Chapter 38 Maksim
MAKSIM
The second bell sounds, distant and muffled through the walls of the lobby
I check my watch. Intermission ends in four minutes. The lobby has emptied, velvet and marble abandoned except for stragglers hurrying back to their seats.
The silence feels wrong. Too complete. Like the pause between movements when the audience holds its breath and the orchestra waits for the conductor's signal.
"We should return," I say. "Where's Victoria?"
Zakhar glances toward the corridor. "Saw her head out about ten minutes ago. Ladies' room, I assumed."
Ten minutes.
The calculation forms automatically. Women's restroom, second floor, west wing. Thirty seconds to walk there. Five to ten minutes inside. Thirty seconds back.
She's past maximum by three minutes and counting.
I drain the last of my vodka, setting the glass down with precise care. The liquor burns clean and cold, a familiar warmth I barely register.
"Alexei," I say. "Go check."
He moves without argument.
Three minutes until curtain.
I pour another measure of vodka into the glass, watching clear liquid catch the light. From here I can hear the orchestra tunes, discordant notes rising and falling like arguments searching for resolution.
Alexei returns. Alone.
His face tells me everything before he speaks.
"No one there," he says. "Checked every stall. Place is empty."
I set down the bottle. The glass between my thumb and forefinger, cool and fragile. One wrong move and it shatters.
"Zakhar, try Vitor."
He already has his phone out, pressing the screen. It rings once. Twice. Five times. No answer.
Zakhar ends the call without speaking. Our eyes meet.
Vitor was in charge of security protocol for tonight.
"Vitor doesn't miss calls," Zakhar says quietly.
No. He doesn't.
The first hairline fracture appears in my composure. Thin as piano wire. I ignore it.
I dial Victoria's number. The phone buzzes in my palm, cold and smooth against my scarred knuckles. It rings. And rings.
The lobby is empty now, chandeliers dimming to half brightness. The marble expanse looks vast. Wrong somehow. Champagne glasses sit abandoned on tables, lipstick smudges on crystal rims. A program lies facedown on the floor, pages splayed.
Her voicemail picks up. That polished voice she uses for business: "You've reached Victoria Ainsley. Leave a message."
I end the call without leaving one.
Zakhar's already moving, phone pressed to his ear. "Davis," he says to the next man in command of tonight's security detail. His voice drops into command mode, clipped and final. "Gather everyone. We need to find Mrs. Severyn. Now."
He crosses to the window, scanning the street outside.
Victoria is not careless with time. She doesn't wander. She doesn't lose herself in conversation with strangers.
Which means this isn't forgetfulness.
The realization lands cold.
I dial her number again. It rings. The sound burrows into my skull, steady and meaningless. Five rings. Six. Seven.
"You've reached—"
I call again immediately.
"You—"
My pulse beats steady in my neck. Training from a lifetime ago surfaces. The lessons learned in Moscow's cold winters, when panic meant death and control meant survival. Breathe. Think. Calculate.
But underneath that iron discipline, pressure builds. The kind I haven't felt since I was fifteen years old and watched my world end while my hands shattered under a boot heel.
Fear. Real. Visceral.
Alexei's pacing now. His movements are tight, controlled, but barely. Like a spring wound too far, one more rotation from snapping. "This is wrong. This whole night, the timing, the invitations—"
He stops, turning to face me. "He wanted us distracted."
"Say it," I tell him.
"Luan! That son of a bitch orchestrated this. He wanted us here while—" Alexei's smile is all teeth, nothing warm or human in it. "I'm going to enjoy tearing him apart."
I'm already dialing Luan's number.
From here we can hear the theater erupt into applause. Music swells, triumphant fanfare announcing the return to performance.
Luan answers on the first ring.
"This is not a good time, Maksim." His voice is tight, controlled, but underneath, I hear it. Tension. Background noise filters through. Engines, shouting, the unmistakable sound of weapons being loaded.
"Victoria is gone," I say. "If you had anything to do with that, you will regret it for the very short remainder of your life."
Silence. Then cursing, rapid and vicious in Albanian.
"I am not responsible for Victoria's disappearance." His accent thickens, consonants going hard. "But I believe my father is."
Everything stops.
Ramiz Krasniqi.
A man who once skinned a rival alive and left him on display for three days. A man who builds empires on brutality and maintains them through terror.
If he has Victoria…
The thought tries to form and I strangle it. Not yet. Information first. Panic serves no one.
My jaw tightens. I taste blood where I've bitten the inside of my cheek without noticing.
"Why?" I keep my voice level, each word carved from ice. "How?"
"No time to explain." Background noise swells through the connection. Car engines roaring to life, men shouting coordinates, the metallic click of magazines being loaded. "You need to move. Now. I'm sending you an address. Get your men and meet me there."
"Why should we believe you?"
The pause stretches.
"Because," Luan says, and his voice drops into what might be regret. Maybe grief. The kind that comes when you realize the monster you're hunting shares your blood.
Another pause, heavier than the first. I can hear his breathing, controlled but quick.
"We're going to kill my father."
The line goes dead.
I lower the phone slowly. My hand is steady. My expression is calm. Inside, the fracture widens.
Zakhar's watching me, trying to read my face. "What did he say?"
"Ramiz has her." The words taste like the particular flavor of failure I haven't tasted since Moscow. "Luan's moving against his father. Now. Wants us to meet him."
"It's a trap," Zakhar says immediately. His hand rests on his weapon, fingers loose but ready.
"Probably." I straighten my cuffs, adjusting them with precise care. The gesture grounds me. "But if there's any chance Victoria is with Ramiz Krasniqi, we're going."
If it's a trap, we kill everyone and take what we came for. If Luan's telling the truth, we have a temporary ally. Either way, Victoria comes home.
Or I burn Chicago to ashes finding her.
Zakhar's coordinating with our drivers, ensuring we have multiple routes and backup vehicles. Alexei's already stripped off his bow tie, rolled up his sleeves, checking his weapon.
We move as one. The corridor’s plush carpet muffling our footsteps. Behind us, the opera continues, applause thundering through the walls like distant artillery.
In the lobby, our men wait. Armed and silent, faces I've known for years. Men who followed me from Moscow, who built this empire on blood and loyalty and the understanding that some debts can only be paid in violence.
"Ramiz Krasniqi has Mrs. Severyn," I tell them. No preamble. No speeches. "We're going to get her back. Anyone standing between us and that objective dies. No exceptions. No hesitation."
They nod. No questions. No doubts.
This is what we do.
This is what we are.
I push through the doors into Chicago's night air. It's cold, wind cutting through the tuxedo. The SUVs wait at the curb, engines running, doors open. Exhaust rises in white plumes against streetlights.
My phone buzzes. Luan's message with an address I recognize.