3. Maxim
3
MAXIM
Ten minutes earlier…
I guide the car through the slick streets with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift. Every movement is deliberate, controlled, unlike the chaos of the city outside. There’s no risk of me losing control. Ever.
The phone buzzes on the dash, and I hit the button on the steering wheel to answer. Victor’s name flashes across the screen.
“Maxim,” he greets, his voice gravelly from all those decades of whiskey and cigarettes. “You killed that cunt yet?”
“He wasn’t at his office. I’m heading to his apartment.”
“That prick thinks he can steal from us and live? Make it hurt.”
My eyes flick to the gun lying on the passenger seat, the cold, black extension of my will. “You’re retired, Victor. Go relax, will you?”
“When your father died, you weren’t old enough to take over, Maxim. I ran this business until you came of age and I ran it well.”
“What’s your point?”
“I taught you that power is what matters in this life. Why do you think that asshole thought he could steal from you?”
“Why don’t you enlighten me.”
“Because he sensed a weakness. The deal with Andrei is coming up and he thought he could get away with theft while you were distracted.”
“Want me to send him a sternly worded letter?”
“I want you to show him no mercy, Maxim. Your father was merciful and that earned him his early grave.” He switches to Russian. “Nikakoy poshchady.”
“No mercy,” I echo back before hanging up.
I don’t want to think about my father right now, how he’d come up with some bullshit reason why Evan should be given another chance.
Outside, the rain amplifies every sound—the whoosh of passing cars, the slap of water against the pavement, the occasional blare of a horn. New York doesn’t stop for anything, not even one hell of a storm.
I slow the car, easing it into the nearest parking spot across from the target building.
The apartment complex is faded red brick, broken windows patched with cardboard, steel door with rust eating at its edges.
It fits Evan, a man who pretends to have class but is rotting from the inside. A man who lies about his wealth while stealing from the Bratva.
As I’m reaching for my gun, someone walks out of the building. But it’s not Evan with a hastily packed suitcase trying to run from me.
It’s a woman.
The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
She stands there, trembling in the doorway like a startled deer, her wide, doe-like eyes darting around the street, taking in every shadow and corner.
Her wedding dress clings to her body, the rain-soaked fabric cheap and unforgiving. It molds to her like a second skin, highlighting every curve—the delicate dip of her waist, the soft swell of her hips.
The dress is wrong for her, like something borrowed or bought last-minute. It’s the kind of cheap synthetic material that shouldn’t exist, turning translucent when wet, teasing at what it’s supposed to conceal.
I can see the outline of her nipples, light pink and pebble-hard against the damp fabric. A pulse of heat surges through me, sharp and unexpected. My cock twitches at the sight, and I clench my jaw, forcing my attention upward.
Her hair is plastered to her face, darkened by the rain, and yet she still looks… ethereal. Strands cling to the curve of her jaw and the pale column of her neck.
Her features are striking in their fragility—the high sweep of her cheekbones, the small, straight nose, and lips that are slightly parted, trembling as if she’s about to speak but hasn’t quite mustered the courage.
There’s a vulnerability in the way she clutches a small, bedraggled handbag to her chest, her knuckles whiter than the cheap fabric of her dress.
She looks too young, too innocent for the world she’s just stepped into. Twenty, I’d guess—twenty-five, tops. Her wide eyes flicker with fear but also something else, something harder to pin down.
Her lips press together, her chin tilting up just slightly. The movement is subtle, but it shifts something inside me.
Innocent, yes. But not weak. Not entirely.
My jaw tightens as I watch her from the shadows of the SUV. I shouldn’t care. She’s not my problem. But something about her—the raw emotion in her movements, the vulnerability she doesn’t bother to hide—makes me pause.
My fingers move to my phone, and I snap a quick photo of her face. I send it to Nikolai with a single word:
Identify.
The seconds drag as I wait for his response, my eyes never leaving her as she stumbles down the street. I rejoin the traffic and follow until she stops under the awning of a closed bookstore.
Her shoulders shake as she cries into her hands. I want to hold her in my arms, ask who hurt her, and then go rip his fucking head off.
She pulls out her cellphone and makes a call.
My phone buzzes, and Nikolai’s reply comes through:
Sophie Hale. 22. Cybersecurity expert. Self taught. Engaged to Evan Daniels. Wedding is booked at the courthouse in thirty minutes. One living relative, a grandmother, Amber Hale, 72. Currently in St. Jude’s getting physio for a sprained ankle. Need more?
I smile to myself. The woman of my dreams is supposed to marry my victim. Interesting.
I should be concentrating on him. I should be torturing him until he tells me who helped him steal my money. Then I should kill him.
My gaze lingers on her, drawn to the way she stands in the rain like she’s trying to wash something off her skin. It’s not just her looks.
There’s something else—something raw and unpolished that feels out of place in my world where every woman is pristine but also plastic.
Something from Nikolai’s message comes back to me. I read it again. Cybersecurity expert . Could she be the one who helped him steal my money?
She steps off the sidewalk like she doesn’t care if she gets hit by a passing car, her eyes glued to her cell.
I make an instant decision.
I drive at her, stopping dead at the last moment, laying on the horn. I want it to look like I’m just another rage filled commuter.
It works.
She slams her hand on the hood and then walks straight up to my side of the car, yelling abuse at me.
She’s no idea she’s enjoying her last few seconds of freedom.