Chapter 22
Ayla
Ali.
His name hits me like a punch.
The man Maksim killed—the one bleeding into the concrete, the one who denied knowing me, the one who took that bullet without hesitation—
Ali.
He used to sneak cookies to me when Gabriel decided I hadn’t “earned” food. Pressed sealed water bottles into my hands when no one was looking.
Told me to drink fast, hide the evidence. He’d slip them into my room like it wasn’t a risk.
Like my life was worth the danger.
And he just—He denied knowing me.
Right before Maksim put a gun to his head. My throat tightens, but nothing comes out. I don’t cry. Haven’t in years.
Maksim drags me out of the warehouse before the smoke settles, shoves the helmet back on my head, gets on the bike.
I climb on.
Because what else can I do?
His heartbeat is a hammer under his skin. I can feel it through his shirt, through the vibrations of the engine, through the tension locked in his spine.
He’s furious.
Not at Ali.
Not even at the name Gabriel Kaya.
He’s furious at me. Because I won’t break the way he wants me to.
We take off, but he isn’t on the road back to the townhouse.
No.
This turn is wrong. The buildings thin out. The air changes. My hands tighten on his waist, and he feels it. I know he does. His body goes even harder under my grip.
I try to breathe.
Ali’s face flashes behind my eyes. The split lip. The swelling. The way he looked at me one last time and pretended not to know me.
He saved me. In the only way he could.
And Maksim killed him for it.
My stomach twists with something uglier than guilt.
Purpose.
Because Ali wasn’t wrong to lie. He bought me time. Time I’m wasting now on the back of a man built on rage and intuition. A man who will kill me once he figures me out. The engine growls deeper, he accelerates.
Wherever we’re going… it isn’t safe.
We stop so abruptly my chest hits Maksim’s back hard.
The Ducati rumbles under us for one more second, then dies.
I look up.
An apartment building.
Maksim doesn’t look at me. Not once.
“Get off,” he says.
I slide off the bike. My legs feel unsteady, from the speed, from the shock, from Ali’s name echoing in my skull.
He rips the helmet off my head, his fingers graze my jaw; not gently, just decisive, like touching me costs him something.
Maksim walks ahead without waiting. I follow because my body knows better than to stay behind.
Inside the lobby, into the elevator. He stands beside me in absolute silence. The elevator doors open on the fourth floor. He strides out. I follow behind him checking for exits. We stop at apartment 4C.
He knocks once.
The door swings open.
Vaska.
My blood runs cold. Vaska is terrifying, maybe more so than Maksim. He’s tall, maybe a bit shorter than Gabriel, but it’s that damn knife he twirls between his fingers and his dark, unreadable eyes, not to mention his reputation as the Bratva executioner that puts me on edge.
Vaska fills the doorway, amused before he even sees me.
“Ah,” he drawls, eyes dragging over me with a slow, calculated interest. “Bakery girl.”
My spine stiffens.
Before I can speak or react or step back, Maksim’s hand finds the small of my back; hot, steady, and then he shoves me forward. Hard.
I stumble into Vaska’s apartment.
Maksim doesn’t step in. He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at Vaska with a look I haven’t seen before, then turns and walks away.
Vaska shuts the apartment door behind me with a soft click.
The sound slides down my spine like a blade.
He smirks. “Follow me.”
His voice is almost cheerful.
He leads me down a narrow hallway, casual, like this is the most normal thing in the world; taking in a girl dumped at his door.
My feet move on their own. I’m back in old instincts. Controlled stride. Breath quiet. Eyes forward. Ready. We turn into a kitchen. He drags out the metal chair. The one that already feels wrong. He gestures at it with two fingers.
“Sit.”
I glance around.
It’s technically a kitchen. But it feels like a storage unit pretending to be one.
Metal table. Metal chairs.
Stainless steel appliances that look like they’ve never been touched by actual food.
No magnets. No dishes drying. No crumbs. No life.
Even the air feels cold. I drag a chair back and sit. It wobbles immediately.
One leg is shorter than the others.
I rock slightly. Forward. Back.
Forward.
Back.
“Pay attention,” Vaska says.
I look up at him.
“To what? You don’t have anything in here.”
He stares.
“Shut up and stop moving.”
I sigh dramatically and stop rocking. “Okay.”
He reaches up and flips the light switch. It flickers twice before settling into a dull buzz overhead.
I tilt my head, studying it.
“Is everything in your house broken?”
His jaw tightens. “I need to ask you a couple of questions.”
He sits across from me. The metal legs scrape against the floor. It echoes. God, this place is depressing.
“Sure,” I say brightly. “Go ahead.”
“What’s your full name?”
I blink at him.
“It’s on my resume.”
“Say it.”
I smile sweetly.
“Ayla Leyla Smith.”
His stare doesn’t change. The light hums above us.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Where do you live?”
I laugh. Actually laugh.
“Are you serious? You know where I live. It’s on my resume. It’s on my paperwork. It’s in the system. Your boss knows it. What is this?”
His eyes narrow slightly. “Answer the question.”
I lean back in the chair and let it rock again.
Forward.
Back.
Forward.
“Is this an interrogation?” I ask lightly. “Is that why everything’s so weirdly cold in here? Do you do this often? Bring the bakery girls into your stainless steel dungeon kitchen and ask them about their resumes?”
The flicker returns to the light for half a second.
Vaska’s fingers tap once against the metal table.
Sharp.
“You think this is funny?”
I meet his eyes directly.
“Yes.”
That throws him.
Just slightly. Enough. Because I know what this is.
Maksim doesn’t trust me and Vaska is here to test the cracks. He wants to see if I’ll slip. He wants to see if I’ll sweat.
My chair squeaks.
“If you’re going to interrogate me,” I add casually, “at least fix the chair. It’s very distracting.”
His jaw flexes. “Stop moving.”
“Then ask better questions.”
Silence stretches.
Thick. He leans forward slightly.
“What aren’t you telling him?”
There it is.
I smile.
“Who?”
He doesn’t answer. We both know who.
I let the chair fall flat on all four legs and lean in too.
“You know what’s interesting?” I say softly. “If you already think I’m lying… it doesn’t matter what I say, does it?”
His stare hardens.
“Careful.”
“With what?”
The light flickers again. This time longer. The room dims.
For a split second we’re almost in shadow.
When it steadies, he’s still watching me like I’m something that needs to be dissected.
And I smile again.
“Dangerous game, bakery girl,” Vaska says, his voice dropping lower.
“Is it?” I lean back again, letting the chair wobble. “I just answered your questions. Not my fault you don’t like the answers.”
Vaska’s hand slides into his pocket. When it emerges, there’s a knife. Not his usual, this one is small. Elegant. The kind that’s meant for precision rather than intimidation.
He sets it on the table between us, the blade catching the flickering light.
I look at it. Then at him.
“That supposed to scare me?” I ask.
His hand moves fast, the knife is off the table in seconds, zipping past my ear into the wall behind me with a thud.
The sound rings sharp and close. My eyes stay on his. I figured that was coming.
He watches my face carefully. “I was curious,” he says evenly.
“About?”
“If you’d flinch.”
The light hums overhead. Neither of us fills the silence. He studies me like he’s recalculating.
“You don’t shake,” he says finally.
“Should I?”
“Most do.”
“Maybe you need better material.”
He laughs. It’s quiet. Short. Almost surprised.
The tension shifts. He leans back in his own chair, assessing.
“You’re either very stupid,” he says calmly, “or very sure of yourself.”
“Or very bored,” I offer.
His mouth twitches.
“You think this is a game.”
“I think you brought me to a kitchen that looks like it was furnished by a serial killer and asked me questions you already know the answers to.”
Another flicker from the light. This time, he doesn’t look at it.
He’s watching me.
“You didn’t look at the knife,” he says.
“I did.”
“No. You acknowledged it.” His eyes narrow slightly. “You didn’t measure it. Didn’t track my hands. Didn’t calculate distance.”
I shrug.
“If you wanted to hit me, you wouldn’t have put it on the table first.”
That lands. His fingers tap once on the metal surface.
“And why’s that?”
“Because men who need theatrics don’t win wars.”
He exhales through his nose. A quiet, impressed sound.
“Interesting.”
He looks at the knife in the wall then back at me. Like he’s reassessing a calculation.
He stands, walks to the counter, pours himself a drink. The interrogation is over. The energy in the room changes entirely.
“You know what I was looking for?” he asks casually.
“An excuse?”
“A crack.”
I tilt my head. “And?”
He takes a sip.
“Didn’t find one.”
That isn’t praise, but it’s close. He sets the glass down.
“I’ve been watching you,” he says. “Since Maksim brought you to that meeting…he’s taking care of you.”
I don’t respond. Don’t react. Don’t even breathe differently.
“What I can’t figure out,” he continues, “is why you’re letting him.”
That catches me off guard. “What?”
“You don’t want safety. You don’t need protection.” Vaska tilts his head. “So what do you want from him?”
“I don’t want anything from him. He’s the one who won’t leave me alone.”
Vaska studies me for a long moment.
“You’re not afraid of him.”
It isn’t a question.
I don’t answer.
He studies me another second. Then he nods to himself.
“If Maksim is who you want,” he says evenly, “I wish you luck.”
My brow lifts. Want?
“That almost sounded sincere.”
“It is.”
He steps closer—measuring.