Chapter 12
CHAPTER
TWELVE
MAXIM
I’m juggling a lowball of whiskey in one hand while pressing the phone to my ear with the other, when the limo pulls up to the curb beside Probka, the city's hottest new restaurant that I have a majority stake in.
It's a favorite among the city's eager-to-see-and-be-seen socialites, partly due to its celebrity chef owner, Daria Amelin.
It's not my usual choice, but it's exactly what I need tonight.
“All is set,” Nadya confirms on the other end of the line. “The restaurant is full, and the press has been notified. No one will miss your appearance."
I take a sip of my whiskey. Its warmth contrasts with the cool looks Kira is throwing at me from the opposite seat. When she catches my eye, she crosses her arms in front of her generous chest and averts her gaze out the window.
“Did you let Daria know?” I ask Nadya.
“I did, and she’s thrilled.” Nadya pauses, and I know what that pause is about.
My wife. “I still don’t think this is a good idea.
She’s still so … much,” she says with distaste.
“Given some time and training from me, I could mold her into a more suitable wife. Although, I’m afraid she’ll never be good enough for you. ”
And there we have it—no woman will ever be good enough for me in Nadya’s eyes.
She either has me on way too high of a pedestal or she doesn’t want to have to share the ‘lady of the house’ title with anyone else.
Both, likely. I’ve spoiled her. Ever since Irina, I've kept my home a fortress—no women, no distractions.
My affairs are short, to the point, and never where I lay my head.
But the idea of molding Kira, now that’s laughable.
I eye my wife carefully. There’s no question she’s a firecracker.
Despite my earlier warning, she’s chosen thigh-high boots with bold stiletto heels.
Yes, her black dress is simple and classic, but on her body it looks .
.. it looks smoking hot. It’s not so much the dress I’m thinking about but what’s underneath it.
Now that I know what she looks like naked—her generous ass, creamy thighs, her pink tinged nipples—I can’t get the vision out of my mind. It’s been a full week, and the memory of her bare skin lingers like a constant torment.
“It’s fine, Nadya,” I say, an edge to my voice. “I’ll take it from here.”
What Nadya fails to grasp is that Kira's youth and beauty are part of her public appeal. Our mismatch, our age difference—everything—works in my favor because the press is fascinated by the opposites-attract love story.
Outside the window, the paparazzi are already swarming like vultures waiting for their moment. Or rather, our moment. It's our first public outing together, a carefully planned display of post-wedding bliss. Although, from the expression on Kira’s face, no one is going to believe the bliss part.
“Is that all for us?” she asks, gesturing out the window with a frown.
“It is,” I acknowledge. “Do you think you could try and look happy when we step outside? Not like I kicked your dog?”
She frowns. “Seriously, why would you even say that? What kind of person would even think of kicking a dog?”
I huff out a laugh. “A proverbial dog. I wouldn’t kick an actual dog,” I clarify. I’ve kicked men—done a lot worse to them, in fact—but I have nothing against animals.
“You’re a modern-day saint.” She scoffs. “Anyhow, don’t worry. I’ll flash my pearly whites for the cameras.” With a sneer, Kira pastes a smile so forced it borders on comedic.
One side of my mouth tips up at the corner. “You might want to try again. Didn’t quite buy it.”
“Chill, okay? I faked it at our wedding. I’ll be fine. Let’s get this over with.”
I take a deep breath and hold out my open palm to Kira. She hesitates momentarily, before taking my hand as the limo door opens and the charade begins.
"For your next course, we have beautiful pan-seared scallops on a bed of truffle-infused cauliflower purée, garnished with microgreens, and a delicate saffron and citrus emulsion."
Kira hangs on every word as Daria places the dishes before us. “Are these local truffles?" she asks.
“They are, indeed,” Daria replies. “Few people know these mushrooms grow in Russia. I’m impressed that you do.”
Kira's face lights up with a wide, genuine smile, the kind that reaches her eyes and transforms her entire expression. It hits me how beautiful she is when she’s not flinging insults my way.
An hour earlier, we had posed for photos in front of the restaurant, the paparazzi’s cameras flashing away.
As promised, she smiled broadly for the pictures and posed beside me.
But her expression was brittle, her pose stiff.
I doubt anyone else noticed, so captivated by our appearance, but I did.
That's why seeing her now, at ease, with real joy on her face, stirs something inside me.
"My aunt was a real foodie," Kira responds, a hint of emotion in her voice.
Not surprising, considering the way she lost Masha.
"She took me to nearly every Michelin-star restaurant across Europe. I learned to appreciate fine dining from a young age.” Kira flicks a quick, assessing glance my way as she takes a sip of the Chenin Blanc that was paired with this course.
“Thank you, Daria,” I say. “Everything has been outstanding so far.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” With a nod, Daria heads back to the kitchen and Kira sits back, smoothing the napkin in her lap.
“So, you’re on a first-name basis with the chef?” She raises her eyebrows. “That’s cute.”
I’m not sure what Kira is getting at. Yes, Daria is young and attractive, but our relationship is strictly professional. “It’s not cute, it’s business. Daria needed help to open this place, and I was in a position to help her.”
She looks at me doubtfully. “You don’t seem like the type to invest in small businesses. What’s in it for you?”
I lean back, scanning the restaurant’s sleek black-and-gold modern decor while a sultry beat injects life into the room. “Money. But investing in Probka isn’t only about financial returns. It's about supporting someone with real skill and vision. There’s not enough of that in today’s world.”
Kira carefully swipes her fork through the cauliflower purée and releases a little moan that travels straight to my dick.
"I agree." She arches an eyebrow. "And yet, you don’t seem that interested in the food. You haven’t even mentioned how well the yuzu and saffron taste together."
I huff out a dark laugh. "My background was far from this world of fine dining. I came from a place where any meal on the table was a blessing. So, while I enjoy these elaborate dishes, I'm not particularly picky about the specifics like yuzu and saffron."
Talking about my past isn't something I usually do—it opens doors to memories I'd rather keep at bay. But there's something about her genuine curiosity that makes me lower my guard.
She leans back, studying me. "So, from simple beginnings to the kingpin of Moscow’s bratvas," she muses. "That's a story I'd like to hear."
I ball my fists under the table. “It’s not a happy one.”
She raises her glass to me. “Who among us has a happy history? You know mine. It’s only fair that you tell me yours.”
Usually, I’d shut down any talk of my past, but fuck…
Maybe it’s the wine or the way she’s looking up at me with those big, curious hazel eyes, but I don’t have it in me to deny her.
“I was born in the Chertanovo district. They call it Moscow's forgotten periphery for a reason,” I say wryly. “My mother died when I was young—two or three years old. I don’t remember her. I was mostly raised by my paternal grandmother. My father too, but he’d come and go, never really a constant presence.
But he taught me one valuable thing—how to fight. ”
Kira leans forward, her expression intense. “Is that how you survived on the streets?”
“It was helpful for self-defense, but it was more valuable as a way to make money.
There weren't many choices for moving up in life, not beyond stealing or drug dealing.
So, I used my fight winnings to invest. I started small, with investments in real estate, gradually expanding to bigger, more lucrative deals as I built my empire. "
What I don’t tell her is that her father, Oleg, was my introduction to the world of the bratva.
But he was only that, an introduction. It was my work ethic, my drive, and my smarts that opened doors in the underworld.
But does Kira really want to hear about my short-lived connection to her asshole father? I doubt it.
For some reason, I don’t want to ruin this surprisingly normal moment between us.
“That’s quite a story,” she admits, holding eye contact. “Why do you keep your past so tightly guarded? You should be proud of the fact that you overcame a difficult childhood and made something of yourself.”
“Pride is a useless emotion. What good has it done anyone?”
I was proud of the life I had built, right up until I lost my son. After that, everything changed. Pride didn't bring him back nor heal the pain. The harsh reality is that life can be cruel and unforgiving, no matter who you are.
“I prefer to look forward, focus on what’s next. Not look back,” I say, clearing the ball of emotion from my throat.
Kira tilts her head in thought. “Is that why you gave Daria a chance? To invest in her future?”
“That, and she was good in bed.”
Kira looks horrified.
I bark out a laugh. “I’m kidding. God, you’re easy to rile up.”
Her eyes flash with irritation. “Trust me, I don’t care.”
An amused smile plays across my lips. “Sure you don’t. Jealousy is perfectly normal. I’m not judging.”
She exhales sharply in annoyance. “You can sleep with whomever you want until … you know.”
Oh, do I know. Until the month is up.
"But there’s only one person I want to sleep with," I say, drinking her in.