it. I’m the madman. The one who will go to any length to make it come true.” My voice tightens, the resentment creeping back. “I’m good at what I do. But I’m always in the shadows. Always second.”
There’s a silence that follows, but it’s not uncomfortable. Ari doesn’t rush to fill it with empty words or false assurances. She just listens, and for some reason, that makes it easier to keep talking.
“I’ve accepted my role,” I say, almost more to myself than to her. “But it doesn’t mean I don’t wonder what it would be like to be the one in charge. To have something that’s mine.”
She shifts closer, her hand brushing against my arm. “And what would that be?”
I glance at her, caught off guard by the question. What would that be?
It’s not a question I let myself think about often. Being second-in-command doesn’t leave room for fantasies. I’ve always been practical—focused on what’s in front of me, on the tasks I need to handle. But now, with Ari looking at me like she expects an answer, it feels different. Her hand rests on my chest, and I can feel the weight of her attention, like she’s trying to pull something out of me that I haven’t been willing to admit.
“I don’t know,” I say quietly. “Maybe a place where I’m not just carrying out orders. A place where I can make decisions, lead... build something that’s mine.”
I pause, then run a hand through my hair, frustrated. This isn’t a conversation I ever expected to have. It feels too... open. But it’s also strangely easy to talk to her like this. I don’t know if it’s the quiet of the room, the way she listens without interrupting, or the fact that, for once, I don’t feel judged.
Ari nods, her expression thoughtful. “And what stops you? From building something of your own?”
I chuckle softly, but there’s no humor in it. “It doesn’t work that way. In our world, power is passed down. Tradition dictates everything. Alexey’s the heir—challenging that means war, and we’re not in the business of tearing each other apart.”
She doesn’t seem convinced. “But you’ve earned your place, haven’t you? You’ve done the work, fought for the family. What do you think you deserve?”
Her words hit harder than I expect. I’ve never thought about it in those terms before. In my world, you don’t get what you deserve. You get what you can take, what you can hold. And I’ve been focused on solidifying our position for so long, I’ve stopped thinking about what might be out of reach.
I look at her, wondering if she’s trying to plant a seed. Maybe she’s testing me. Or maybe she’s just curious about what drives me. Either way, it’s unsettling to feel this exposed.
“Maybe,” I say, my voice low. “But in this life, what you deserve doesn’t always matter.”
Her hand moves up to my shoulder, fingers trailing lightly against my skin. It’s a gesture that’s both comforting and intimate, and I can’t tell if she’s trying to ease the tension or if she’s drawing me closer. Either way, it works. The frustration that’s been simmering inside me for years feels distant, softened by the warmth of her touch.
“I think,” she says softly, “you’re more than just the spare heir. More than whatever role has been carved out for you.”
The way she says it, like it’s a simple truth, catches me off guard. I’m not used to being seen like that—like there’s more to me than what the world has already decided.
It makes me wonder if maybe she’s right. I’ve never had a conversation with Alexey and perhaps it’s time.
The silence stretches between us, but it’s not uncomfortable. For a moment, I let myself consider what I actually want.
It’s not money. There is more than enough.
But I want something, and it’s time to consider what that might be.
I lean back into the pillows, my mind slipping into memories I’ve kept buried for too long. The room fades, and suddenly, I’m not in the warm cocoon of this bedroom with Ari. I’m back in the cold stone halls of my family’s estate in Russia.
The weight of my father’s hand presses down on my shoulder, firm and unrelenting. His voice is as harsh as the winter wind howling outside.
The memory of my father’s command resurfaces, sharp and cold. I was twelve, barely old enough to understand the weight of his words but too afraid to show it. His hand clamped down on my shoulder, the pressure of his grip biting through my coat. ‘Follow your brother’s lead,’ he said, his voice like the icy wind howling through the stone corridors of the estate. ‘You’ll support him. Strengthen him. That is your role. Understand?’
I nodded, the weight of his expectations settling like chains around my chest. But deep down, a small part of me burned. Not resentment. Not yet. Just the quiet, gnawing realization that my place in this family had already been decided.
The scene shifts. I’m sixteen. Alexey’s word is law, and I’m sent on missions—the kind that requires a heavy hand and a cold heart. I remember the night he sent me to deal with a traitor. The biting cold seeped through my coat as I stood over the man, pistol heavy in my hand. His pleading eyes, the snow catching in his hair, the metallic taste of blood in the air.
But when the deed was done, it wasn’t me they praised. It was Alexey. He orchestrated the plan. I was just the one who executed it. I was the weapon—sharp and reliable—but never the one holding the hilt.
I feel the frustration simmering just beneath the surface like it always does in these memories. But there’s loyalty, too. I love Alexey. I respect him.
The memory fades, and I blink, pulling myself back to the present. Ari is still watching me, quiet, her face soft in the morning light.
Ari doesn’t say anything right away. She looks at me, her eyes holding mine, and there’s no pity in them—just understanding. That simple, patient silence does something to me.
She shifts closer, her hand coming to rest gently on my chest, right over my heart. The warmth of her palm cuts through the cold memories still lingering in my mind. It’s a small gesture, but it feels like more than I can put into words.
“You carry a great deal…just like my brother does.” Her fingers trace slow circles on my chest. “Don’t pretend like there isn’t a price for it.”
I’ve never thought about it like that. You don’t carry weight in our world—you shoulder it. You bear it without complaint because it’s what’s expected. It’s how you survive.
But hearing her say it like that—like it’s something to be respected and acknowledged—feels strange. Almost like she’s giving me permission to feel the weight I’ve been ignoring for years.
“It’s the life,” I say, my voice rough. “It’s what we’re born into.”
She tilts her head, eyes narrowing slightly like she’s trying to see through my words. “Maybe. But it’s still hard. You shouldn’t have to pretend it’s not.”
I chuckle, but it’s not a real laugh. “There’s no room for hard. You either do it, or you don’t.”
She doesn’t argue. This is a life she understands, and for the first time, I appreciate how being married to the niece of the capo di tutti capi is a huge advantage. And not just because she listens.
Ari’s hand moves up to my jaw, her thumb brushing lightly over the stubble there. The touch is intimate, soft, and it makes my chest tighten in a way I’m not used to.
“I don’t know what it’s like,” she says, her voice low. “But I can tell that Alexey doesn’t make a move without you. Like André and my brother. And their father’s before them.”
Her words hit me in the gut, and I feel something uncoil inside me. It’s not like I needed validation. I’ve always been sure of myself—but hearing her say that… it’s like the fucking gold star I never asked for.
For a second, I want to reinforce my walls. Keep everything locked down.
I feel my muscles tense beneath her hand, the urge to say something shitty, almost overwhelming. Vulnerability will get you killed faster than anything. It’s a weakness.
But she’s looking at me like this—like she sees all of it and doesn’t care or maybe cares too much—and I find myself not wanting to pull away.
Instead, I let out a slow breath, my hand coming up to cover hers. “I’m not used to this,” I admit, my voice low. “Letting someone in.”
Ari smiles, but it’s soft, understanding. “Neither am I.”
Her words settle something in me, a quiet acceptance between us. Maybe we’re both learning how to navigate this—whatever this is.
I tighten my grip on her hand, grounding myself in the feel of her skin against mine.
We lay in the quiet for a while, our hands still linked. It’s a silence that feels like progress, like something’s shifted between us.
Like the space between us isn’t just filled with duty or necessity—it’s filled with something real.