Chapter 3
Maksim
I hated these fucking parties.
The masks. The glitter. The empty laughter spilling from painted mouths. All of it was noise—soft, meaningless noise to cover the sound of the real business being done in the shadows.
I stood near the edge of the ballroom, a glass of vodka in my hand, though I hadn’t taken more than a sip.
My mask was simple, black leather, enough to play the game but not enough to make me look like one of them.
I wasn’t one of them. I wasn’t here to be charmed by champagne and silk dresses.
I was here to make sure Boris Volkov’s presence carried weight and that no one dared cross him while he was entertained by Igor Popov and the Russian diplomat who’d also been invited by Igor tonight.
In our world, I was feared for my ruthlessness. Dressing me up in a mask and surrounding me with luxury didn’t change who or what I was. None of that superficial bullshit mattered to me. The only currency that meant shit to me was loyalty.
Boris wasn’t my “boss” the way people imagined.
We weren’t organized the way the Sicilian mafia was, we were simply a…
brotherhood. We had certain business interests that we cultivated, and we ran very much under the radar of the law.
We weren’t flashy and brazen. Instead, we were quiet, cunning, and loyal to each other.
The way we ran things had made us all very rich men.
My good friend, Konstantin Makarov, stood at my side, his posture deceptively casual, though I knew better.
He was sharp as a blade, always calculating.
Soon he’d be leaving New York for Chicago, taking over the small group of Bratva there.
Depending on when things finalized, tonight might be one of the last times we stood shoulder to shoulder.
Dima was next to him, also on watch.
“Too many eyes in this room,” Konstantin muttered in Russian, his gaze sweeping across the crowd of masks and jewels.
“Too many mouths,” I replied, pretending to take a sip of my vodka. “They talk too much and laugh too loud when they’re trying to look important… or when they’re hiding something.”
Dima’s mouth curved into a humorless smile. “Then this is your kind of party, Sokolov.”
Shaking my head, I didn’t bother to smile back. My kind of party had nothing to do with crystal chandeliers and masquerade masks. My kind of party ended in silence and blood.
Konstantin elbowed me. “Oh, come on, it wouldn’t kill you to smile.”
My response was one arched brow. He chuckled, then returned to watching the people we spoke of.
“There are so many things I could be doing tonight rather than sharing the air with these vapid assholes,” Dima grumbled.
“Agreed,” I muttered.
Across the room, I caught sight of Popov slipping away, the diplomat close at his side, with Boris following them.
They disappeared down a hallway toward the study, where the real reason we were in attendance would begin.
The actual discussion that mattered. Money.
Weapons. Promises. Masks dropped behind closed doors.
I was supposed to remain out here, visible enough to remind everyone that Boris wasn’t alone tonight.
But my gut twisted. My instincts had kept me alive in this business, and right now they were screaming that something was off.
It wasn’t just small talk between Konstantin, Dima, and me. Too many people. Too many ears.
Instead, I shifted my weight, scanning the crowd again, every nerve in my body on edge. A masquerade was perfect camouflage—for anyone who wanted to make a move.
And I was never the kind of man to trust camouflage. Too much could hide in it.
“Watch the room, I’m going in with Boris,” I whispered to my comrades before following the path Boris had recently taken.