Chapter Seventeen
Maron
"Boss, you’re not going to believe this! The latest Tramoxine trials are off the charts." Igor, my head chemist, is practically bouncing with excitement at the other end of the telephone line.
Igor is probably the most enthusiastic guy I know. He's been in the chemistry game for decades, but he still acts like a kid with his first matchbox set whenever he sees results from his research. He also seems to have the urge to share them with me immediately, which suits me. Especially with a project as important as Tramoxine.
My ears perk up. "What are the numbers?"
"We're seeing a whopping 92% success rate in treating PTSD," Igor explains. "And that's not all - it's also proving to be a game changer for depression and anxiety disorders."
" Otlichnaya rabota, Igor. That's very good," I say, allowing myself a small grin. "Any side effects?"
"We’re still looking into it, but nothing major so far," Igor reassures me. "We’ve been monitoring our first set of patients for months now and the results seem to last. If our data is correct, we might actually be making permanent changes in brain chemistry."
I lean back in my chair, trying to wrap my head around this information. This is great news. Fuck, no. It’s better than great!
"What about addiction?” I ask Igor. “Any risks?"
"Nothing so far, boss,” he sounds like he can barely contain his excitement. “We’re still running studies, but nobody got hooked after the treatment so far. Every one of our subjects quit without showing any withdrawal symptoms."
"Great fucking job, Igor. Looks like we’ve hit the jackpot."
"Looks like it, boss. If we continue to have these results, we’re going to revolutionize mental health treatment. And with the market we're targeting..."
"We're looking at billions," I finish for him. "Everyone's screwed-up one way or the other. Well done, Igor."
I can almost see his smirk through the phone. " Spasibo, Pakhan. "
"Keep me posted," I tell him. “I want to know everything.”
" Ponyal. I will do . ”
As I hang up, I can't help but feel a surge of optimism. With Tramoxine showing such promise, maybe this shitstorm I've been weathering is finally about to clear.
I get up and pour myself a shot of vodka. It's the least I deserve after a week of hard work, and ending on such a high note. As I lift the glass to my mouth, ready to savor the moment, my mind drifts to the guilty indulgence I've developed: Mindy's nudes. I know I should delete them, rid myself of this forbidden temptation, but I can't fucking get myself to do it. They've become an obsession, my escape from the mundane reality of my life.
Each night, I pull up the images, zooming in on her body. I scrutinize every curve and crevice, imagining the taste of her skin and the feel of her clean-shaven pussy against my lips. And then, I give in to the primal urges and jerk off. And fuck me if those aren’t the best orgasms of my life. They’re more satisfying than ordering an escort girl and fucking her senseless. I’m not even interested in that anymore. But I crave the rush Mindy gives me, and I already can't wait to indulge in tonight's private ritual.
Except the day’s not over yet. My secretary's voice reminds me of that, crackling through the intercom, interrupting my thoughts.
"Mr. Korolev, your brother Maurice is here to see you. He says it's urgent."
Blyad.
Maurice again. What the fuck does he want from me after that childish temper tantrum he threw the other day? If he’s coming here to act like an idiot again, I’m fucking throwing him out the window.
I close my eyes and exhale slowly, feeling my newfound good mood evaporating. I didn't expect to see him again, especially not so soon. And I know well that the only reason he'd show his face here is that he needs something from me.
I down the vodka in one gulp and brace myself for whatever bullshit Maurice is about to drop on my lap. "Send him in," I growl into the intercom, steeling myself for what's sure to be another exasperating encounter with my wayward brother.
It takes less than a minute for my brother to waltz in, looking completely fucked up, like he's been run over by a truck. I shoot him a glare from my seat. The stench of booze radiates off him like he's been marinating in it. He hasn’t even opened his mouth, yet I’m already feeling impatient.
"The fuck you want, Maurice?" I bark, not even trying to hide my frustration. "You look like a steaming pile of shit. As usual."
Maurice fidgets like a little bitch, his hand raking through his ratty hair. "I'll get straight to the point, Maron. I need your help.”
I roll my eyes. "Oh, isn’t that a surprise? I thought you came to check in on my well-being."
He pleads with me, closing his eyes in desperation. "Maron, please. Let’s not do this. Not this time."
I put on a fake frown. "Do what? And what are you here for this time, bratok ? Need help planting daisies in your garden? Oh wait, you don't have a house." I tap my chin in mock contemplation. "Maybe your car needs an oil change? Hold on, I recall you losing that in a poker game."
"Are you done?" He lets out a heavy sigh. “Just listen to me, please. It's about Mindy. You know, the girl I told you about."
Fuck.
That’s the last thing I want to talk to him about. Especially after what happened between Mindy and me the other night. And the offer I made her. The offer she still hasn’t accepted.
Maurice shifts uncomfortably, his eyes darting around before meeting mine. "Look, I know I stormed off last time. That wasn't wise of me."
"Right. And?" I say, tapping my fingers on my desk.
"I... I've had some time to think, and I realized I screwed up. I'm sorry about that."
I lean back, crossing my arms. "Fine. You’re sorry. Now what?"
He swallows hard. "I still need your help, Maron. I really do."
"So, what does this have to do with your ex? What's her name again?" I say, playing dumb.
"Mindy. I want her back."
Double fuck.
I’m washed over by jealousy as my evening with Mindy floods my memory for once again. For the tenth fucking time today. Or more. What she was doing with Maurice for over two years is fucking beyond me.
" Chert Voz’mi, Maurice.” I cut him off harshly. "Get your shit together first, then start thinking about women." I scan him up and down, taking in his sloppy appearance. "A shower would be a good start. You stink, like a skunk’s ass. It doesn’t take a genius to see that you’re fucked up. What makes you think that your ex-girlfriend would want to take you back?"
He holds up his hands defensively. "Nah, nah, it's not like that! I fucked things up with Mindy, I know. But I’m determined to fix it and start rebuilding our life. All I need is a bit of your help from you to start with."
Jesus Christ, what a shitshow.
I remain silent and expressionless. The mere thought of my brother getting back together with Mindy makes my hands clench into fists. For a brief moment, I wonder if I should feel guilty at all, but I quickly brush it aside. Yes, Maurice is my brother, but he’s clearly a mess. Any woman deserves a better man than him. Especially Mindy.
" Bratok ," I tell him. "We had this exact same conversation the other day. I have nothing else to say."
"Fuck, bro...” His mouth opens and closes his mouth again. “I'm drowning in debt here, you feel me? The kind of debt that gets a guy's arms and legs broke if no payments are made." He swallows hard, Adam's apple bobbing. "Look, Maron… Even if I accept your job offer, I need a lump sum to pay these bastards to get them off my back. Then, I can get a clean slate and get my life straight. Get Mindy back. Show her I deserve her. Start living a decent life. That's the plan."
I sneer at his desperate little plea for a handout. As fucking always, he can't clean up his own mess without coming to beg me for help. It’s the same fucking plea I heard numerous times from him until I lost count. And I can’t believe I have to listen to the same shit all over again, wasting my fucking time for nothing.
“That’s a nice plan, Maurice. Except I heard it before. Not once. You come crying about your fuckups, hoping I'll unfuck them for you." I shake my head in disgust. "Some things just don’t change, do they brother? What’s my guarantee that you’ll stay true to your word this time, huh?"
"Maron, please don't be so hard on me. I'll pay you back, I swear!"
"Like last time? And the time before? And the time before that? I’m still waiting to receive those payments, Maurice!"
He's on the verge of crying and I could kick him in the ass. "I just need a last chance to get myself straight," he says quietly.
“I’ve heard that one before too. I need you to do better this time."
"But… aren’t we family, Maron?" He’s looking at me with puppy eyes.
There it is. The family shit again. He’s been using that to manipulate me for years. And it always worked for him. But not this time. You’ve got to draw a line somewhere.
“Tell me this, brother. Why do I get the feeling that your concept of family only works one way?" I’m not exaggerating.
He looks at me questioningly. "What are you talking about, Maron?"
Is he fucking serious?
I really want to kick his ass now. But instead, I scratch my chin, making a thoughtful expression. "Let me think. How about my mother? She could really use some company every now and then. She did a lot for you, even though you're not her biological child."
Maurice's scruffy ass is still standing there like a stray dog. "I know, Maron. But the way she is… She's not easy to handle."
I rise from my seat, towering over him with a menacing presence. "Not easy to handle, huh?” I snap. “She is fucking ill, Maurice! You think you’re easy to handle?"
"Yes, Maron, but—"
"But what?” I cut him off. “Do you even know she has vascular dementia? No, you fucking don't. Why? Because when we got the diagnosis, you were too busy getting pissed or snorting coke and screwing some random hooker. Or maybe you were sitting at Marble Monkey, wasting away in front of a goddamn slot machine, praying for luck, and ignoring your responsibilities." I run a hand through my hair in frustration. "My mother did everything for you when your sorry ass needed it. She loved you like you were her own. And now that she needs help, where the fuck are you?"
He falls silent for a moment, my words sinking into his stubborn mind. "You're right, Maron. I'll visit her today."
I lean back, leveling him with a hard look. “You'd better. Right now, Timofey is looking after her, and I'm the one making sure she has everything she needs. If family is so fucking important for you, then get your shit together and do something for the person who brought your ass up.”
"I said, I’ll go see her." Maurice licks her lips. "And now, can we talk about… helping me?"
"I offered you the organ business, didn't I?" I snap back. "And thirty percent of the profits, which is more money than you ever made. And what did you do? You demanded fifty, like the greedy, irresponsible piece of shit you are."
Maurice's shoulders slump forward as the weight of his latest colossal fuckup settles over him once more. "I know, Maron... I was stupid."
"Understatement of the year," I confirm with a derisive snort.
Maurice's head hangs in a pathetic display of self-pity and regret. Not that it means shit to me, not anymore. We've been through this cycle more times than I can count. He disappoints, grovels for a lifeline, then wastes it all over again. Yet, even though I know I should, I can’t just kick him out. He is my brother and I still feel somewhat responsible for him, no matter how much his stupidity makes me grit my teeth.
"Well, listen up and listen good," I growl. "That same deal is still on the table for now. Thirty percent. Take it or leave it, bro, because there won't be a next time."
The silence that follows is heavy as reality sinks its fangs into Maurice's expression.
"I'll take it. Just give me fifty percent."
It takes every ounce of my willpower to not throw the fucking table at him and snap his neck.
"Thirty fucking percent.” I punctuate every word, giving him a cold stare. “Not a cent more. Last chance."
I watch as he processes the offer, his ratty brows furrowing, cranking the gears in his pickled brain. I can’t believe the size of the pile of shit he’s under, yet he’s still trying to negotiate. It makes my blood boil.
"Fine," he mutters finally. "I'll take it."
I nod curtly. "Damn right, you will. How much do you need now?"
His eyes widen. "You gonna help, then?"
I nod and take my phone out of my pocket. "Last fucking time. How much?"
"Twenty-four."
"Thousand?"
He rolls his eyes. "What do you think?"
I look up from my phone. "You don't play small, dear brother."
With a few clicks, I transfer him the money, then I place the phone back on the table. Looking into my brother's bloodshot eyes, I start talking.
"I’m only going to say this once, so you better fucking listen. This is no free ride, bratok . You're on probation for the first three months. During that time, you'll get a fixed amount to keep your ass afloat. Perform well, and maybe – just maybe - we can talk about jacking up those numbers a little." Maurice's eyes widen slightly, but I cut off whatever bullshit he's about to spew. "And before you start thinking you've hit the jackpot, you are also going to pay off those debts of yours. Every fucking cent. I'm not running a fucking charity here. Everything you owe me is coming out of your cut until we're square. Am I making myself clear?"
He swallows and nods. "Yeah."
"Good. Now, here's what's going to happen. You will drag yourself home, pour out whatever booze you got tucked away, and sleep this shit off. Then, tomorrow morning nine o'clock sharp, your ass will be planted in my office. And for fuck's sake, put on some decent threads. You look like a hobo that crawled out of the sewer. Got it?"
He nods, seemingly submitting to my terms. But I’m not done yet. I take a deep breath and level him with my hardest stare.
"And one more thing. That ex of yours, Mindy. Forget about her. I'm serious, Maurice. The way you are now, you're nothing but bad news for any woman stupid enough to give you the time of day. Unfuck your life first, then think about dragging someone into your shit." He opens his mouth like he wants to argue, but I raise a hand, silencing him. "I’m not done. This is your shot, bro. A chance to turn your life around and finally make something of yourself. But I'm warning you - you fuck this up, and we're done for life. You hear me? I won't be your brother no more. I'll be the guy who runs your worthless ass out of town. We clear?"
Maurice meets my fierce gaze, something like determination sparking in his bloodshot eyes. "Crystal. I won't let you down again, Maron. I swear it this time."
I snort derisively. "I've heard that song before. I need to see it to believe it. Don't make me regret this." I wave a dismissive hand toward the door. "Now get the fuck out of here.”
He nods solemnly and sees himself out, shutting the heavy door behind him with a thud.
I sink back into my chair and rub my temples, allowing my shoulders to relax. Dealing with Maurice's bullshit gives me a migraine every fucking time. But despite it all... he's still my brother. I know I couldn’t live with the thought of not giving him a chance, which is the very reason I allow him to crawl back to me over and over again, begging for my help. That thought alone makes me grit my teeth. I can only hope he learns something and finally stops his decade-long streak of royal fuckups.
The door opens and Pavel marches in. “Everything alright, boss? I saw Maurice leaving your office." He can't help but smirk. "He seemed a lot more sober than when he walked in. Did he finally come to his senses?”
"We’ll see," I reply curtly.
Pavel arches an eyebrow but remains silent, waiting for me to elaborate.
"He has this dumbass notion that he can somehow slither his way back into her ex-girlfriend's life if he works hard enough at fixing himself up."
Pavel frowns. "Can I ask why you care about that, boss?"
"Because she is… my chief accountant."
Pavel stares at me dumbly. "Oh, I get it." He scratches his chin. "Ok, maybe I don't."
Snorting derisively, I knock back a healthy swig of vodka, savoring the slow burn down my throat. "Maurice getting Mindy Williams back is about as likely as my father returning from the grave," I continue, "But still, I want to be on the safe side."
A crease forms between Pavel's brows as he considers my words. "I’m listening, boss," he says carefully.“What do you want me to do?”
I pour another drink and offer one to Pavel, a rare occurrence while he’s on the job. He accepts and we both down the vodka.
"Listen, Pavel," I tell him, "this woman is... special."
Pavel nods, understanding in his eyes. I know he has questions, but he knows when to ask them and when to keep his mouth shut.
"I want you to keep discreet tabs on Mindy Williams’ whereabouts and movements," I tell him after a calculated moment.
Pavel gives a measured nod of understanding. "Consider it done, boss. I'll have the tech guys install a satellite tracker on her phone. They can do it remotely. She’ll never know she's being watched."
I allow myself a grin at the thought of owning such an insidious level of access to Mindy's personal life.
" Spasibo , Pavel," I tell him, feeling some of the previous tension leave me. "I knew I could count on you to handle this delicate situation appropriately."
As Pavel nods and turns to leave, I lean back in my chair. The image of Mindy still lingers in my mind, invading my every thought. It’s clear that she’s gotten under my skin and I don’t know how to feel about it.
Driven by a sudden idea, I boot up my computer and dive headfirst into an online shopping spree, my mind laser-focused on one thing: spoiling Mindy rotten. Designer dresses? Add to cart. Luxury perfume? Gimme two bottles of the good stuff. Jimmy Choos? Give me a pair of the most expensive ones. I'm clicking through pages of high-end fashion sites like a man possessed, not even glancing at the totals racking up.
But this isn't just me being sugar daddy Santa Claus. Every lavish gift I'm picking out is another strategic move in my master plan designed to achieve one thing: make Mindy mine forever. Each pretty trinket is a shiny link in the chain I'm going to wrap around her bit by bit.
Five minutes after finalizing my order, a notification pings – the package is locked and loaded, ready to ship to New York High.
I pull my mouth to a grin, then I fire off a quick text to her:
“Parcel for you at reception of New York High. MK.”