Chapter 15
Maksim
Business came first. It always had.
Even with Sofia’s taste still on my tongue, even with her scent clinging to my clothes, I sat across from Boris Volkov and Igor Popov at a table that cost more than most people made in a year, and I reminded myself of the order of things.
Boris swirled his wine lazily, leaning back in his chair like a man without a care in the world. His talent was the same as always: charm sharp enough to cut steel. He didn’t need fists or blades. His tongue was a weapon, and tonight, he was wielding it like a pro as he held the floor.
“The numbers work,” Boris said smoothly, switching from Russian to English as easily as he breathed.
He leaned back in his chair as if he were entertaining children instead of negotiating international arms deals.
He spoke with his usual charm, outlining terms and smoothing egos.
“Our friends in Eastern Europe are satisfied. Popov has the funding, we have the transport, and the diplomat”—his eyes slid to me briefly—“has made assurances.”
Popov preened, every inch the self-important oligarch.
His smile was small and smug, the kind that always made me want to knock a man’s teeth out.
He was dressed in an immaculate and expensive suit, rings glittering as he lifted his glass.
“Gentlemen, this deal will be the foundation for much more. Arms are just the beginning. Connections breed opportunities—never forget that.”
I didn’t move. Didn’t blink. I’d been taught long ago to show nothing at the table.
My job wasn’t to charm or negotiate. My job was to make sure every man who left this room stayed alive until the deal was done.
I was the ever-present reminder that if words failed and tempers flared, blood would suffice.
But my silence didn’t protect me this time.
Because Popov’s smile shifted. “And speaking of connections…” He set down his glass with a quiet click, his eyes finding mine like a hunter finding the weak link in a herd. “I’ve been hearing a name, Maksim. Sofia Rodríguez. A bartender, is it?”
The air around us thickened, wrapping around my throat and choking me.
Boris’s eyes flicked to me again, sharper this time, though his mouth still curved like nothing was wrong. “Rumors,” he murmured easily. “People like to talk. When it comes to Maksim and women, they love to invent stories.”
Popov chuckled. “People talk because they notice. The girl has been seen with you. Repeatedly. Some even say she’s caught your attention.” He leaned forward slightly, the predator behind his eyes gleaming. “That could be a problem?”
My fingers curled under the table and my jaw flexed. Problem. That word, from his mouth, meant a liability. A weakness. Something to be cut out before it festered. Though he phrased it as an innocent question, it was nothing of the sort.
Thankfully, Boris was quick. “The girl is nothing,” he smoothly inserted. “A distraction, perhaps, but Maksim knows his place and what is important.”
Popov’s gaze didn’t leave mine. “Does he? Pillow talk can be… dangerous. Women can be used as leverage. We can’t be too careful in our world.”
The silence stretched, heavy as lead sinking quickly to the bottom of a pool. I didn’t give him the satisfaction of answering. Keeping my expression neutral, I simply held his stare until Boris laughed lightly, steering the conversation back to percentages and shipping lanes.
But inside, fire licked my veins.
They could talk. They could speculate. They could call her a problem, a weakness, or a distraction.
Let them.
Sofia wasn’t going anywhere.
And if Popov or anyone else in this brotherhood decided to test that, they’d find out exactly how far I was willing to go to protect her.
As things were wrapping up, I began to relax. Yet I shouldn’t have. I should’ve known Popov wasn’t finished.
He steepled his fingers and a venomous smile curled his lips. “And speaking of problems—your Midnight Market trip was very… entertaining, wasn't it?” His eyes gleamed before he dropped the biggest bomb. “I hear one of your own brothers was seen speaking with Armenians. Bold. Or foolish. No?”
Boris’s smile didn’t falter, but his gaze flicked to me. “You saw this?”
“Yes.” My voice was flat. “Too close. Too comfortable.”
Popov chuckled. “Perhaps the Bratva—brotherhood—isn’t as united as we like to believe. Or perhaps someone enjoys playing both sides.”
The implication was dripping with poison, and we all knew it. Boris rested his elbows on the table as he leaned in. “We’ll deal with our own. Don’t mistake whispers for truth—or weakness, Igor. Not if you value your investments.”
Popov’s grin widened, satisfied to have stirred the pot. Fucker. My teeth ground together. He waved for another bottle of wine.
The deal moved forward, but I heard little of the details. I knew Boris would confront me later about what I’d seen. I hadn’t said anything because I had no concrete proof he was up to no good.
Later, as I walked through the city, I lit a cigarette.
Slowly, I let the smoke fill my lungs and I promised myself I’d quit—again.
My mind spun through the possibilities—why would one of our brothers risk speaking to the Armenians in secret?
Was it greed? Betrayal? Obviously, Boris knew nothing about it either.
I turned down a side street, Sofia’s apartment still many blocks away. That’s when I felt it—the weight of eyes on me.
My senses went on full alert.
The rhythm of footsteps behind me was too steady. Too careful.
I cut down an alley and stopped in the darkest shadows. Silent, I waited. Time ticked by.
Nothing.
Whoever it was, they knew I’d clocked them. Their movements were too clean to be some junkie looking for a wallet to snag. They’d also been too deliberate to be a cop.
I scanned the rooftops and the shadows, but they obviously knew how to disappear. Because I found no one.
Yet the prickle between my shoulder blades remained all the way to Sofia’s apartment building. For a second, I debated walking by, except whoever it was, something told me they knew, so it didn’t matter.
Using a lock pick, I easily let myself into the building. Shitty false security.
When I reached her door and knocked, I heard her on the other side. Knew she was looking through the peephole.
She opened it, barefoot, curly hair down, green eyes softening at the sight of me.
I brushed past her and into the apartment, scanning the windows and every inch of the small space as I kissed her.
Not wanting to worry her, I didn’t say anything to her. Not yet.
But the message was crystal clear. Someone was watching—and they wanted me to know it.