27. Maxim
27
MAXIM
N umbers. Assets. Deals. All in my father’s handwriting. The empire distilled into neat columns of ink and paper on the desk in front of me. By this time tomorrow, it will all be mine.
And yet, staring at the mountain of wealth awaiting me, I feel nothing. Because she’ll be leaving. The signal replicator has arrived. I can go ahead and make my plans whenever I want.
I told her until Marco was dead, she still needs my protection. Is it wrong I want to hold off killing him just so I can spend a little longer with her?
I can’t bear the thought of saying goodbye. My obsession has only grown deeper since we met. Every day the thought of being without her stabs at me like a blade to the heart.
I lean back in my chair, the leather creaking under me, and rub my jaw. The inheritance should feel like victory, but all I can think about is her. Veronica.
The way she laughs, the way her nose crinkles when she’s trying to hold in a sarcastic comment. The way her presence makes me want a family for the first time in my life.
I run a hand through my hair, forcing my mind back to the documents. The Bratva is a beast that requires constant feeding.
The enemies are waiting, circling like vultures. Lombardi is the biggest but there are always others. There’s no room in this world for distractions—no room for her.
I need to get on with work. Once Marco is gone, I’ll tie up this arrangement, give her what I promised, and send her on her way. I’ll need to give the business my attention, there won’t be room for me to focus on anything else.
The thought twists something sharp in my chest, but I ignore it. I’ve trained myself to ignore pain, both physical and emotional.
Love is a distraction. It blinds you, weakens you. I’ve seen what happens to men who let it in. My father’s grief after my sister’s death nearly tore this family apart. He recovered, but the empire barely survived the blow.
And Veronica?
She doesn’t belong in this life. Her softness, her warmth—they’re meant for a world far away from the bloodstains and betrayals that define mine. If I keep her here, I’ll destroy her. That’s what men like me do.
The sound of footsteps outside the door pulls me from my thoughts. I glance toward the shadows under the doorframe but don’t call out. Likely Ivan or one of the guards, always pacing the halls. Still, my hand instinctively brushes against the drawer where my gun is hidden.
I exhale, shaking my head at my own paranoia.
My phone buzzes on the desk, and I glance at the screen. A text from Ivan: “Dmitri’s gone hunting.”
I type back quickly, telling him to keep me informed. When he finds Marco, I want to be there. Maybe burn him a few times on a stovetop. Then kill Lombardi.
Ending him will tie this up neatly, securing Veronica’s safety and eliminating the last threats to my new reign.
And then what?
The question hangs in the air, refusing to be ignored. Veronica is temporary. A distraction. A deal. That’s what I keep telling myself, even as the memory of her laugh creeps into my thoughts again.
Even as I imagine her curled up on the library couch, lost in one of her books, oblivious to how much space she’s started taking up in my mind.
The soft knock at my office door pulls my attention from the documents scattered across my desk.
Before I can say anything, the door creaks open, and Veronica steps inside, limping. Her face is flushed, but her chin is raised in that familiar stubborn defiance that both infuriates and captivates me.
My eyes narrow as I push back from my desk and stand. “What happened? Who hurt you?”
“It’s nothing,” she says, brushing me off with a wave of her hand. “I just slipped by the pool.”
I stride toward her, my gaze scanning her from head to toe. She’s favoring her left foot, and there’s a faint grimace she’s trying to hide.
My jaw tightens. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going swimming?”
She crosses her arms, her voice sharp. “Because I wanted to do it myself. I’m not helpless, Maxim.”
The defiance in her voice makes me pause. I know she’s trying to prove something—maybe to me, maybe to herself—but all I can see is her pain.
Without a word, I close the distance between us and kneel in front of her, gently grasping her injured ankle.
“Sit,” I order, nodding toward the nearby chair.
She hesitates, her stubbornness flashing in her eyes, but eventually she lowers herself into the chair.
I take her foot in my hands, carefully lifting it to examine the swelling around her ankle. Her skin is soft beneath my fingers, and I hate how delicate it feels, how fragile. It makes me feel protective in a way I can’t afford to be.
“You shouldn’t have been swimming alone,” I say, my voice low but firm. “What if you slipped and fell under the water?”
“It might surprise you to know I kept myself alive for quite a while before we met. Besides, I was doing well. No panic attacks at all. Well, just the one, but I stomped on that motherfucker.”
“Doing well doesn’t mean pushing yourself to the point of injury,” I counter, glancing up at her. Her face is flushed, and not just from pain. She’s embarrassed. Defensive.
“I don’t need you to babysit me,” she snaps, but there’s no real heat in her voice.
My thumb brushes over her ankle, testing the tenderness. She winces, and I immediately loosen my grip, guilt twisting in my chest. “You don’t have to do everything alone.”
She blinks, her lips parting slightly as if she’s about to say something, but then she closes her mouth and looks away.
“You’re serious about this, aren’t you?” she says eventually, clearly trying to lighten the mood. “I mean, the whole protective Bratva husband thing.”
I arch a brow, leaning back slightly but still holding her foot. “Would you prefer I ignore you?”
She grins, the corners of her mouth lifting in a way that makes my chest tighten. “No, I just didn’t expect you to turn into Florence Nightingale.”
I smirk despite myself. “Trust me, I’m not that soft.”
She laughs, the sound lightening the tension in the room. “Could’ve fooled me.”
But the truth is, I’m not soft. Not by a long shot. And yet, seeing her like this—hurt, vulnerable—makes me feel things I’ve spent years trying to bury.
“You need to rest,” I say, standing and setting her foot back down gently. “No more swimming for now.”
She opens her mouth to argue, but I cut her off with a look. “That’s not a suggestion, Veronica.”
Her lips twitch, like she’s debating whether to fight me on this, but eventually she sighs. “Fine. But only because you look like you’re about to lecture me for an hour and I can’t take it.”
“Good choice,” I say, my tone dry.
She looks small, but there’s nothing fragile about the way she stares at me—challenging, as always.
“Don’t move,” I say, heading to the cabinet by the window to grab a first-aid kit.
“I could go to the medical team, leave you in peace.”
“Yet you came to me. Keep still.”
“I’m not going anywhere, nurse,” she quips, a teasing grin tugging at her lips when I return.
I kneel in front of her, settling her foot in my lap.
My hands work carefully over the tender area, testing the swelling with just enough pressure to avoid hurting her.
She lets out a soft sigh, and for a moment, all I want to do is rip her clothes off.
“Okay, I have to ask,” she says, leaning back slightly on her hands. “How are you so good at this? Do they teach massages in Bratva training school?”
“I’ve had practice,” I reply, smirking at her curiosity.
She arches a brow. “On other damsels in distress?”
“Something like that.” My hands shift to a firmer grip, her muscles relaxing under my touch.
She studies me for a moment, her playful demeanor softening. “You know, this isn’t just about swimming.”
I pause, glancing up at her. “What do you mean?”
Her voice drops slightly, her usual armor of humor slipping away. “It was about proving something. That I can take care of myself. I don’t like relying on other people. Never have.”
I nod, my hands stilling. “And you feel you always have to do things alone?”
She shrugs, her gaze falling to her lap. “That way, no one’s there to see if you fail.”
I tilt my head, watching her closely. “You didn’t fail. But doing everything alone doesn’t make you stronger. It just makes you lonely.”
Her eyes flicker to mine, something unreadable passing through them. “Is that from personal experience?”
I lean back slightly, my hands resting on her shin. “Maybe.”
For a moment, I consider stopping there, but something about her gaze—open, waiting—pushes me to continue.
“My father ruled the family,” I say, my voice low. “Everything had to be his way. Brutal. Controlling. He thought it was the only way to maintain power.”
Her expression softens, her lips parting as if to speak, but she stays silent, letting me go on.
“I learned from him,” I admit. “But not in the way he wanted. I saw how his way of leading destroyed everything that mattered to him—how it killed the people he claimed to protect.”
Her voice is soft. “Your sister.”
The words hit like a punch to the gut, but I nod. “Katya deserved better. My mother deserved better. They both paid the price for his obsession with control.”
Veronica shifts slightly, her fingers brushing against mine.
“You said you’d run things differently,” she says. “What does that mean?”
I take a deep breath, my thumb absentmindedly tracing circles on her shin. “It means leading with loyalty, not fear. It means making sacrifices to protect the people who matter. Even when it’s hard.
“You know, I’ve run the figures. We can make more from Elena’s architecture plans than we can from gun running. But to make that happen, sacrifices must be made.”
Her eyes search mine, her voice steady but questioning. “And is that what I am? A sacrifice?”