Chapter 21 Adriana #2
Maksim’s jaw tightens, and for a second he just stares at the dark surface of his coffee.
Then he lets out a breath, frustration clear in his eyes.
“My partner wants the story buried. Said it was bad for business—didn’t want it to get around.
No one was ever charged. Nobody could even prove the girl left the club.
Security footage was…inconclusive.” His words slow, as if he’s weighing every one.
My heart hammers, but I keep my voice steady. “What was your partner’s name again?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
He glances at me, eyes sharp. “Remik. Remik Sokolov. He handles the business side. I handle the rest.”
I nod, as if I’m just curious. “I hope you’re being careful, Maksim.”
He gives a dry laugh, no real humor in it. “I’m always careful.” He looks away, then back. “Listen, we’re having a big event next weekend. You should come by. See for yourself what the place is like now.” He tries for a casual tone.
I trace the rim of my coffee cup, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make it feel casual. Then I look up at Maksim, keeping my tone as light as I can manage. “This Remik guy—what kind of person is he?”
“I think you must have seen him, he was at the party the other night.”
My mind briefly flashes to the guy from Serrano’s club, but I dismiss that just as quickly. It can’t be him.
Maksim’s expression flickers, cautious for a beat.
“Your husband would know better than me,” he says, a little too carefully.
“He’s known Remik longer than I have. In fact, Dante introduced us.
Said Remik was the kind of man who gets things done without asking too many questions.
And he’s right, he’s good for business. Mostly keeps to himself.
In fact, Dante approved of the changes we made to Portello. ”
He sighs hard. “If it weren’t for those disappearances, we would be the biggest name in the city. There’s buzz, but there’s also bad publicity.”
“Did you know one of them was Julianne’s friend?” I ask.
He frowns. “No, I didn’t.”
The front door opens without warning, and Dante steps in, dropping his keys in the tray by the entrance. He pauses when he sees us, his coat still on. For a moment, he just looks between me and Maksim, some unreadable calculation flickering in his eyes.
He nods at Maksim, polite but cautious. “Didn’t know you’d be here.”
Maksim doesn’t shift, just holds his gaze. “I came to see her,” he says, calm but direct.
There’s something in the way he says it—firm, but without challenge—that makes my heart stumble.
I can tell Dante notices too. His posture stiffens just a touch, but he doesn’t give anything away.
His face is carefully neutral, but I can sense the tension under the surface.
He’s not pleased about this situation, but he won’t make a scene.
Dante closes the door, hanging his coat on the hook, then comes to stand near me. “Everything alright?”
I glance at Maksim, grateful for his restraint, then nod. “We were just catching up,” I say.
For a long second, no one moves. The city sounds fill the silence, the distant honk of traffic, a siren somewhere far below, the faint hum of the refrigerator. I wonder if I should say something, offer to make more coffee, but the words stick in my throat.
Finally, Maksim gives me a small nod. “I should go,” he says quietly, and then to Dante, “Take care of her.”
Dante just watches him, unreadable, and nods once.
Maksim heads to the door, pausing only long enough to squeeze my hand in a way that’s both comforting and quietly protective. Then he’s gone, leaving just me and Dante.
Dante lingers by the door after Maksim leaves, the apartment suddenly feeling smaller with just the two of us in it. I tuck a stray hair behind my ear, unsure what to do with my hands. He glances at me, expression unreadable, then looks away, shrugging off his jacket.
The silence stretches, heavier than usual. Finally, I clear my throat. “Are you hungry?”
He doesn’t quite meet my eyes. “Not really,” he says, voice low but polite.
I nod, but move toward the kitchen anyway, needing something to fill the space between us. “I’ll make you a sandwich,” I offer, already pulling open the fridge.
He hesitates. “You don’t have to.”
“I know,” I say softly, pulling out bread and cheese. “But I want to.”
For a moment, neither of us says anything.
I work in the quiet, slicing tomatoes, keeping my hands busy so he won’t see how shaky they are.
He stands by the counter, watching me with that same reserved distance.
Something in his posture tells me there’s more he wants to say, but neither of us reaches for it.
I try to keep my voice light as I slice through the bread. “So Maksim was telling me about Portello, his club. Is it as good as he says?”
Dante doesn’t look up, just shrugs. “Never been there.”
I pause, knife hovering above the cutting board, that answer sinking into the quiet. A chill prickles up my arms. I remember Maksim’s words, said so casually a few minutes ago—Your husband would know better than me. He’s known Remik longer than I have. In fact, Dante introduced us.
I stare at Dante, searching his face for any flicker of truth, but he keeps his gaze on the counter, jaw set.
Why would he lie about something so small?
He’s not the type to fumble details. He could have brushed it off, changed the subject, but instead he chose a flat denial.
Something’s wrong. The questions I’ve been collecting—about Samie, about the missing girls, about the club—all knot tighter inside me.
I go back to chopping, hands suddenly unsteady, the conversation stalling out between us. All I can think is: What else isn’t he telling me?