Chapter 29 – MAKSIM
Twenty-Nine
MAKSIM
The private dining rooms of the Alpen Rose are usually reserved for larger groups or quiet business meetings. So when Martin got a call from one of his contacts, a man now buried under six inches of concrete, he had no reason to expect anything other than dinner with a trusted friend.
What he failed to realize is that everything and everyone has a price.
I never forget. And I sure as fuck don’t forgive.
“The roast duck is a great choice,” I say, stepping into the dim room. Martin freezes, knife in hand, mid-slice, but he doesn’t look up.
“Mr. Belov, I—”
“I suggest you choose your next words carefully. Whatever you say to me will decide your life’s next chapter.”
He lifts his gaze slowly, letting his utensils clatter to his plate.
“Please, don’t let me interrupt. Eat. I won’t take up much of your time.”
“Mr. Belov, I heard what happened at the drop. And I’m truly sorry for Shane’s actions.”
I circle him, enjoying the way his shoulders tense.
“That’s funny. Because I haven’t heard one goddamn word from you since that day. No explanation, no apologies. So I’m left to assume only one thing. That you were somehow involved.”
He shakes his head furiously. “No, that’s not true. I told you. I was sick. Food poisoning from a new diner downtown.”
I slide into the chair across from him. “Ah, that’s right. How can I fault a man for that?”
Martin cracks a nervous smile, but it doesn’t hold. Beneath it all, he knows I’m onto him. “But again, it’s been days, three to be exact, and not a word from you or about this drop.”
“You set me up,” I say, simply. No theatrics. No need.
He swallows. “Mr. Belov, I-I can explain.”
“Shane was friendly.” I tilt my head. “Recognized me instantly, despite it being our first meeting. And imagine my surprise when I looked him up and found your name on the donor list for his little foundation.”
He fumbles with the cloth napkin in his lap like he’s trying to fold it into armor.
“I had no choice. Someone threatened my family. They said—”
“Who?” I cut in. “Shane? Someone else? Martin, look at me.” The question sits between us. He tries to blink away the moment, but I’m still sitting in front of him, waiting for him to break.
“You sold me out because you were scared. You thought you could buy safety. Instead, you bought a grave for your friend and a special chair in front of me for yourself.”
“It wasn’t supposed to go like that. I told them three men. I told them.” Martin’s voice is small.
“Three men, including you.” I watch the lie die on his tongue. “You doubled the count to six for protection money. You thought more men meant more leverage. You were wrong.”
He finally meets my stare, and I see him measure his options, whether to bluff, beg, or bargain. I bet none of them look promising.
“Please,” he says, the word raw. “I can—I'll fix it. I’ll get you names. I’ll—”
“You want to…fix it?” I rest both palms on the table, and the pressure makes the cutlery clink.
“You think you deserve a second chance? My trust?”
His throat bobs, and he nods. “I promise I’ll make it right.”
“Your promises mean nothing to me.”
“Sir—”
“But I’ll give you another chance at redemption.” Martin exhales, like he’s in the clear, and I realize then the sick twist of it. Maybe this whole thing is my fault. I should have seen the signs. My anger at myself only fuels my need for revenge.
“You get me names. Everyone who knew about that drop, every number you’ve traded, every man you introduced to those crates. You type them into your phone, and you hand it to me. You don’t call anyone. You don’t think. You copy. You send.”
His fingers shake as he reaches for his phone. He types and swears fast under his breath as contacts blur together and he hits send. When the file lands in my inbox, I don’t open it right away. I let him feel the heaviness of this moment for a second longer.
“What happens now?” he asks, leaning back into his chair.
Before I can answer, light footfalls approach, and a young waiter steps into the room with a tray of drinks. He slides one to Martin and places the second in front of me, then retreats.
“It’s an Oban. Best this place has. Drink up. On me,” I say, lifting the glass and taking a measured sip.
The light catches the grease on Martin’s skin, and the sweat beads at his hairline. He eyes me before wrapping his shaking hand around the glass and drinking. I grin.
“Thank you for being honest with me, Martin. It means a lot.”
He laughs—small, nervous. “Of course. You can trust me. I’ll fix this.”
“You already have,” I rise, and adjust my cufflinks.
His smile flickers, then drains as realization dawns. “I’m…sorry, I don’t understand.”
“I’ve got what I need from you. And you need to know that I don’t give second chances.”
“Wait…please—”
His chair scrapes the floor as he attempts to stand, but my hand clamps around his throat.
“Sit and open up for something useful this time.” He squirms, and I squeeze until he stills, drink in my other hand. “Open.”
My father taught me that empathy and tears separate weak boys from men. Pyotr taught me the same lesson, with boots and fists to the face. Martin’s tears begin to track as I tip the glass and force the liquid down his throat. He chokes it back, gagging.
“Tell Shane Oliver I send my regards.”
I smash the glass into his open mouth, fist his hair, and drive his face into the table until his front teeth scatter beside the roast duck. His broken moans fill the room, and he closes his eyes, resigned to his fate…until they pop back open.
There it is.
Bloody foam bubbles gurgle from the corners of his mouth. Deep, agonized groans follow. I release my grip, and he collapses, face buried in his food, twitching as his insides are ravaged.
“Well, Martin, looks like you weren’t lying after all. Food poisoning is a bitch.”