Maksim (Korolov Bratva #1)

Prologue Maksim

As I perched on the marble banister overlooking my family’s expansive gardens, I surveyed the hectic scene unfolding below me.

Maids in black and white uniforms with their arms laden down with heavy, silver serving trays zig-zagged around butlers in tuxes balancing chairs or other odd pieces of furniture in their arms. Along with the buzz of conversation, the harmonious notes of a string quartet warming up floated in the air.

Even from my elevated spot, the hairs on the back of my neck lifted from the electricity humming in the air. At the thought of all the people who would soon be arriving at our mansion, my skin shriveled over my bones.

I fucking hated people.

I guess I didn’t hate them so much as I hated their small talk. It was their expectant faces when they inquired the most basic question that forced me to put my defect on display for all the world to see.

Or in my case, to hear.

The instant they discovered my stutter their expressions ran a myriad of emotions:

Shock

Pity

Disgust

Each emotion was a knife pricking into my skin. I’d been registering those emotions on faces since I first began to speak. As a child, I didn’t comprehend the emotion behind the particular expressions. It was only when I grew old and wiser that I fully understood.

It was hard to recall a memory from childhood that didn’t involve my defect. That was what my stuttering was to my parents–a defect. A crack in the perfection that was expected as the son of a Bratva Pahkan.

The expression about a kid's first bully being his unhealed parent rang true. While my father tried beating the defect out of me, my mother resorted to high-priced therapies. When they didn’t immediately cure me, she stopped taking me.

To make up for my deficit, I’d spent my childhood and teenage years chasing perfection in every other outlet, from the football field where I brought home MVP titles year after year to my 4.0 GPA.

But it was never enough.

Gazing back down at the courtyard, my lip curled in disgust. To the outside world, no one threw a party quite like Danill Korolov. No expense was spared to make him appear like a king reigning over his subjects. His was an absolute monarchy where he was more tyrant than benevolent ruler.

But tonight’s party was special.

Tonight he would name his heir–the man who would become second in command and one day upon Danill’s demise would become the leader.

Since tradition mandated that it would be the firstborn son, I was that man.

It was everything I’d been trained for since I was just a kid. It was everything that was expected of me.

And it was everything I didn’t want.

“Maks?”

At the sound of my half-brother’s voice, I jerked my gaze over my shoulder.

Outfitted in a crisp tux, Dima’s blue eyes apprised me as he cocked his blond head.

Although I had every reason to hate him as one of my father’s ublyuks, or bastards, as people called my half-siblings, I never could.

Dima meant as much to me, if not more, than my other full brother, Aleksander.

Even though there were two years between us, we’d grown up practically like twins.

Unlike some men who sired bastards with random women, Father had fallen in love with Dima’s mother, Irina, when she was barely eighteen.

He’d moved her into an expensive high-rise apartment across the city from us and divided his time between his two families.

While my mother loathed the sight of Father’s bastards, Irina was warm and inviting to me and my brother and sister.

In fact, I looked at her as more of a mother than my own.

Unlike Irina, there was nothing warm and inviting about mine.

Irina kissed away scrapes and bruises and sang songs after nightmares while my mother went on shopping excursions and held dinner parties.

She really only connected with my younger sister, Annika.

When I cocked my brows at him, Dima gave me a knowing smile. “I thought I might find you out here.”

I scowled at him. “You knew I’d b-be hiding b-because I’m a p-pussy?”

Fuck. I hadn’t even made it to the party, and my stuttering was off the charts. I shouldn’t have been surprised. It always went into overdrive when I was on edge.

With a laugh, Dima countered, “Like you have a pussy bone in that absolute tank of a body of yours.”

Focusing hard on my words, I replied, “Emotionally.”

Dima shrugged. “You don’t like parties. I don’t like Russia. Does that make me a pussy?”

Shaking my head, I teased, “Makes you a t-traitor to the motherland.”

He snorted. “Seriously? What the fuck is there to like about it but the vodka? It’s cold as hell, and the sun barely shines. Not to mention, the girls use me for sex instead of the other way around.”

A chuckle rumbled through my chest at his summation. He wasn’t wrong about the weather, or the fact that many of the young women there were desperate to get their hooks into Bratva royalty like Dima and myself. “Poor b-baby,” I mused.

Dima threw an arm around my shoulder. “Come on, Man of the Hour. Time to get your fine ass in your tux.”

“I hate having to get into a monkey suit,” I grunted.

Always my best hype man, Dima countered, “You’ll look so fucking fly.”

I snorted. “B-Bullshit.”

“Seriously, brat. Think of all the pussy you’ll be swimming in tonight.”

With a teasing smile, I countered, “I’m always swimming in p-pussy.”

“And that was before you were named heir.” He squeezed my shoulder while rolling his eyes in exaggerated bliss. “You’ll be double-teaming chicks for days.”

“And you’ll b-be mooching off my extras.”

Dima winked. “You’re fucking right, I will.”

“Ass.”

“Let’s go.”

“Bylat,” I grunted before letting Dima drag me off the banister.

I then followed him down the long carpeted hallway to the family wing of our Chestnut Hill mansion.

A few servants rushed around in the hallway.

At the sight of Dima and me, they averted their eyes to the floor and gave us a wide berth.

When we got inside the bedroom, I headed straight for the closet where my tailor-made Chaupin tux was hanging. After grabbing it off the hanger, I came back out into the bedroom.

As Dima poured himself a glass of vodka, I ordered, “Get me one t-too.”

Dima bowed like our men did after an order. “Anything for you, boss.”

I grunted as I shot him the bird. “Mudak.”

With a chuckle, he replied, “How am I a motherfucker when I’m just stating facts?”

“You know,” I muttered as I whipped my shirt over my head.

“Come on, Maks. You know as well as I do how much things are about to change for you and in turn for me.”

The impending weight of my inheritance caused me to grimace as I slid my arms into the crisp white shirt.

My apprehension about becoming heir didn’t stem from any weakness or fear I had about leading the Korolov men.

Besides a top-notch education at a local private school, I’d received just as much training in Bratva leadership from my father and his high-ranking officials.

Over the years, I grew to respect the hell out of the Korolov men and would do anything for their honor.

No, my reluctance was rooted in my defect. I thought of the speeches my father often gave to both large and small groups of his men. How it wasn’t just the weight of the words he chose, but their delivery.

How the fuck was I ever supposed to do that?

When I glanced up, Dima wore a forlorn expression. My fingers froze while buttoning my shirt. Frowning, I shook my head. “You’re not going anywhere, b-brat.”

“I’m just the bastard son, remember?”

“No one will d-dare call you t-that in my p-presence.”

Although I knew he hated himself for them, tears shimmered in Dima’s eyes. “Thank you, brat.”

“You’re my second.”

Dima’s blond brows shot up in surprise. “Just for tonight?”

With a firm shake of my head, I replied, “Always.”

“What about Aleksandr?”

“D-Do you question your leader?” I countered.

The corners of Dima’s lips quirked. “No, sir. I don’t.”

“One d-day Aleks will have his p-place at my t-table.” With a smile, I patted his shoulder. “B-But he will never b-be my second.”

As his tears spilled over his cheeks, Dima quickly swiped them away. With a chuckle, he replied, “Mudak.”

“Z-Zhopo.”

Dima snickered. “If anyone is an ass, it’s you.”

I smacked his face playfully before turning to slip on my pants. I’d just slid my tux jacket on when Dima’s phone went off with a FaceTime. After digging it out of his pocket, he smiled as he put the call on the speaker. “Hey, Mom.”

“Look at you, my handsome, solnyshko.”

When Dima’s cheeks flushed at his mother using his childhood nickname of “little sun”, I clapped him on the back and waggled my brows. His elbow flew out to jab me in the ribs.

“Oomph,” I grunted.

“Is that Maksim?” Irina questioned.

“Yes, m’am,” I replied while rubbing my side.

As Dima turned the screen to face me, Irina’s face lit up. “You look so handsome as well.”

“T-Thank you.”

“You’ve grown into such a fine young man.”

Heat warmed my cheeks at her compliment. To lighten the moment, Dima teased, “What about me, Mamouska? Am I a fine young man?”

She laughed. “You are a menace is what you are.”

“I’m a man,” Dima protested.

“You’re a b-baby,” I joked.

As Dima playfully shoved me, Irina held up her hands. “All right, boys. Although I wanted to tell you good luck and I’m proud of you, there’s some others here who want to talk to you.”

Irina shifted the phone over to where my younger sisters and brother stood.

At the sight of me, they waved and smiled.

My almost thirteen-year-old half sister, Mila, was Dima’s twin with her blonde hair and blue eyes while eight-year-old, Lev, and six-year-old, Kira, favored me and our father with dark hair and dark eyes.

“Good luck tonight, Maks,” Mila said, with a genuine smile.