Chapter 25
Maksim
Isaid too much.
But I regret nothing.
Most women either try too hard or shrink when they try to walk beside me.
She does neither.
I don’t bring women into this side of my world. They know of me, but they don’t know me.
With Ayla, my hand is already on her back, guiding her out of the office like it belongs there. And it does.
Vaska ran her, she checks out.
She wants to stay. So she can.
Noise rolls through the casino floor—cards shuffling, glass clinking, money changing hands as we reach the main floor.
I glance at her.
A quick, assessing sweep.
The dress fits her like it was made for her.
It hugs her waist, skims her hips, falls just above the knee in a way that’s elegant without screaming for attention.
Practical for a night here, but still dangerous.
Her hair brushes her shoulder blades. She even did her makeup and it fucking lights up her face.
Makes it hard not to look.
She fits.
I guide her toward the high-stakes poker table, where Mayor Olson is holding court like he owns the velvet ropes.
Heads turn when we pass. All eyes on her. Because of her.
He spots me before we’re halfway there. He stands and straightens his tie. That politician smile snaps into place—too wide, too practiced. His eyes flick to Ayla, linger a second too long, then snap back to me.
“Maksim,” he says, voice carrying just enough warmth to pretend we’re old friends. “Good to see you. And…?” He gestures toward her, expectant.
I don’t introduce her.
Instead, I pull out the empty chair to his left and nod at it.
“Sit,” I murmur in Ayla’s ear, my hand firm at the small of her back as she lowers herself into the seat. I peel a banded stack of chips off the tray a hostess brings over and set it in front of her. “You’re playing.”
Her eyes flick up to me, quick and sharp. There’s a spark there.
She’s interested. And I’m curious to watch.
The dealer glances between us, then begins to shuffle, cards snapping against felt.
Olsen clears his throat. “You’re not sitting in?”
I stand behind Ayla’s chair instead, fingers resting lightly on the top of it, on her. From here, I can see her hand, the table, and every twitch in Olsen’s face.
“No,” I say. “I’m already invested.”
Ayla’s lips twitch like she heard more than I said.
The first hand is dealt. Two cards down to each player. Ayla doesn’t touch hers right away. She waits, eyes on the dealer’s hands, on the way the cards land. Then she picks them up with a casual, almost bored motion. No tell.
Interesting.
Olsen lowers his voice.
“Election’s heating up,” he says. “You know how it is. I could use a little… encouragement. A word from you to the right people, a few donations routed quietly—people listen when you speak, Maksim. They vote the way you point.”
The flop comes down: three cards faceup in the center. Ayla’s gaze skims them, just once. She doesn’t look back at her hole cards. She doesn’t need to.
She taps a chip with her index finger.
My thumb drifts, tracing a slow, deliberate line along the back of her chair, along the line of her shoulder. I feel the tiniest shift in her muscles. The hitch in her breath she swallows.
I let the silence stretch, let the sounds of the table fill it; chips clacking, a low curse from the guy in seat three, the dealer’s calm monotone. Ayla tosses in a raise that’s just a little too bold for a woman no one here has seen before.
Two men fold. One calls. Olsen hesitates, then calls too, ego pricked.
I finally answer. “I’m going a different way this time, Olsen.”
His face flickers. First surprise, then calculation. “Gutierrez?”
I don’t confirm. Don’t need to. The turn card hits the table; Ayla doesn’t flinch. She leans back in her chair, one elbow resting on the arm, fingers drumming once on the felt.
She likes this.
Olsen exhales. Forces the smile back. “That’s not exactly our deal.”
“Deal’s over.” I say it flat. Final. The same way I’d call time of death.
At the table, the man in seat three shoves the rest of his stack in. All in. He tries to stare Ayla down like she’s his prey.
She stares back. Steady. Unmoved. Then, slowly, she pushes her own stack in to match, a neat, precise motion that makes the dealer’s brows lift a fraction.
“All in,” she announces.
Confidence.
There’s a beat where the whole table holds its breath.
Olsen shifts, torn between the hand and the conversation, greed and self-preservation. It’s written all over him; he’s not used to choosing unless the choice is already safe.
He folds. Coward.
He stands, stepping closer to me.
“I’ve backed you for two terms,” he says under his breath, as the dealer burns a card and lays the river down.
“My office has looked the other way. Licenses. Inspectors. Those raids that never quite made it to your doors.” His jaw ticks.
“After everything that’s happened in this city…
after what I’ve lost… you’re really going to walk away now? ”
There it is. The crack in the mask. The thing he never names but bleeds for—his missing son and the ghosts he can’t admit exist.
I watch Ayla instead.
She turns her cards over calmly. A made hand. Strong. The man across from her curses, slams his cards down; garbage compared to hers. The pot slides her way in a satisfying avalanche of chips.
She smiles then. Just a little. It hits me harder than anything Olsen just said.
“I’m walking,” I say, eyes still on her. “You’re the one who bet on the wrong side, Mayor.”
He lets out a humorless laugh. “Gutierrez can’t protect you the way I have.”
“I don’t need protection,” I counter.
I finally look at him. “But you might.”
His jaw clenches. “Careful, Maksim. You’re not untouchable. You start pointing people away from me, the wrong questions get asked about you. About this place.”
Ayla stacks her winnings, neat columns forming under her hands. She’s not nervous. Like she understands house edges and odds and how to cut a man open with nothing but a smile and a well-timed raise.
I drift my hand down, brushing my fingers through the ends of her hair as they rest over the back of the chair.
His gaze drops to that touch. Sticks there.
“You want advice?” I murmur.
He swallows. “From you?”
“Stop talking like you control anything that matters.” I shift, stepping closer to Ayla’s chair, close enough that I can feel the heat of her against my thigh. “You’re a face on a poster. A name on a ballot. If you win, it’s because I allow it. If you lose, it’s because I decided you’re done.”
His nostrils flare. “You think you can make me lose?”
I watch Ayla rake in another small pot with nothing but a well-timed bluff and the slightest arch of her brow.
Fuck.
The risk, the attention, the way the men around her don’t know whether to underestimate her or worship her.
She’s enjoying it.
“I don’t think,” I say softly. “I know.”
He stares at me like he’s trying to see the edges of the threat. There aren’t any. It’s all blade.
“What do you want, then?” he asks finally. “You backing Gutierrez for free out of the goodness of your heart?”
I huff out a breath that might almost be a laugh.
“Nothing’s free,” I say. “Not for me. Not for you.”
“So what’s the price?” he presses.
The dealer starts another hand. Ayla doesn’t look at me, but she tilts her head the tiniest degree, like she’s listening. Like she’s curious what I’ll say.
I let my fingers trail once more along the back of her neck, my pulse spikes when I feel her shiver.
“The price,” I say, “is that when you lose, you lose quietly. No tantrums. No investigations. No speeches about corruption and crime in my city. You shake Gutierrez’s hand, you smile for the cameras, and you pretend this is what you wanted all along.”
His mouth opens, then closes.
“You’re asking me to… concede?”
“I’m telling you what survival looks like for you now.”
He stares at me for a long moment, something like hatred simmering under the surface. Then his gaze flicks to Ayla, to the stack of chips in front of her.
“She yours?” he asks, voice low.
I don’t hesitate. “Yes.”
The word comes out faster than I intend. Harder.
Ayla’s fingers still for half a second on a tower of chips, then move again, smooth and steady. She doesn’t look back, but I see the way her shoulders straighten.
Olsen nods.
“You’re playing a dangerous game, Maksim. Especially when you start making ties.”
“I am the game,” I reply.
The dealer pushes another small pot toward Ayla. She lets out a soft huff through her nose, almost a laugh, and for a second, the casino’s noise fades under the sound of it.
My focus is already where it needs to be. On the woman at my table, not the man who’s already lost.
“Enjoy your evening, Mayor,” I say, already dismissing him, my hand settling firmly on Ayla’s shoulder. “If you want another shot, book a seat.”
His brow creases. “At the table?”
“At the table. At city hall. Doesn’t matter.” I give his stack of chips—a shallow, pathetic thing now, a pointed look. “The house loves a man who’s willing to lose.”
He gets it. He doesn’t like it.
But he gets it.
Olsen straightens his tie again like that’ll fix anything and steps back from the table, retreating with the same false dignity all desperate men wear when they realize they’re no longer being courted, they’re being tolerated.
Barely.
I lean down, mouth close to Ayla’s ear, letting the heat of my breath skate over her skin.
“Having fun, Beda?” I murmur.
She doesn’t look at me. Just flicks a chip into the pot with a practiced little flick of her wrist.
“Watching me win, Maksim?”
I watch the way her lips curve, the way victory looks on her.
“No,” I breathe. “Just watching you.”
***
The living room in this goddamn estate feels like a cage tonight; same heavy drapes, same polished wood that always smells faintly of old money and older blood. I hate it here.
Always have.
Too many eyes in the walls, too many ghosts in the corners. But the compound demands these meetings, and tonight the house is packed: my men sprawled across leather chairs and sofas, smoke curling from cigarettes, low voices trading intel on the Turks like it’s just another Tuesday.
Ayla sits beside me on the wide sectional.
Close enough that her thigh brushes mine every time she shifts.
She’s wearing those black fishnets I bought her—the ones I made her try on in the bedroom two days ago while I watched from the armchair like a starving man.
Tonight they disappear under the hem of tiny denim shorts.
Her legs are crossed, one foot bouncing slightly, the diamond webbing of the nets catching the lamplight every time she moves.
I should be listening.
Ivan is droning on about border shipments, intercepted calls, a possible meeting next month.
Vaska leans forward, elbows on knees, laying out contingencies.
Someone mentions the warehouse hit from last week.
I nod when it’s expected, grunt when it’s required.
But the words slide off me like rain on glass.
Because I know what she feels like now.
That day on the couch still burns behind my eyes; her thighs locked around my hips, the broken little sounds she made when I finally pushed all the way in, the way her nails carved half-moons into my shoulders like she was claiming me right back.
I haven’t touched her since. Not once. I told myself it was strategy, control, that I needed to figure out how the hell I lost my grip so completely. How I let her fuck with me like that.
How I still taste her when I close my eyes at night.
She’s mine now. That should make this easier. It doesn’t.
Her scent drifts over. Marshmallows. My cock twitches like it has a personal vendetta. I shift, trying to focus on the map someone unrolled on the coffee table. Trying not to stare at the way the fishnets hug the curve of her calf, the soft line where netting meets smooth skin.
Dimitri’s eyes flick down.
Again.
He’s not even subtle about it this time—his gaze lingers on her legs, slow, appreciative, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s remembering some private joke. My vision narrows to a pinprick.
I reach sideways, palm closing around the handle of Vaska’s knife from his fingers. The blade leaves my hand before I finish the thought.
It buries itself in Dimitri’s shoulder with a wet thunk.
He jerks back, chair scraping, hand flying to the hilt. Blood instantly darkens his shirt. The room goes dead quiet except for the hiss of his indrawn breath.
“Fucking Christ, Maks,” Dimitri snarls, teeth gritted.
Vaska exhales through his nose like a bull. “Stop taking my knife.”
I lean back, arm stretched along the sofa behind Ayla now, fingers brushing the nape of her neck.
“Hold on to it tighter then,” I murmur. Low. Almost bored.
Dimitri yanks the blade free with a curse, pressing his palm over the wound. Vaska snatches the knife back the second it’s out, wiping it on his jeans before sliding it into his boot.
Ayla hasn’t moved. Hasn’t flinched. But I feel the tiniest tremor run through her thigh where it presses against mine. Skin hot. She knows exactly why I did it.
I let my thumb trace a slow circle against the soft skin at the base of her skull, right under her hair. She tilts her head just enough to give me better access.
The room starts talking again; careful now, voices lower, eyes anywhere but her legs. The Turks are mentioned again. Plans. Timelines. Retaliation.
I still don’t give a fuck.
All I can think about is how her cunt felt clenching around me, the look on her face when she came, how I’ve been starving myself ever since just to prove I could.
I can’t.
Not anymore.
“You have that raid tonight and now you’re down Dimitri,” Vaska murmurs close. “Am I going or—”
Fuck.
I can’t leave Ayla in the townhouse alone. She said she wants to stay, but she might run.
The compound is safer.
“No I have to go. You’ll stay here.”
“Here?”
“Yes, with Beda.”
I don’t look at her when I say it.
I don’t need to.
She’s not going anywhere.
Not from this house.
Not from me.