Chapter 22 #2
“Because he will not be easy,” he adds. “And he does not know how to lose.”
I hold his gaze.
“I don’t either.”
That makes him smile again.
Only this time, I can feel the respect radiating off of him. He moves past me toward the door.
“Don’t make me regret this,” he says calmly.
“I wasn’t planning to.”
His hand rests on the door handle.
“One more thing.” I glance at him. “If you’re playing him…” He pauses. “…don’t.”
A warning. He opens the door. “Let’s get you home.”
“My home?” I ask hopeful.
He chuckles dark and low. “You know which home I’m talking about.”
***
Living with Maksim Korsakov is… interesting. The man spends more time dying his hair than in meetings.
I’ve been in multiple bratva meetings. Learned more information than I ever needed to give over to Gabriel. But each demanding text from him gets ignored.
Maksim needs to be reeled back. His empire is huge. His men organized, but him?
Reckless. Impulsive. Acting before thinking and daring anyone to stop him.
Always going somewhere half cocked, all bravado, no strategy.
Vaska has strategy, Maksim doesn’t listen.
Dimitri is brute force, but controllable.
Ivan has tactical skills not being put to use.
Maksim even has an army of snipers he barely uses.
Wasteful. I’ve seen every weak spot in his brotherhood and yet, I can’t bring myself to tell Gabriel.
Why should he get the upper hand?
Because this empire could be something.
And I want to be the one who shapes it.
The men are getting use to me, nice even. Pietro is by far the nicest out of all of Maksim’s men, young, sad eyes.
The bike slows.
The engine vibration beneath me shifts—deeper, smoother, then cuts entirely.
Silence swallows the road. I blink and look up.
This place is huge.
Rows of houses stretch across a gated stretch of land, all similar in build but subtly different—clean stone facades, black iron railings, trimmed hedges. It almost looks like a quiet suburban neighborhood.
If suburban neighborhoods came with armed guards at every corner.
The gates behind us close with a mechanical groan. Maksim swings his leg off the Ducati. I slide off after him, pulling the helmet free.
“Where are we?” I ask.
He doesn’t look at me as he takes the helmet from my hands.
“The compound.”
My gaze drifts again. This isn’t just a house. It’s infrastructure.
Safe houses. Training grounds. Family quarters.
Everything centralized.
Everything controlled.
The possibilities unfold in my mind faster than I can stop them.
A foundation.
The largest house sits near the center. Three stories. Stone. Wide windows. A long wraparound porch that looks almost warm in the afternoon light.
Almost.
Maksim gestures toward it with his chin.
We walk up the steps.
Inside, the space opens immediately.
High ceilings. Dark wood beams. Massive chandelier dripping crystal light over polished floors. The kind of place that was built to impress allies and intimidate enemies.
He doesn’t slow.
“Sit,” he says, motioning toward the living room.
“I’ll be back.”
And he disappears down a hallway without waiting for a response.
I don’t sit, too busy taking in the massive room, it’s bright, beautiful, clean. It feels fresh. I wouldn’t mind living here instead of townhouse. So close to the rest of the Bratva. Maksim should be ruling from here.
Footsteps echo across the hall. I turn.
A woman crosses the open entry; blonde, sleek, composed. Pale gold hair falling straight past her shoulders. Long legs. Narrow waist. High cheekbones sharp enough to draw blood. Blue eyes bright and cool, scanning me in one smooth pass.
She pauses. “Hi.”
Effortless.
Her gaze flicks over her shoulder.
“Kostya,” she calls lightly. “Someone’s here for you.”
And then she keeps walking. I watch her go.
The bone structure. The eyes. The posture. It hits me a second later.
She looks like him.
Not identical, but carved from the same blueprint. Cold beauty. Controlled presence.
Bloodline.
So this is family.
A tall man steps into view. Lean. Leather jacket slung over one shoulder. Blond hair wind-swept like he doesn’t bother taming it. Blue eyes; the same shade as hers.
The same shade as Maksim’s.
The resemblance is obvious now. Same sharp angles. Same arrogance in the mouth.
Just worn differently.
His smile curves slow when he sees me.
Interested.
Predatory. Definitely a Korsakov.
He takes his time crossing the room.
“Hello,” he says, voice light. Amused already.
I tilt my head slightly. Taller than Maksim. Broader in the shoulders too.
“Hello.”
He studies me like I’m something rare. “You’re not what I expected.”
“And what did you expect?”
He stops a little too close.
“Not you,” he says honestly.
I smile.
“Disappointed?”
That grin widens.
Oh.
He likes that.
“Not at all,” he says, extending his hand. “Kostya Korsakov.”
I take it. His grip is firm but not crushing. Testing, not threatening.
“Ayla,” I say.
“Ayla,” he repeats, like he’s tasting the name. “You look fun.”
“Fun?”
“Mhm, are you here for me? Say yes,” he towers over me, his fingers brush my cheek like he’s already claimed permission.
Maksim’s voice booms from the entryway, sharp and commanding in Russian. I freeze, glancing at Kostya, who only smirks.
“He says if I touch you, I die.”
Before I can react, Kostya’s hand grabs mine, pulling me into him.
In one smooth, daring move, he dips me back as if we’re dance partners, his face hovering just inches from mine.
I barely have time to catch my breath before a click cuts through the room.
My eyes widen as I stare into Kostya’s, crinkled at the edges with an infuriatingly smug smile.
“Shame,” he murmurs. “We could have had fun.”
He pulls me back up, releasing me and stepping away with his hands raised in mock surrender. He tosses a wink my way. “Sometimes, I like to test his aim.”
Maksim’s expression is ice, his gun still trained on Kostya as he watches his brother walk off.
I don’t watch him leave.
I look at Maksim.
Really look at him.
The gun.
The tension in his shoulders.
The way his jaw locks like he’s restraining something feral.
He doesn’t lower the weapon until Kostya disappears around the corner, and even then, his gaze remains dark and stony as he turns back to me.
“Don’t go near Kostya again,” he says, his voice rough with warning.
The edge in it isn’t casual. It’s territorial.
And fuck, I feel it.
Something warm slides low in my stomach.
I roll my eyes, but it’s deliberate now. Testing. “He just introduced himself.”
“You don’t need to know him,” he growls, his eyes narrowing.
The possessive edge in his tone sends a shiver down my spine.
I want to test the edge.