Chapter 4 Maksim
MAKSIM
The Estate reveals itself long before the gate comes into view.
First, the road transforms. The harsh edges of the city soften, giving way to lush greenery that costs millions to maintain.
Industrial blocks recede, and the streets widen.
Oaks line the drive, meticulously spaced, their branches creating a canopy that obscures the sky.
Houses retreat behind hedges so perfectly trimmed they appear artificial.
Then, the hedges
give way to walls—stone that transitions to reinforced concrete, thick enough to withstand a truck.
The private road leading in feels unlike any public street.
It curves sharply, designed to obscure sight lines and compel vehicles to slow down.
It vanishes from GPS maps. The compound nestles deep within the woods, a fortress disguised as a manor.
Visibility stretches far here.
That's intentional.
The convoy slows as the main gate comes into view. Guards emerge from the fortified booth, weapons held at the ready. Estate security. The Baranov crest is stitched onto their shoulders, but their allegiance lies not with the heir in the vehicle behind me, but with Sergei Baranov.
If Sergei ordered them to put a bullet in Ivan's head, they wouldn't hesitate.
Such is the nature of this ground. The city belongs to Ivan. The Estate belongs to the Pakhan.
The guards recognize our convoy and wave us through. I observe them in the side mirror as we pass—tracking their positions, noting who moves first and who stays back to cover potential blind spots. One guard speaks into a shoulder mic, his gaze fixed on our lead vehicle.
He's announcing our arrival.
"Maksim." Ivan's voice sounds from the back seat—quiet and controlled.
I keep my focus forward. "Guards at the gate. More in the booth. Radios active."
"They knew we were coming."
"They knew before we turned onto the access road," I reply. "Long before anyone here would've needed to check the cameras."
"My father keeps his house informed."
"Your father isn't the one I'm concerned about."
The words escape before I can rein them in.
That's a breach of protocol. I don't provide tactical assessments of the family unless asked. I don't engage in the politics of Baranov blood. I watch. I protect. I wait.
But the Estate affects me. My skin tightens the moment we cross the perimeter. It stirs old instincts within me, the kind I honed in Volgograd. This is a place where rules aren't merely discussed—they are enforced.
Ivan remains silent. His quietness doesn't invite a response; it closes off the space.
The car continues moving until the main house fills the windshield.
The building is a massive gray stone structure in a neo-classical style, maintained with funds unaffected by market fluctuations.
Ivy climbs the west wall in decorative patterns that also provide excellent footholds for climbing.
The windows are made of bullet-resistant glass, though you need to know what to look for to recognize their thickness.
The entrance is framed by columns wide enough to conceal a man.
I know this because I memorized the blueprints.
While Ivan slept last night, I familiarized myself with the Estate until it became etched in my mind. I noted the camera blind spots, ventilation shafts, and the tunnel system connecting the main house to the garage. I even memorized the wine cellar door, which is actually a reinforced exit.
All of this matters.
Yet none of it will help if the order comes from inside the dining room.
The driver stops at the portico. I exit first, scanning the courtyard as I move around the vehicle to open Ivan's door.
Guards stand on the steps, and another lurks near the corner of the building, trying too hard to appear casual. A gardener near the hedge line holds his shears awkwardly—hands too stiff, his attention too focused on the convoy.
Ivan steps out.
Something in him tightens as soon as his shoes hit the gravel. The relaxed version of him from the penthouse—the man who sipped espresso in his robe—disappears. His shoulders straighten, and his expression becomes impassive. The heir has returned.
He strides toward the entrance without waiting.
I follow closely enough to intercept any threats but far enough to respect the hierarchy.
The guards on the steps don't greet him or shift aside; they merely watch him pass, their eyes steady.
One of them glances at me.
I recognize that look. Estate guards see themselves as elite, and to them, I am just street trash—a brawler Ivan picked up from the gutter. Their expressions convey a mix of dislike and caution, as if they'd prefer I didn't exist but know I can be dangerous.
Ivan's Rabid Dog.
That's what they call me here. I've heard it whispered in the corridors. It's not a title; it's a justification, explaining why Ivan keeps me close.
The guard's mouth twitches as I pass, but I offer him nothing in return.
We enter.
Inside, the Estate feels colder than the penthouse—not in temperature, but in scale. The ceilings soar to thirty feet, designed to make us feel small and insignificant. Our footsteps echo on the checkerboard marble as we cross the entrance hall.
Portraits line the walls—Baranov men from generation to generation, painted in oils. They stare down at us—Pakhan after Pakhan, judging the living.
Ivan's mother isn't among them.
I noticed her absence the first time I visited. The wife of the current Pakhan and mother of the heir—missing. No portrait, no photograph. It's as if the house refuses to acknowledge her existence.
I don't ask.
We reach the upper landing, where the hallway narrows and heavy oak doors line the walls, soundproofed. This is where the business takes place.
More guards stand near the entrance to Sergei's private study, straightening as we approach. Hands drift to weapons—not threatening, just prepared.
Then, a door opens to our left.
Boris Baranov steps into the hall.
Dressed in a gray suit tailored to conceal the softness of his midsection, his silvered hair is meticulously arranged at the temples. His expression carries concern the way a politician cradles a baby—practiced, light, and utterly disingenuous.
"Ivan." Boris spreads his arms but doesn't close the distance. "We were worried. The reports from the city were... troubling."
"I'm sure they were," Ivan replies.
Boris's gaze shifts to me, and the concern evaporates, replaced by a cold, aristocratic appraisal. He regards me as if I were mud tracked onto a Persian rug.
"You brought your shadow," Boris states, the insult evident in his tone. "Given the sensitivity of the situation, I assumed you'd prefer to speak to your father privately."
"My security is not your concern."
Boris's smile tightens at the corners. "Family matters should remain within the family."
He turns fully toward me, dropping the facade of warmth.
"Wait here, dog. This conversation is above your station."
The word hits hard in the center of my chest.
Dog.
My body stops before my mind processes the command. That's the training: a superior gives an order, and the body obeys. Boris outranks me. Here, blood and title are the only laws.
I freeze a few paces behind Ivan.
Yet something within me pushes back.
Not anger. Not pride.
Something older. The memory of the lock sliding into place in the penthouse. The sound of Ivan's nightmare. The realization that I am the only thing standing between him and the glass.
Ivan doesn't turn around or acknowledge Boris's command. He stands still long enough for me to hear the hum of the air conditioning.
Then, he speaks.
"Inside."
One word. Calm. Final.
He turns just enough for me to see his profile. His eyes meet mine—direct, unblinking.
It isn't a suggestion. It's an override.
I move.
Boris's expression shifts quickly—surprise, then a flash of genuine anger. He opens his mouth, but Ivan is already walking toward Sergei's study, and I am already in position at his flank. Boris has missed his chance to enforce his will.
"Ivan," Boris snaps. "Your father will not appreciate—"
"My father can tell me himself what he appreciates."
We pass Boris without slowing.
I feel his stare on my back; it burns. He called me a dog. He tried to leash me.
Ivan broke the leash in front of witnesses.
This isn't kindness; Ivan doesn't do kindness. This is a display of territory. Ivan is making it clear that what belongs to him—including me—cannot be touched by anyone else.
The guards near the study step aside, and one of them opens the door.
Ivan walks through.
I follow.
The study resembles a cavern, with bookshelves lining the walls from floor to ceiling, filled with volumes that exude the scent of dust and old leather. In the center stands a massive mahogany desk, an island amidst a sea of dark wood, flanked by two chairs.
Behind the desk sits the Pakhan.
Sergei Baranov rises.
He is taller and broader than Ivan, possessing a gravity that seems to bend the room around him. His iron-gray hair is cut military short, and his face is a map of survived violence. His eyes mirror Ivan's—pale ice with a terrifying depth.
He looks at his son, and something passes between them—a silent frequency that only they can hear.
Then his gaze shifts to me.
I've faced down killers, instructors who determined who would eat and who would starve, and captains who signed death warrants with a pen.
Sergei Baranov's attention feels different.
It isn't aggressive; it's total. It feels like being scanned by an X-ray.
For a moment, I feel like a boy again, standing in the snow in Volgograd, waiting to be sorted.
"So," Sergei says, his voice deep, gravel rolling over steel. "This is the one."
Ivan doesn't respond.
Sergei turns his focus back to his son. "Sit. We have much to discuss." He gestures to the chairs, then pauses. "Your... companion may remain. For now."
He takes a seat.
Ivan follows suit.
I remain standing near the door, my back against the wall, scanning the room.
A moment later, Boris enters, his expression carefully neutral. He positions himself against the far wall, opposite me.
The geometry of the room is set.
Ivan and his father face each other across the desk.
Boris stands on one side.
I stand on the other.
"The shipment," Sergei begins. "You were supposed to supervise."
"I changed my plans," Ivan replies.
"Why?"
Ivan hesitates. I notice the tension in his shoulders—minute but controlled.
"Instinct," he says. "Something felt off."
Sergei's expression remains stone. "Instinct is not protocol."
"No, but it kept me alive."
The silence that follows is heavy.
Boris shifts against the wall, his fingers tapping against his thigh—once, twice—then stopping, a nervous tic.
"We found a body," Ivan states. "On the way here. Grigori Volkov."
Sergei's eyes narrow, a flicker of recognition passing through.
"Volkov was already on the suspect list," Boris says smoothly. "Perhaps someone is cleaning house for us."
"Someone left a note," Ivan adds.
He reaches into his pocket and places a folded paper on the desk, sliding it across the mahogany.
Sergei picks it up and reads it, his face betraying nothing.
The Father protects the Son. But who protects the Father?
"Theatrical," Sergei remarks, tossing the paper back onto the desk. "Someone wants us afraid."
"Or someone wants us looking at the wrong threat," Ivan counters, his voice low and dangerous. "Father, the leak isn't external. It's someone with access to my schedule, my routes, my security protocols. Someone who understands the internal structure of this family."
"You have theories," Sergei says, not as a question, but as a challenge.
He is probing whether Ivan is willing to name names in front of Boris.
Ivan avoids looking at Boris, focusing solely on his father.
"I have evidence," Ivan replies. "When I'm ready to verify it."
Boris's composure falters; he shifts his weight, aware that Ivan is circling him and that this meeting extends beyond a mere lost shipment.
Sergei studies Ivan, searching for weakness or hesitation.
He finds neither.
With a nod, he commands, "Bring me the verification. Until then, secure your perimeter. Trust no one outside your immediate circle."
His gaze flicks to me.
"No one."
The dismissal is unmistakable.
Ivan stands, and I move to open the door.
Before we step through, Sergei speaks
again. "The bodyguard stays close."
Ivan hesitates. "Yes."
"Good."
Sergei's eyes linger on me one last time, not with approval, but as if assessing me against a potential future problem.
"A man should know the quality of his steel," he says. "Especially in this house."
We exit.
The atmosphere in the hallway has changed. Guards who previously avoided my gaze now assess me, their eyes sharp. News travels fast in the Estate.
The dog was allowed in the room.
Boris does not follow us out.
Ivan heads toward the stairs, and I fall into position behind him, maintaining distance and scanning the corners.
At the
car, I open Ivan's door.
He hesitates before getting in, gazing at the main house, at the stone facade that conceals so much decay.
"He didn't object," Ivan murmurs. "My father. When I brought you inside."
"No," I reply.
"He should have," Ivan insists. "It was a breach of tradition."
I remain silent; nothing feels safe to say.
Sergei Baranov permitted me into the sanctum and allowed Ivan to override Boris. The power dynamics in the house have shifted, and everyone senses it.
Ivan climbs into the car.
I close the door and move to the passenger side.
The convoy pulls away from the Estate. I watch the gates shrink in the mirror until they disappear behind the trees.
My hand rests near my weapon.
Inside that house, I am the only shield Ivan has that isn't made of blood. And blood, it turns out, is the most dangerous thing of all.