17. Maxim
17
MAXIM
T he stench hits me the moment I step inside the club. It’s not even noon and the place is already full of drunks. Perfume, sweat, stale beer—a cocktail that suits Marco perfectly.
The music pounds, too loud and too aggressive. Neon lights flicker, throwing cheap reds and purples across the room. Half naked dancers sway on raised platforms, their bodies twisting and writhing to grab attention.
I don’t even look at them.
They’re not her.
My eyes scan the room, skipping over bare skin and hungry smiles, cutting through the smoke-filled haze to find the booth in the corner. Marco’s reserved spot. Except Marco isn’t there.
Disappointment flickers, but I shove it down. A few men are lounging in the booth instead, wearing smug expressions and sharp suits. They’re Lombardi men, all arrogance and misplaced confidence. They notice me before I reach them, their gazes narrowing. They don’t know Dmitri has me well covered.
One of them leans back, arms draped over the booth like he owns the place. “Maxim Stepanov,” he drawls, his grin sharp. “Heard you were in Moscow.”
I stop in front of them, my cane tapping once against the sticky floor. “Where’s Marco Gorlami?”
The man grins wider, showing teeth. “What makes you think we’d tell you, limpy?”
“Because I asked nicely,” I reply, my voice even.
Another man pipes up, a stocky guy with a buzzcut. “You do realize where you are, right? This is Lombardi territory. No guns allowed past the door. You’re alone. No one here to save you. Go back to your hammer and your sickle, boy.”
The men chuckle, a low, ugly sound that grates on my nerves.
“I’ll ask one more time,” I say, taking a step closer. “Where is Marco?”
The stocky one stands, barely reaching my chin. He leans in, his breath reeking of garlic and cheap whiskey. “You got a death wish, huh? Fuck off before I take your cane off you and shove it up your ass.”
In a blur, I grab his wrist and twist. There’s a sickening snap, followed by his scream as he drops to his knees, clutching his mangled arm.
“Wrong answer,” I say coldly.
The booth erupts. Three more men charge at me, but they’re slow. Predictable.
The first swings a fist, and I sidestep, driving my cane into his ribs. He crumples, wheezing. The second lunges, aiming for my throat. I block him easily, my elbow smashing into his nose with a satisfying crunch. Blood sprays as he stumbles back.
The third tries to grab me from behind. I drop low, sweep his legs out from under him, and drive the heel of my boot into his shoulder. Another snap. Another scream. I ignore the pain in my hip, adrenaline keeping me going.
The stocky one, still cradling his broken arm, glares up at me. “You’re insane,” he spits. “Lombardi will kill you for this.”
“Tell Marco,” I say, my voice like ice, “that I’m coming for him. And next time, I won’t bother asking nice.”
I turn to leave, the room deathly quiet except for the groans of the men on the floor. A few strippers press themselves against the walls, their wide eyes tracking my movements.
Just as I near the door, I feel the tension shift. Someone’s pulled a gun. “Stop right there. I’m going to fuck you up, Ruski.”
The faint click of a safety being released is the only warning I need. “You sure about that?” I say as I turn to face him.
His head explodes as a rifle fires high above me. I nod up toward the skylight. The shadow of Dmitri nods back.
The room erupts into chaos, but I’m already gone.
Outside, the air is crisp and biting, a welcome change from the suffocating heat of the club. Ivan is leaning against the SUV, smoking a cigar. He raises an eyebrow as I approach.
“I don’t see blood,” he says dryly, exhaling a plume of smoke. “No Marco?”
I shake my head.
Ivan chuckles, opening the car door for me. “You owe me twenty.”
“Dmitri took out one of them.”
“Shit, that means I owe you twenty.”
“You dumb fuck, it means we’re even.” I crack my knuckles. “Tell everyone to find that son of a bitch and fast. I don’t want him escaping again.”
The mansion is quiet when I step inside, save for the faint ticking of an antique clock in the hallway. My shirt is wrinkled, a faint smear of blood on the cuff. I roll my shoulders, the dull ache in my hip a reminder of the ‘conversation’ I just had.
I find her in the library.
A fire crackles in the hearth. And there she is, sitting cross-legged on the plush armchair by the fire, a book resting on her lap.
Veronica.
My obsession. My father was wrong. This obsession only grows like ivy, suffocating me, making it impossible for me to see anything else but her.
She’s wearing one of Elena’s sweaters, oversized and slipping off one shoulder, revealing smooth, pale skin that practically begs for my lips.
Her legs are bare, tucked under her as she reads. The way her lips part slightly when she’s focused, the way her fingers absently brush the edge of the page—it all feels so damn intimate. She doesn’t even know how much I want to press her back into that chair, strip away every barrier between us, and claim her.
Elena sits on the opposite side of the room, flipping through a magazine. She glances up when I enter, her expression a mix of curiosity and amusement. “Rough morning?”
Veronica finally looks up, her gaze locking onto mine. She doesn’t miss the scratch on my neck or the tension in my shoulders. “What happened to you?” she asks, arching a brow. “Lose a fight with a cat?”
“Something like that,” I reply, my voice even.
“Did you find Marco?”
“He wasn’t there but we’ll find him soon enough.” I gesture to the book in her lap. “What are you reading?”
She holds it up. The Master and Margarita. “It seemed fitting,” she says, her voice teasing.
I smirk, stepping closer. “Woland is a fascinating character, don’t you think?”
“You see yourself as Woland?” she asks, tilting her head. “The devil himself?”
I let my smirk deepen. “Why not? An enigmatic, all-powerful stranger with a penchant for chaos.”
She laughs, the sound soft and unexpected. “You’re more like the cat, Maxim. Stirring up trouble for no reason and knocking things off tables. Try not to shit on the floor, that’s all I ask.”
Elena snorts from across the room, clearly enjoying this exchange. “She’s not wrong,” she says, flipping a page in her magazine. “You should put a collar on him.”
I lean against the arm of Veronica’s chair, close enough to catch the faint scent of her—something warm and floral. “Chaos has its uses,” I murmur, my voice low.
Her eyes meet mine, and for a moment, the air between us shifts. The teasing fades, replaced by something heavier.
“Is that what this is?” she asks, her voice quieter now. “Chaos?”
I don’t answer immediately. Instead, I reach out and take the book from her hands, my fingers brushing hers. She tenses but doesn’t pull away. Flipping to a random page, I glance at the text. “Chaos,” I say finally, “can be the start of something extraordinary.”
Her lips part, but before she can reply, Elena clears her throat. “Am I interrupting something, or should I leave you two to your Russian literature quotes?”
Veronica flushes and shifts back in her chair. I set the book down on the table beside her.
“We were discussing the bookstore this morning,” I say smoothly. “Have you thought about what furniture you need?”
She shakes her head, still looking a little flustered. “Not yet. I?—”
“Then we’ll go find some now,” I interrupt.
Her brow furrows. “You don’t have to do that.”
“We leave in ten minutes. Be ready.”