5. Maxim
5
MAXIM
Moscow…
I keep thinking about that scar on her arm. I’ve burned enough men in my time to recognize it for what it was. Someone held her arm onto a stove top, scarred her for life.
I run my gloved hand over my own scar while I wait for the door to open. I have scars all over my body and I don’t give a shit about most of them. The one on my face, I like. It tells people who I am, that I’m a man you don’t fuck with.
I glance up and down the street. No one is watching. Good. Behind me, Ivan is waiting by my car, ready for if the piece of shit hiding inside makes a run for it.
My mind goes back to her.
She’s not like me. She doesn’t deserve to have her pristine skin damaged. All I want to do is find the bastard who did it to her and rip his hands off.
Business must come first.
The door creaks open, revealing a middle aged woman with wide, darting eyes. Threadbare sweater, white hair tied back hastily. She reeks of fear.
She tries to hide it, meeting my gaze with a forced calm but her kind of fear always has a smell. It seeps out of the skin like sweat, clings to the air like exhaust fumes in a parking garage.
I offer her a polite smile, leaning slightly on my cane as I adjust my weight. “Good evening,” I say in Russian, my voice smooth. “May I come in, Mrs. Bukowski?”
She hesitates, glancing over her shoulder into the dimly lit house, before stepping aside. “Of course, Mr. Stepanov,” she murmurs. Her voice wavers just enough to amuse me.
“Please, call me Maxim.” I smile warmly. “After you, Mrs. Bukowski.”
I follow her inside, my cane tapping against the wooden floor. I listen for echoes. If there’s a basement, he could be hiding down there. I’m not taking any chances, not after last time.
The house is exactly as I expected: peeling wallpaper, mismatched furniture, the faint smell of sweat lingering in the air.
“It’s warm in here,” I remark, glancing at the small electric heater humming in the corner. “These Moscow winters can be so cruel, can’t they?”
She nods, clasping her hands tightly in front of her. “Yes, sir. And the power is so expensive nowadays.” She shrugs. “But then so is everything.”
I turn to face her, letting the silence stretch just a little too long. Then I smile again, soft and disarming. “And how are you?”
Her lips part slightly, like she’s unsure whether the question is rhetorical. “I’m as well as can be expected,” she says at last.
“Good, good,” I say, moving to the small table in the center of the room. I pull out a chair and sit down, gesturing for her to do the same. She hesitates, then complies, her movements stiff and jerky.
“My work,” I begin, resting my cane across my lap, “is all about balance. Loyalty, trust, honesty. These are the currencies of my world.”
I study her closely, watching the way her fingers tremble as they grip the edge of the table. “When someone breaks my trust, it causes ripples that spread far and wide. People whisper that I am a man who can be lied to. Would you say you’re an honest woman?”
Her eyes dart to mine, and for a moment, I see the flicker of panic she’s trying so hard to suppress. “Yes,” she says. “I swear to almighty God above.”
I nod thoughtfully, reaching into the inside pocket of my coat. I pull out a stack of crisp, neatly bound banknotes and place them on the table between us. Her gaze drops to the money, and I catch the way her throat tightens as she swallows.
“For you,” I say softly. “Enough to buy you a wonderful new place, well insulated, modern. Put all this unpleasantness behind you. Retire at last.”
She reaches for it slowly. “All you have to do,” I continue, “is tell me where he is.”
Her head jerks up, her face draining of color as her hand falls limp at her side. “I don’t know who you mean.”
I tilt my head, watching her carefully. “You don’t?” I reach into my pocket again, this time pulling out a photograph. It’s small, glossy, and unmistakable: a fat man with a thin mustache and dark eyes, his name written neatly across the bottom. A Russian name. Arseni Ivanovitch.
I slide the photo across the table to her. “This man,” I say, tapping the picture, “walked onto my boat to discuss business between the Bratva and the Italian mob. This meeting took place far from here, in New York City. During our delicate negotiations, he decided to take a liberty. Shot me twice. Once in the hip.” I tap my cane for emphasis. “And again in the head.”
I lean forward slightly, raising my voice so he’ll be able to hear me. “He got unlucky. The bullet grazed my skull, it didn’t kill me. Do you know what it’s like to wake up from a coma, Mrs. Bukowski? To find out you’ve been asleep for a month because one of your loyal men decided to cheat you? To discover a man you trusted has decided to work with Vito Lombardi?”
Her lips tremble, and she shakes her head. “I haven’t seen him,” she whispers. “I swear.”
I smile faintly. “That’s unfortunate,” I say, sitting back in my chair. “Sources tell me he’s been a regular client with you since he popped back up in Moscow. Brought some blood money to spend and chose whores. Got a thing for older women, they say. You’re certain you haven’t seen him?”
She nods, swallowing hard. “Not for three days. I never knew he cheated you. I’m sorry, Maxim. Please, don’t kill me.”
I sigh. “During the war, when peasants lied so their men would avoid being drafted, the commissars used to burn down their houses with them inside.” I smile. “I do like the old methods.” I pull out a match and light it, letting the flame burn down slowly until it singes my fingers. “Last chance, Mrs. Bukowski.”
Her eyes dart toward the corner of the room—a movement so subtle most people wouldn’t notice. My smile widens.
“Relax,” I say, sliding the stack of money over to her. “I’m only joking. If you see him, will you call me?”
“Of course, Mr. S… Maxim. At once.”
I rise from the chair, my movements slow and deliberate. The cane taps against the floor as I make my way to the door.
I lift the cane and silently walk back to the wardrobe. I pause when I reach it, glancing at her. She doesn’t move. I point at the left wardrobe door. She shakes her head the slightest amount. I point to the right. A nod.
In one motion, I yank open the wardrobe, and drag out the terrified piece of shit, dropping him on the floor and whacking him in the stomach with my cane.
He’s only wearing jockey shorts, his skin coated in sweat. I hit him again. He groans, fighting for breath, his hands raised in a pathetic gesture of surrender.
“Please,” he chokes out. “Please, Maxim. It wasn’t personal.”
I tilt my head, studying him as though he’s some curious insect. “Not personal?” I repeat softly. “You left me for dead. And then you ran.” I step closer, looming over him. “With my money and my boat.”
“Please,” he whispers, tears streaking down his face as he pisses himself. “Have mercy.”
I crouch down, bringing myself to his level. “Mercy,” I say, my voice as cold as the Moscow winter outside, “is for the weak.”
I stand and pull the gun from my coat. “How much did Lombardi offer you to cheat the Bratva?” I press the gun to his forehead. “Tell me or the first shot is to the balls.”
“A million,” he says, eyes bulging with fear.
“Just think of the vagaries of fate,” I reply with a laugh. “You shot me in the head but the bullet slid around my skull. Just one of those things. You were so unlucky. Such a shame.”
“Please don–”
I fire, ignoring the splatter of blood that splashes back onto my face. He collapses to the floor, lifeless. Blood pools around him, soaking into the cheap rug.
I glance back at Mrs. Bukowski, who is frozen in place, her face pale. “My apologies for the damage to your floor.” I reach into Arseni’s pocket and pull out his wallet, extracting the banknotes inside. “That should cover a new rug,” I say, tossing the money to her.
She swallows hard, eyes fixed on mine as I pick up the large bundle of notes from the table. “Thank you, Mr. S… Maxim.”
“My men will collect the body shortly. I was never here, is that clear?”
She nods mutely, her hands trembling. I straighten my coat, grab my cane, and walk toward the door. I turn back. “One more thing. Can you still get hold of signal replicators? For a custom job I’m planning.”
“Of course, Maxim. It will take a while though.”
“I’ll be in touch,” I say, tossing the bundle of notes her way. “Enjoy your retirement.”