Chapter 21
Maksim
Fucking Vaska.
The door slams. I spin on him immediately.
“What the fuck are you doing in my house?”
He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even slow. Just walks deeper into the kitchen and props himself against the counter
“You weren’t answering.”
“So you break in.”
“You gave me a key.”
“Not anymore.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “You’re distracted.”
My teeth grind. His eyes flick to the bedroom. He doesn’t bother to hide it.
“Bakery girl,” he says lightly. “At the meeting was one thing. But in your bed?” He whistles softly. “Unexpected.”
“Careful.”
He ignores it.
“She’s sleeping here. Eating at your table. Having intense conversations about… protection.” His brow lifts. “That’s new for you.”
Silence.
Of course Vaska eavesdropped.
“You don’t keep strays,” Vaska says quietly. “So either she matters…” his gaze cuts to me, sharp as a blade, “…or you’re slipping.”
My hand is on him before the thought even forms.
I grab his shirt and slam him back against the counter. A glass crashes to the floor, exploding into glittering shards.
His hands come up, slow, not defensive.
That smirk never leaves. Mocking.
That damn smirk still coiled at his mouth.
“Touchy,” he murmurs.
“Say it again.”
“She. Matters. To you.”
I shove him harder.
“Watch your fucking mouth.”
Now he studies me, humor fading like smoke burned off by heat.
“You run her?” he asks.
“Not yet.”
“Why?” He studies me. “You never wait.”
“Because I said so.”
He lets that sit. So heavy it’s almost suffocating.
“What is she?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
His eyes narrow. “Liar.”
The word hits like a trigger pull.
My grip tightens.
“She has value,” I snap without thinking.
His eyes sharpen. “For us?”
“She’s mine to deal with.”
“There is no ‘mine,’” he says calmly. “There’s just the Bratva.”
I let him go with a shove.
“Don’t confuse concern with authority.”
Vaska exhales roughly—the closest he gets to showing annoyance.
“You’re too close to her. I should—”
“Don’t touch her.”
He tilts his head. “If she’s a threat—”
“I’ll handle it.”
A soft, lethal pause settles.
“Will you?” he asks.
My silence betrays me. Vaska adjusts his shirt slowly, deliberately, like he’s giving me time to think; or choke.
“I’ll run her,” he says. “If she fails, I’ll have Dimitri handle it. Quiet. Clean.”
“You don’t touch her.”
“Maksim.” His voice sharpens. “If you can’t—”
“If you find something, you come to me first.”
His gaze doesn’t waver.
Finally, he nods once.
“Fine. Then we’ll see if you’re capable of doing what needs to be done.”
“Get out,” I say.
He holds my stare. A long moment.
Then he pushes off the counter and moves toward the door.
“When this goes bad,” he says, “it’s on you.”
He pauses at the frame.
“She’s pretty,” he adds. “Pretty doesn’t live long with us.”
The door shuts.
I stand there, staring at the broken glass on the floor.
He’s right.
Fuck.
Silence settles heavy in the townhouse. I stand there a second longer than I should. Then I head for the bedroom. I don’t knock, just open the door. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed. Phone in her hand.
Still.
Just… staring at it.
She looks up when I enter.
There’s something in her expression.
Loss.
It hits me wrong.
I cross the room in three strides and take the phone from her hand before she even blinks.
She doesn’t fight. Doesn’t even breathe differently.
Silence like that is dangerous.
And I don’t like that.
I check the phone. Messages. Nothing. Call log. Empty.
Too empty.
Either she wiped it.
Or she didn’t memorize numbers from her old phone.
Good.
I hand it back without comment.
Her fingers close around it slowly.
“Let’s go,” I say. “Bring your jacket.”
She doesn’t ask where. Doesn’t ask why. She just stands. Walks to the chair. Shrugs into the leather jacket.
She’s gone from fire moments ago to ash. I don’t like it.
We step into the hall. I take a helmet from the hook, shove it toward her.
She accepts it without a word.
That pisses me off more than if she argued. I sigh, step in close, and take it back from her hands. Put it on her myself. Fasten the strap, fingers brushing her jaw.
Her eyes meet mine through the visor, empty, too quiet.
“You’ll ride with me. Don’t need to go far,” I tell her.
She nods once.
I lead her out to the garage, where the Ducati waits.
I swing a leg over.
She climbs on behind me.
Her arms sliding around me. I feel her press against my back, thighs bracketing mine, but her grip is barely there.
“Tighter,” I growl, revving the engine. “Unless you want to fly off when I turn.”
Her arms tighten fractionally. It’s not enough, but it’ll have to do.
We pull out onto the street. The ride is short. Ten minutes. The warehouse lights are already on when we arrive.
I cut the engine. Her hands fall away from me as soon as I do.
She follows.
Inside, the air smells like iron and sweat. The man is already half bloody. Tied to the chair. Head hanging. Two of my men there. Pietro stands off to the side, arms crossed.
Dimitri is working the ribs with calm, precise strikes; a surgeon with a vendetta.
They look up when I enter. I don’t slow. Neither does the storm building in my chest.
“Dimitri,” I say.
He steps back immediately, wipes his hands on a rag and moves aside.
I shrug off my jacket and toss it at Pietro without looking.
He catches it. I pull my shirt over my head and drop it onto a discarded chair.
The cold air hits my skin. This clears my head.
For a second I can ignore her because this is simple. This is where I thrive.
Pain. Question. Answer.
Repeat.
Except—there it is.
Her scent. Sweet.
Those damn marshmallow messing with my process. It threads through the metallic air and gets under my skin. I glance over my shoulder.
Pietro is pulling a chair out for her.
She smiles at him. Small, but polite.
Something ugly coils in my gut. I don’t like men seeing her smile.
“Ivanov. Go,” I say to Pietro.
He hesitates half a second. Looks at her. Then at me before leaving. The door shuts. Silence stretches. Just the bastards ragged breathing.
And her.
Watching.
I grab the man by the hair, yank his head up. His face is ruined—swollen eyes, split lip, blood dripping down his chin.
“You’re going to try again,” I tell him, voice calm.
He spits.
I don’t blink.
My fist cracks across his face, bone giving under my knuckles. His head snaps sideways, blood splattering the floor.
I look at her.
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. Doesn’t shrink.
She just watches.
I don’t like when I can’t read her.
I don’t like what that does inside me.
I close the space between us, grab her chair by the seat, and drag it closer.
Metal shrieks across concrete. She still doesn’t react. She doesn’t say anything, her eyes meet mine as I pull her over. Her body sways when I get her close enough.
“Figure you need a closer look.”
The man groans.
She remains silent.
I hit him again. Harder. Blood arcs across the floor.
“You disgusted?” I ask.
I hit him again.
“Can you stomach it, Beda?”
Her brows pull together. “Wait are you interrogating me or him?”
I freeze. “What?”
“I thought you brought me here so I can’t leave while you…” She gestures lazily at the man. “…work. But am I supposed to react? Is this how you interrogate women?”
I stare at her.
No fear in her voice. No tremble.
She’s bored.
“This isn’t an interrogation for you,” I say finally.
She shrugs. “Then what is it?”
“A test.”
Her eyes narrow slightly. “Of what?”
I turn back to the man in the chair, whose breathing has grown more labored. Blood bubbles from his nose with each exhale.
“Of how much of me you can handle,” I answer without looking at her.
She scoffs. “I’ve seen worse.”
I still. Turn my head.
“Have you?”
She meets my gaze, steady. “Yes.”
Her calm isn’t ignorance. It’s experience. It bothers me more than it should.
“Who the fuck are you, Ayla?”
“Nobody.” She crosses her legs, leans back in the chair. “Just a girl in need of money to get the fuck out of dodge.”
“Bullshit.”
The man coughs. I ignore him.
“This doesn’t bother you,” I say, motioning to the blood, the body, the violence. “Not the way it should.”
She tilts her head. “What do you want me to do? Cry? Beg you to stop? Would that make you feel better about yourself?”
I step toward her slowly
“What I want,” I say, “is for you to stop pretending.”
“I’m not pretending anything.”
“You’re hiding something.”
Her jaw tightens, just slightly. “There’s literally nothing for me to hide.”
The man coughs wetly again, dragging my attention back.
I grab his hair and force his head up. “You’re going to tell me who sent you.”
He mumbles something, thick with blood.
“Louder.”
“Kaya,” he gasps. “Gabriel Kaya.”
Behind me, I hear Ayla’s sharp intake of breath. So small I almost miss it.
I freeze.
I turn to look at her. Her face has gone still. Too still. The kind of stillness that comes from practice.
“Gabriel Kaya,” I repeat, watching her. “You know that name?”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “Everyone knows that name.”
“You work for him? Run drugs for him?”
She shakes her head. Too quickly. “No.”
Liar.
I step toward her, closing the distance until I’m standing right in front of her chair. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re too fucking calm Ayla.” I point at my captive, “Do you know him?”
I drag her chair in front of his. Their knees grazing. Her eyes meet his.
“No.”
I backhand him hard enough for a groan to escape. “Do you know her?”
His one good eye trails her form. He shakes his head. “I don’t—”
That’s all he gets before I press the barrel of my gun to his temple and pull the trigger.
If Ayla made a sound, I didn’t hear it over the shot.
Her eyes go blank. Her body stock still.
No scream. No flinch.
Just absence.
Like she’s seen this before.
Blyad.