3. Maxim
MAXIM
We’re all set.
Midnight is the deadline, and I have never been late to my own executions—metaphorical or otherwise. Timekeeping is important to me, just one of the basic standards I live by that are utterly non-negotiable.
I step out of the apartment and into the private elevator. The doors slide shut with a soft chime, and for a moment the only sound is the low hum of descent. When they open again, Michael and Kobek are already waiting in the marble lobby, two shadows in tailored dark suits…
“Pakhan,” Kobek says, falling in on my left.
Michael gives a curt nod on my right.
“Gentlemen,” I say, feeling a sense of comfort from having my two closest allies by my side. Life as a boss can be lonely, but it goes a long way to have trusted men who you know you can count on no matter what. And in the shape of Michael and Kobek, I am very much in that kind of company.
We move as one unit through the revolving doors and into the cool night air.
The city pulses around us—neon bleeding into puddles, distant sirens, the low growl of traffic that never truly sleeps. A matte-black Escalade waits at the curb, engine already running.
Two of our soldiers stand guard, eyes scanning rooftops and alley mouths.
I slide into the rear bench seat. Michael and Kobek follow, the heavy doors sealing us inside.
The SUV pulls away smoothly.
“Status,” I say, voice low.
Kobek adjusts his earpiece. “Three snipers already in position on the old control tower and the hangar roof. Wind is negligible. No issues there. They have clear lines on every approach. Second vehicle, black Tahoe, four men, two AR-10s and a belt-fed SAW. They will shadow us at three hundred meters. If anything feels off, we light the place up and exfil west toward the river.”
I nod once. “Good.”
Michael is already tapping notes on his phone, the blue glow reflecting off his sharp features. I turn to him.
“Any last-minute concerns?”
He exhales through his nose. “The deal itself is solid. Paolo has already moved two of his crews out of our new territory as a show of faith. Paperwork is ready for midnight signature. But the boy…” He pauses, choosing his words.
“Milo Pirlo-Lentini. Twenty-three. Wild. As we know, social media full of club photos, gallery openings, fast cars. He dropped out of Harvard. Doesn’t exactly live in the shadows, let’s put it that way.
That could become a liability if he keeps drawing eyes. ”
I lean back against the leather, letting the city lights streak across the tinted windows. Skyscrapers give way to older brick warehouses as we head toward the industrial edge of the city. Streetlamps flicker past like cosmic stars.
“I will handle him personally,” I say. My voice carries no room for debate. “He becomes my responsibility. I will keep the boy close, calm him down, and fold him into the family. He will learn what loyalty means under the Kovalev roof.”
Kobek shifts beside me. “We could ship him straight upstate to the compound after the handover. Keep him isolated until he settles. Safer that way.”
I allow myself a small, cold smile. “It is a good idea. But not yet. First I break the boy down. Piece by piece. He must understand exactly where his new loyalties lie before he gets any breathing room. A caged bird that still thinks it can fly is more dangerous than one that has never known the sky.”
The car falls quiet for a moment.
Outside, the streets narrow. We pass shuttered factories, chain-link fences topped with razor wire, and the occasional lone figure hunched against the night.
Rain begins to spit against the windshield, blurring the red and white lights of the few cars still moving. The wipers move in steady rhythm, almost hypnotic.
I watch the city I have bled for slide past and feel the familiar weight of command settle on my shoulders.
This truce is necessary. But necessity and trust are not the same thing.
The Lentini family might be operating differently these days, but that means little in reality.
Everything they’re showing us now could be a facade.
It could be a long game, ready to lure the whole underworld into a false sense of security.
I need to be prepared for anything.
Twenty minutes later the SUV slows. The private airfield appears ahead: high fences, a single lit hangar, and the faint outline of an old control tower against the clouded sky.
Our driver kills the headlights as we roll around to the rear access road.
The second vehicle peels off to take up position in the shadows.
We stop.
“It’s go time,” I say.
“Go time,” both Michael and Kobek echo in return.
We’ve been in this position together many times in the past. We know how one another works, and what signs to look for. If anything is suspicious, we’ll be able to communicate together well enough.
Or at least I hope we will.
I button my coat and step out into the damp night.
The air smells of jet fuel, wet concrete, and distant saltwater.
Michael and Kobek flank me again as we walk across the cracked tarmac.
My shoes make soft, deliberate sounds. Ahead, headlights cut through the darkness…
three black SUVs in a loose V formation. Lentini men.
Paolo Lentini steps forward from the center vehicle. He is shorter than me but carries himself with the quiet authority of a man who has already survived two assassination attempts this year. Silver at his temples, immaculate charcoal suit, his eyes like chipped obsidian.
“Maxim,” he says, extending a hand. His grip is firm, dry. “The papers are in order. Our people have already begun the withdrawal from the eastern blocks. Tonight we draw a new line.”
I shake his hand once. “A fair line, Paolo. One we will both honor. The Kovalev family keeps its word.”
He nods. “As does the Lentini family. This boy… my nephew… he is blood. Treat him with respect and he will bring no trouble. A gift of the highest order, but one that must be honored.”
“Of course,” I reply.
Respect is earned, I think, but I do not say it. Instead I incline my head. “He will be under my direct protection. No harm will come to Milo while he remains loyal.”
A side door of the middle SUV opens. A broad-shouldered Lentini enforcer steps out first, then reaches back inside. A slender figure emerges.
Milo.
The moment I see the boy, something inside my chest shifts… like a blade being drawn half an inch from its sheath.
Milo is smaller than the photos suggested, but the camera never captured the electricity he carries.
Chestnut hair falls in loose across his brow, catching the headlights in streaks of warm brown and gold.
Dark eyes, full lips pressed into a defiant line.
He wears a cropped black leather jacket over a silk shirt that clings to his body, tight jeans, and a pair of jet-black Converse low-tops on the tarmac.
Even in the middle of a midnight mafia handover he looks like he just stepped out of a downtown club…
beautiful, expensive, and entirely out of place.
The enforcer puts a hand on Milo’s lower back to guide him forward.
Milo twists away from his touch with a sharp glare. “Touch me again and I’ll make sure my uncle feeds your balls to the harbor seals,” he snaps, voice low but carrying.
The enforcer’s jaw tightens, but he drops his hand.
A flicker of heat ignites low in my gut. Not just desire—though that is there, sharp and immediate—but something deeper.
Recognition.
Fire.
This boy is no meek bargaining chip. He is a live wire wrapped in designer clothes, and every instinct I possess tells me he will burn anyone who underestimates him.
I keep my face impassive as he walks toward us. His gaze lifts and locks with mine for the first time. For half a second the world narrows to just the two of us—predator and new prey measuring each other across ten feet of wet asphalt.
Milo’s chin lifts a fraction…
Defiance. Curiosity. Fear buried so deep only someone like me would notice it.
Michael steps forward with the leather folder containing the final agreement. Paolo and I sign in silence under the glow of a single portable light.
Two copies. Two signatures. The deal is sealed.
Paolo gestures toward Milo. “He is yours now, Kovalev. Honor the truce and we will have peace.”
I nod once. Then I turn to the boy.
“Milo,” I say, my voice controlled and calm, not giving anything away.
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead he folds his arms, studying me like I’m a problem he hasn’t decided how to solve.
Up close he smells faintly of expensive perfume, and the faintest trace of something sweeter.
His eyes flick over the tattoos I know are partially hidden beneath my collar, then back to my face.
I extend my hand. “You will ride with me.”
For a moment I think he might refuse just to test me. But he exhales through his nose, rolls his eyes, and steps past me toward our waiting Escalade without taking my hand.
The sway of Milo’s hips is pure attitude. My men open the door for him. He slides in without another word, back straight, jaw set.
Trouble is the word that comes to mind.
I follow the boy into the SUV. Michael and Kobek climb in after us. The doors close and the engine purrs to life.
As we pull away from the airfield, rain streaks the windows, falling heavier now. Milo sits directly across from me, arms still folded, scowling like I personally murdered his childhood pet.
I am tempted to speak, to lay down the first rule right here and now, but I hold back.
I’ll let Milo crack first. Let him feel the weight of this silence and understand that I am in no hurry.
Michael and Kobek are already on their phones, murmuring low commands in Russian and English—confirming the territorial handovers, reassigning crews, locking down the night’s security rotations. Their voices are background static. My focus remains locked on the sexy but sassy boy in front of me.
Milo shifts in his seat, crosses his legs, then uncrosses them. Another dramatic eyeroll, this one slower, more provocative. The corner of my mouth twitches. Polar opposite doesn’t even begin to cover it.
My mind drifts to the last time I allowed a young man this close.
Ryan.
Sweet Ryan with his soft voice and willing submission.
He used to wait for me in silk boxers, eyes down, ready to kneel the moment I walked through the door.
For a brief season I let myself believe we could make it work—that a man like me could have something gentle in his life.
Then one night outside the 666 Dice casino I lingered too long in the lobby shaking hands with politicians.
A single silenced shot.
That was all it took…
Ryan was gone before his body hit the pavement.
I buried him the next day and made a vow in the cold rain: never again.
No attachments. No weakness. The family comes first. Always.
Milo is nothing like Ryan, that much is obvious. Where Ryan was quiet waters, this boy is a storm. He provokes without saying a word. And that flicker I felt on the tarmac? It’s still burning.
I let the silence stretch another full minute before I speak, my voice low and calm.
“We can sit in silence for the rest of the journey if you prefer.”
The boy’s sardonic gaze snaps to mine, dark eyes flashing.
“But when we get home,” I continue, holding his stare, “we will most definitely be talking. That is a promise.”
Milo doesn’t reply. Instead his jaw tightens and he turns back to the window, pretending the passing city lights are more interesting than me. But I catch the slight tremble in his fingers where they rest on his thigh.
Good.
Let him feel it.
Let the boy wonder what that conversation will cost him…
The SUV glides deeper into the night, rain drumming steadily on the roof. Michael and Kobek continue their calls, oblivious to the charged air between their Pakhan and his new… acquisition.
I lean back, studying the delicate line of Milo’s profile, the way his chest rises and falls a little faster than before. He thinks this is the worst night of his life.
Milo has no idea how thoroughly I intend to change his mind.
Let the games begin.