Chapter 16 Maksim
MAKSIM
I'm going to kill Ramiz Krasniqi.
The thought crystallizes with perfect clarity as I follow him into his den, a room designed to intimidate with dark wood paneling and leather furniture arranged around an unlit fireplace. Heavy cigar smoke hangs in the air, mixing with the scent of expensive whiskey and male aggression.
He dared to touch her. Put his hands on Victoria's face like she was property he could appraise and claim.
I've killed men for less.
The mental list of how I'll make him suffer unfolds with surgical precision. Each method more creative than the last. Each one designed to extract maximum pain before the final mercy of death that he doesn't deserve.
Zakhar appears by my side, pressing a crystal tumbler of whiskey into my hand.
"Cool down," he murmurs, voice pitched low enough that only I can hear. "Your murderous thoughts are showing on your face."
I force my expression into neutrality. Take a sip of whiskey that tastes like smoke and violence barely restrained.
We move to sit in leather chairs arranged near the unlit fireplace.
"That fucking piece of shit," I say under my breath, the words coming out in Russian. More satisfaction in the language of our childhood when discussing violence. "Touching her like she's merchandise. Like he has any right."
"I know," Zakhar replies, equally quiet. His jaw is tight, the muscle jumping beneath his skin. "And the only way you're killing him is if you get to him before I do."
The admission surprises me. Not the fury, I expected that, but the specific source of it.
My brother is protective by nature, trained from childhood to guard what's his. But this rage isn't about duty or strategy. This is personal. This is about Victoria specifically, not just the Pakhan's wife in abstract.
I glance across the room at Alexei, who's leaning against the pool table with deceptive casualness. To anyone else, he looks relaxed. Bored, even.
I know better.
His shoulders carry tension that doesn't belong there. His usual grin is absent. And his hand rests too close to where his weapon is.
All three of us, furious for the same reason.
All three of us, ready to burn this house down for the same woman.
The realization should concern me. Should trigger alarms about divided loyalties and complicated dynamics. Instead, it feels inevitable. Like we've been moving toward this moment since Victoria walked down that aisle in white lace and defiance.
Ramiz approaches with the confidence of a man on his own territory. He settles into the chair across from Zakhar and me, his smile too wide and too sharp.
"You interfered in my business, Severyn," he says, voice carrying false friendliness that doesn't reach his eyes. "When you married the girl."
"How is my marriage your business?" I ask, keeping my tone level. Conversational. The calm before violence.
"Arthur Ainsley owed me a debt." Ramiz swirls whiskey in his glass, watching the liquid catch light. "By marrying his daughter, you tied my hands. No one dares move against the Pakhan's wife's father. You knew that when you made your arrangement. Very clever. Very inconvenient for me."
He leans forward slightly, smile sharpening into a blade.
"But you should ask yourself, Maksim. Can you protect everyone all the time?"
The threat is veiled but unmistakable.
My hand tightens on the whiskey glass. The crystal warms under my grip, and I imagine it shattering. Imagine using the shards on the man sitting across from me with that poisonous smile.
I open my mouth to respond when the door to the den opens.
Victoria walks in.
Every conversation in the room stops. Every head turns.
She's a vision in emerald silk, the dress clinging to curves that make my mouth go dry despite the fury burning in my chest. Her dark hair falls over one bare shoulder, and her expression carries that particular combination of boredom and command that she's mastered.
Alexei moves first, instinct taking over. He straightens from the pool table, takes a step toward her.
But she's already moving.
I watch her plaster on a smile I recognize as completely fake. She strides across the room with confidence that looks effortless, heading directly toward me.
When she reaches my chair, she doesn't stop.
She sits on my lap.
The contact is immediate and overwhelming. Her body settles against mine, warm and soft and impossibly present. My pulse accelerates. Every nerve ending lights up. Every instinct that was screaming for violence redirects into awareness equally primitive and far more complicated.
She takes the whiskey glass from my hand with elegant fingers. Brings it to her lips. Takes a long sip that makes her throat work and her eyes water slightly.
Victoria doesn't drink. I know this. Have watched her carry the same champagne flute through entire events without taking a single sip.
Which means this is a message.
She pouts, the expression artfully constructed, and trails her fingers across my chest over my shirt. The touch burns through fabric.
"Daddy," she says, voice carrying a whine that's pure performance. "I'm bored. When can we go home? When we get home I’m going to—"
She leans in close, her breath warm against my ear, her perfume cutting through cigar smoke and male aggression.
"It's a trap," she whispers, so quiet only I can hear. "You're in danger. We need to leave. Now."
The words hit like ice water down my spine.
I scan the room with new eyes, registering positions I should have noticed before. Ramiz's men aren't scattered randomly. They're positioned strategically. Blocking exits. Creating zones of control. The casual gathering is actually tactical placement.
We walked into an ambush dressed as hospitality.
My gaze finds Zakhar first. Then Alexei. A single look passes between us, the communication of men who've survived together long enough to speak without words.
They both tense. Ready.
I shift Victoria gently off my lap, rising to my feet with controlled grace. She stands beside me, and I can feel the tremor in her body that she's hiding beneath perfect posture.
"Ramiz," I say, keeping my voice pleasant. "Thank you for your hospitality. But we need to leave now. My wife has made me a proposal I can't refuse."
His smile sharpens further. Becomes a weapon.
"So soon?" He sets down his whiskey glass with deliberate care, the crystal ringing against wood. "We haven't had a chance to really talk. About the future. About arrangements. About how things will work now that you've inserted yourself into my sphere of influence."
The menace underneath the polite words is unmistakable.
I take Victoria's hand. Her fingers are cold despite the warmth of the room, and they curl around mine with desperate strength.
"Another time," I say, already moving toward the door.
Zakhar and Alexei fall into formation. Protective. Prepared.
We're halfway to the exit when two of Ramiz's men shift position. Block the doorway with bodies that promise violence.
I stop. Turn slowly. Victoria's hand is still in mine, and I feel her pulse racing against my palm.
"Do we have a problem?" I ask, voice dropping into cold precision.
The room goes still. Every man frozen in place, waiting to see which way this fractures.
Ramiz stands. Adjusts his suit jacket. His smile is poison wrapped in silk.
"No problem at all, Severyn." The pause stretches too long. "We'll talk. Soon."
The promise in those words is clear. This isn't over. This is postponed.
He makes a small gesture. His men step aside.
We move through the doorway into the hallway beyond, and I don't let myself believe we're safe yet. Don't let my guard drop or my grip on Victoria's hand loosen.
The music from the party pulses through the walls. We head toward the front entrance, toward escape and the SUVs waiting beyond.
A man steps into our path.
Tall. Around my age. Dark hair and darker eyes that carry intelligence mixed with danger.
"I wouldn't recommend the front exit," he says, voice calm. Too calm for the situation. "It might be... crowded. Better to choose an alternative route."
The implication is clear. Whatever Ramiz planned, it's waiting at the front door.
"Who are you?" Zakhar asks, his hand moving subtly toward the concealed knife.
"Luan Krasniqi," the man says. "Ramiz's son."
The admission should make him an enemy. Should make this another trap.
But his expression suggests otherwise.
"Why are you helping us?" I ask, skepticism sharp in every word.
Luan's gaze shifts to Victoria. Holds there for a moment. Then returns to me.
"Let's just say I understand what it's like to have a shitty father," he says. "Your men are waiting at the east gate. I've already sent word. Follow me."
Every instinct screams that this could be a setup. That walking deeper into the house, away from the known exit, is tactically insane.
But the alternative is the front door. Where Ramiz's ambush is waiting.
"Lead the way," I say, making the decision that could get us all killed.
Luan moves through the house with the confidence of someone who knows every corridor, every shortcut, every secret. We follow him through the kitchen where staff bustle and pretend not to notice four people in formal wear moving through their workspace like ghosts.
The back door opens to a garden path. Manicured hedges on both sides, tall enough to hide us from view but also to conceal threats. The night air is cool against my skin after the heat of the house, and I can hear the party continuing behind us, oblivious to the violence that almost erupted.
Victoria's hand in mine is the only thing keeping me grounded. The only anchor in a situation spiraling rapidly out of my control.
I should trust my tactical training. Should be calculating angles and exit strategies and backup plans.
Instead, I'm hyperaware of her breathing, her pulse, the way her fingers tighten on mine every few steps like she's afraid I'll let go.
Luan leads us to a gate at the far end of the garden. Punches in a code. The electronic lock beeps once, too loud in the quiet night.
The gate swings open.
And there, exactly where Luan said they'd be, are our SUVs. Engines running. Security alert and ready.
Relief floods through me, sharp and immediate.
"Thank you," I say to Luan, meaning it despite the suspicion still coiling in my gut.
"You owe me," he replies, voice carrying the weight of future debt. "I'll collect. Soon."
I nod once. The devil's bargain accepted.
We move toward the SUVs. Zakhar opens the rear door of the first one, and I guide Victoria inside. Alexei follows, then Zakhar, and finally me.
The door slams shut with a solid thunk that sounds like safety, if only temporary.
The driver doesn't wait for instructions. Just pulls away from the Krasniqi estate, the second SUV falling into formation behind us.
I look down at my hand.
Victoria's fingers are still intertwined with mine. Her grip hasn't loosened. If anything, it's tighter now than it was in the house.
I should let go. Should restore distance. Should rebuild the walls between us that keep crumbling every time she's near.
I don't let go.
Can't let go.
My thumb moves without conscious decision, stroking across her knuckles in a gesture that's more intimate than any kiss we've shared.
I look at Victoria.
She didn't obey tonight. Didn't stay by the pool with the other women like she was supposed to.
She protected us. With strategy instead of force, with performance instead of violence.
No one has ever done that before. Protected me. Saved me.
I've always been the one who saves others.
The realization hits with terrifying clarity.
Victoria isn't a pawn in this game. She isn't leverage or liability or even just an asset.
She's the woman I will burn the world to protect.