Chapter 11
Maksim
The diner booth is surprisingly cozy for a shithole like this.
Vinyl cracked and repaired with duct tape, table scarred with old burns and knife marks. Smells like grease that never quite leaves your clothes. I stretch one arm across the back of the booth. I could make this block my new territory.
Ayla stopped glaring at me an hour into her shift.
Thought I was fucking around when I said I was spending the day with her. I wasn’t. If I say something, I mean it. I have plans for her tonight. She moves between tables with a rhythm I can’t stop tracking. Like she learned early that wasted movement costs you.
Her clothes piss me off.
Threadbare shirts. Jeans too thin, worn at the knees. Boots that should’ve been replaced months ago. She walks around like that with seventeen grand in her backpack.
Doesn’t track.
Like the world keeps taking and no one bothered to give anything back.
She’d look better in leather.
Black jacket. Heavy. Protective. Something that says she isn’t easy to corner. Something that makes people think twice before touching.
I pull my phone from my pocket and unlock it without looking away from her.
She’s small.
Too small for how much space she takes up in my head.
Shirts—small. Easy. She’s swimming in her shirt now, even with it tucked into her jeans.
Jeans… maybe a two. Could be a four if she eats good.
Boots—seven. I’d bet on it.
I type fast.
I need a leather jacket. Black.
Jeans, size 2 or 4. Figure it out.
Shirts, maybe five or six of them. Size S.
Boots, size 7. Flat. Nothing flashy. More combat then fashion.
My sister replies almost immediately.
Katya
Why am I buying clothes for a woman?
I transfer money before she can push.
Enough to shut her up.
Mind your business.
I slide the phone back into my pocket.
When I look up, Ayla’s gone.
My jaw tightens before I can stop it.
Eyes sweep the room, counter, kitchen pass-through, booths, the door.
There she is. Near the register. Leaning in slightly, listening to a table.
Taking an order.
From Candy.
Fuck.
The whore from Opulent.
But she’s not alone, she has another with her.
They already have drinks sweating onto the table, straws bent, ice melting I watch the way Ayla stands—straight, professional, shoulders squared even in clothes that don’t protect her the way they should.
Candy smiles up at her, sweet as sugar, all teeth and gloss.
Then the other girl moves.
It’s subtle, but intentional. A nudge of her elbow. The fork skids, clatters to the floor.
Ayla exhales once, quiet. She bends to pick it up.
That’s when Candy lifts her glass.
I see it happen before my brain finishes processing it. Liquid arcs—slow, deliberate. Dark soda spilling straight down Ayla’s back, soaking into that thin shirt, dripping to the floor.
Ayla straightens fast.
Shock flashes across her face, gone almost immediately, replaced with something closed and careful. She stands there, wet and stunned, fingers curling at her sides.
Candy gasps.
“Oh my god, Ayla, I’m so sorry. I swear it was an accident.”
Her tone is perfect. Breathless. Apologetic. Lies wrapped in silk.
The other girl snorts into her drink.
That’s it.
The heat hits me so hard it’s almost clean. No buildup. No warning. One second I’m watching, the next I’m on my feet.
Candy spots me before Ayla finishes speaking. Her face lights up like she’s just been handed something she didn’t earn.
“Maks, hi!”
She says my name like we’re friends. Like her mouth isn’t just a hole I used to use from time to time.
I don’t answer.
I’m already moving.
My hand catches the nape of her neck, fingers threading into her hair, tight enough that she yelps when I twist. I haul her straight out of the booth, vinyl screeching, her hip hitting the table she stumbles.
“What the—Maks!”
I shove her down.
Hard.
Her knees hit the floor with a dull crack, hands scrambling to catch herself. The diner goes dead quiet. Forks pause midair. A couple people suck in sharp breaths like they don’t believe what they’re seeing.
I grab a fistful of napkins from the table and throw them at her face.
They flutter down around her like trash.
“Clean it up.”
She stares at me, stunned. “What?”
I lean down, just enough that she can hear me without me raising my voice.
“Clean. It. Up.”
A manager appears from the back, takes one look at my face—and disappears again without a word.
Candy’s hands shake as she gathers the napkins. She scrubs at the floor, at the sticky spill as people watch. Her friend doesn’t say a word. She’s frozen.
Ayla turns to leave.
My hand shoots out and locks around her wrist.
She stops instantly.
“Stay,” I say, eyes never leaving Candy. “She’s not done.”
Candy finishes wiping, starts to rise—
“No,” I snap.
She freezes again.
I step closer, fist tangling back into her hair, forcing her head up.
“Apologize.”
She swallows. “I’m sorry.”
I tighten my grip.
“Look at her.”
Her chin jerks toward Ayla. Tears streak her face now, real ones.
“I’m sorry,” she says again, louder. “I didn’t mean it.”
Ayla looks at her. Calm. Collected. No victory in her eyes.
She gives a single nod. That’s all.
I release Candy and straighten.
“Get the fuck out.”
She scrambles to her feet, dragging her friend with her. They don’t look back. The door bangs shut behind them.
The diner exhales all at once.
Only then do I look at Ayla. My hand is still around her wrist. She pulls it back and I let her.
“I’m going to go get changed,” she mutters.
I watch her disappear into the back.
I slide back into the booth like nothing happened.
A couple people avoid looking at me. Others don’t bother pretending. They stare. They always do.
I don’t care.
I wait.
Ayla doesn’t take long.
She comes out of the back fast, backpack already slung over one shoulder, jaw tight, eyes bright with something sharp and pissed.
She doesn’t look at me. She heads straight for the door. I’m on my feet before the booth finishes rocking back into place. The manager makes eye contact with me from behind the counter.
His face drains of color.
He turns and disappears into the back like he was never there.
I push through the door.
The sun hits my face. Ayla’s already halfway down the sidewalk.
Then I stop.
Dead.
She’s talking to a guy.
Some random asshole lingering outside the diner. Lean build. Clean jacket. Hands in his pockets. She’s smiling at him—small, quick, unguarded.
Her face lights up.
And for half a second, it hits me wrong.
She’s… pretty.
I blink.
Sharp pretty. The kind that cuts if you’re not paying attention.
I shake it off.
She laughs at something he says. Easy. Unafraid. The gesture is so casual, so easy, that my chest tightens.
Who the fuck is this guy?
I close the distance. My boots hit the pavement hard.
His hand crawls up her arm.
Her smile turns wicked.
She’s quick.
Knee to his balls, he crumbles and she walks off like she didn’t just destroy his lineage.
I catch up to her.
“What happened?”
She scoffs, sharp and humorless, not slowing.
“I got fired,” she says. “What do you think happened?”
“I meant with that guy.”
She spins on me then, eyes flashing.
“Fuck that guy. I now come with my own personal Maksim Korsakov. That’s an issue. Especially when you’re assaulting people in public.”
“She assaulted you first.”
She shrugs. Like it’s nothing.
“She always does. She’s a bitch. It is what it is.”
Always.
The word sinks in slow and heavy, settling somewhere it shouldn’t.
I don’t like that.
My jaw tightens. “She’s done that before?”
Ayla huffs a laugh and adjusts the strap of her backpack. “It’s a diner. Opulent girls come in, see me, decide they’re bored. Candy likes to make messes.”
I don’t respond right away.
They’ve been doing this to her. Repeatedly. And she just... takes it.
“Not anymore,” I say.
She stops walking. Turns to face me, one eyebrow raised. “What?”
“It’s not happening again.”
“Yeah because I got fired.”
“No, I meant her and any other girl from Opulent can easily be moved out of state.”
She freezes. “You can’t—”
“Watch me.”
Her mouth opens like she’s going to argue, then closes. She studies my face for a long moment, searching for something. Whatever it is, she doesn’t find it.
“I need to go,” she says instead.
“Where?”
“Mrs. Hardinoff’s. I have a cleaning shift. Might as well do it early.”
“She’s thirty minutes from here on foot, my bike is faster.”
She hesitates. I can see the war happening behind her eyes—pride versus practicality.
Practicality wins.
“Fine.”
***
Mrs. Hardinoff’s house is old money disguised as modest living. Brick facade, well-maintained garden, the kind of place that smells like furniture polish and secrets.
Ayla dismounts the bike, pulls off the helmet. Her hair’s a mess. She tries to smooth it down with one hand.
“Wait here,” she says.
“No.”
“Maksim—”
“I’m coming in.”
Her jaw clenches. “She doesn’t like strangers.”
“I’m not a stranger. I’m the Pakhan.”
“That’s worse.”
I swing off the bike, pocket the keys. “Lead the way, Beda.”
She glares at me for a solid five seconds, then turns and marches up the walkway. I follow.
She doesn’t knock. Just uses a key from her pocket, pushes the door open, and calls out, “Mrs. Hardinoff? It’s Ayla.”
“In the kitchen, dear!”
The voice is warm, grandmotherly. The kind of voice that makes you think of cookies and safety.
Ayla moves through the house like she knows it by heart. Living room. Hallway. Kitchen in the back.
Mrs. Hardinoff stands at the stove, stirring something that smells like chicken soup. She’s small, white-haired, wearing an apron covered in flour.
She looks up when we enter. Her eyes land on me. Then widen.
“Oh my,” she breathes.
Ayla steps between us immediately. “Mrs. Hardinoff, this is—”
“Maksim Korsakov.” The old woman sets down her spoon. “I know who he is.”
Of course she does. Everyone in this city knows who I am.
“I’m sorry,” Ayla says quickly. “He insisted on coming. I tried to—”
“It’s fine, dear.” Mrs. Hardinoff waves a hand. “The more the merrier.”
Ayla looks confused.
I’m not.
I recognize the way this woman carries herself. The way she doesn’t flinch when she looks at me. The way her eyes assess, calculate, remember.
She’s not civilian.
“You were Bratva,” I say.
Mrs. Hardinoff smiles. “A long time ago. When your grandfather ran things.”
Ayla’s head whips toward her. “What?”
“My late husband,” the old woman explains. “He was a soldier. Low rank. We had no children so we were allowed to leave when things got... complicated.”
“Ah, you were there for that,” I nod.
She smiles kindly.
Ayla’s still staring at her like she’s seeing a ghost. “You never told me.”
“You never asked.” Mrs. Hardinoff turns back to the stove. “Besides, that life is behind me. I’m just an old woman now who needs help keeping her house clean.”
Bullshit.
I can see the knife tucked into the waistband of her skirt. Hidden by the apron, but there.
Old habits.
“Ayla,” Mrs. Hardinoff says, stirring the soup. “Why don’t you start upstairs? The bathroom needs scrubbing.”
Ayla hesitates, glancing between us.
“Go,” I say.
She doesn’t like it. I can tell by the way her shoulders tense. But she goes anyway, disappearing up the stairs.
The second she’s out of earshot, Mrs. Hardinoff turns to me.
“Why are you with her?” she asks quietly. “Are you going to hurt her?”
I don’t deny it. “Maybe. What do you know about her?”
“I know she’s been through enough.”
My eyes narrow. “Like what?”
The old woman doesn’t budge.
I lean against the doorframe. “Why does she work for you?”
“Because I pay her.”
“You pay her more than market rate for cleaning.”
She doesn’t ask how I know. Just shrugs. “She needs the money.”
“For what?”
“That’s her business.”
I push off the doorframe, step closer. “Everything in this city is my business”
Mrs. Hardinoff meets my eyes without flinching. “If you’re going to kill me, do it. I’ve lived long enough.”
I exhale hard through my nose.
“Is she a threat to me?”
Her brows furrow.
“No, she just needs a way to get away from men like you.”
The words land harder than they should.
“Men like me?”
She shakes her head and turns back to her pot.
“She needs people she can trust in this world and you and I both know, you aren’t a man to be trusted.”