31. Maxim
31
MAXIM
Thirty minutes earlier…
T he black ink glides across the paper in a smooth line, but it feels like I’m carving something permanent into stone. Final. Irrevocable.
My signature takes its place on the dotted line, neat and deliberate, though the weight of what it means settles heavily on my chest.
The silence in the room is oppressive, save for the soft shuffle of the lawyer organizing the documents in front of me.
His dark suit is perfectly pressed, his movements precise and mechanical. He’s a man accustomed to these moments, but for me, this one is personal. This isn’t just a contract; it’s a transfer of power. A coronation on paper.
When I set the pen down, the lawyer straightens and offers a thin, professional smile. “It’s done,” he says in Russian. “Congratulations, Pakhan.”
Pakhan. The title my father held before me. And now, it’s mine.
“Maxim,” my father says, stepping forward. His voice is steady, but there’s an edge to it—a rare hint of pride that he doesn’t bother to mask. “You’ve earned this. Today, you are the most powerful man in the Bratva.”
He grips my shoulder, his hand heavy, his gaze unrelenting. “This is what I raised you for. Don’t forget that.”
“I won’t,” I say, the words coming out evenly, though my throat feels tight. His approval is a strange thing—rare, elusive, and yet now that I have it, it feels worthless.
Ivan stands a few feet away, his jaw clenched. He tries to keep his expression neutral, but the tension in his posture gives him away.
He steps forward, inclining his head just slightly. “Pakhan,” he says, his tone careful. Calculated. “What are your first orders?”
The room quietens, the air thick with expectation. My father watches me closely, waiting to see how I’ll wield this new power. The lawyer is silent, his hands folded neatly over his briefcase.
Even Dmitri, who knows me better than most, stands still, waiting for my decision.
I take a breath, my thoughts sharp. There’s only one thing on my mind. Only one loose thread that’s been pulling at me, unraveling everything else.
“Marco Gorlami is walking into my trap,” I say, my voice cutting through the room like steel. “We have the details we need to take Lombardi down. Get things in motion now.”
Dmitri’s brow lifts slightly, though he masks his surprise quickly. “You set a trap for Marco?”
I nod. My father’s lips press into a thin line, but he nods in approval. “Clever.”
My thoughts drift to Veronica, and the hollow ache sharpens. She’s the one thing I can’t stop thinking about, the one thing that makes all of this feel meaningless.
She deserves better than what I’ve given her. Better than the chaos I’ve dragged into her life. And yet, I’ve tricked her, used her to bring Marco into the open. The kind of plan a monster would make, not a loving husband.
“I’ll be back later,” I say, turning sharply on my heel before anyone can ask more questions.
My car waits outside, sleek and black, its engine humming softly as I climb in.
The drive feels longer than it is, my hands gripping the wheel tighter than necessary.
I pull up a block from the bookstore, the sleek black car purring to a stop. At first glance, everything looks normal. But as I step out and the cold air bites at my face, that prickling sensation at the back of my neck sharpens. Instinct whispers to me.
Something’s off. Shit, I thought I had more time.
I shove my hands into my coat pockets, masking the tension coiling in my muscles as I walk toward the store.
My pace is steady, but my senses are dialed to the highest frequency, scanning the street for anything out of place. And then I see it. A car idling on the opposite side of the street, windows tinted so dark they practically swallow the light.
I stop a few feet from the bookstore, pretending to check my phone, but my eyes flick to the car. The driver’s window is cracked just enough for a cigarette’s ember to glow in the shadows.
My gaze shifts to the faint movement inside: four silhouettes, subtle shifts of shoulders.
Four men. Armed. Watching the front of the store.
A low hum of adrenaline rushes through my veins. My jaw tightens as I glance toward the bookstore’s door.
I approach the car from behind, careful to keep my footsteps silent on the pavement. As I get closer, I hear faint murmurs of conversation from inside the car, the radio playing low in the background. They don’t see me. They’re too focused on the bookstore.
Good.
I move quickly, ducking low as I come up to the back of the car. My coat conceals the gun holstered at my side, but I don’t draw it. A gunshot would attract too much attention. I have to do this clean.
The driver’s side door is closest. I grab the edge of it, yanking it open with one sharp motion. Before the driver can react, my fist slams into his jaw, the force snapping his head back against the seat. He’s out cold.
The man in the passenger seat swears, fumbling for the gun at his hip, but I’m already moving. I lunge forward, grabbing his wrist and twisting it sharply.
The weapon clatters to the floor as he howls in pain, but I cut him off with a sharp elbow to the temple. His body slumps against the door.
In the back seat, the two remaining men scramble to react, their movements clumsy in the cramped space. One manages to raise his gun, but I grab the barrel, slamming it upward.
The shot fires harmlessly into the roof of the car, and I use the distraction to yank him forward, my knee driving into his ribs. He gasps, the air knocked out of him, and I slam the side of his head into the car door. He collapses, groaning.
The last man doesn’t even have time to reach for his weapon before I grab him by the collar, dragging him halfway out of the car.
His fist swings wildly, but I duck, driving my shoulder into his chest and pinning him against the frame. My forearm presses against his throat as his eyes widen, the realization of his situation dawning too late.
“Where’s Marco?” I growl, my voice cold.
He hisses, his breath wheezing. “You’re too late. He’s already got her.”
“Wrong answer.” I press harder, and he chokes, clawing at my arm.
I kill him out with a silenced shot to his head.
Dumping him unceremoniously in the car, I quickly grab the guns from the floor and toss them into the trunk, slamming it shut. I take the keys with me.
The street is still quiet, the confrontation over before anyone could notice. Four men neutralized, and no one left to stop me from getting to Veronica.
I don’t waste another second. Turning, I move quickly toward the bookstore, my heart pounding.
Then I see it—blood.
A body lies crumpled near the entrance to the bookstore, its dark suit soaked crimson. My heart stops. Blood smears the pavement in chaotic streaks, as if the man had tried to keep moving.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. She was supposed to be safe. That’s one of her guards. A good man. Dead. My fault. I should have sent more men. Should have guessed this might happen.
It was a calculated risk. Too many men and Marco wouldn’t take the bait, wouldn’t come to get her. I know he’s been watching, biding his time, waiting for her to be away from me. I couldn’t find his hiding place so I needed to draw him out.
So I sent her with two men to her bookstore. The plan was to become Pakhan, then come here and wait for him to pounce. Only he moved faster than I expected and I sent too few men.
My chest tightens, fear clawing its way up my throat. What if she’s dead? The thought barrels through me, cold and relentless. What if I’m too late? What if I never get to tell her I did this for her…
I’m moving before I consciously register it, my hand gripping the gun at my side. The weight of it is familiar, steady, but it does nothing to calm the storm inside me.
She has to be alive. She has to be.
The door to the bookstore swings open slightly, as if beckoning me inside. My jaw clenches as I step forward. The metallic scent of blood hits me the moment I cross the threshold.
The store is in shambles. Shelves toppled, books scattered and torn, dark smears of blood streaked across the floor.
My eyes sweep the room, cataloging everything. More blood leading into the back.
My thoughts spiral. Images of her—broken, lifeless—flash through my mind, but I shove them down, forcing my focus to stay sharp.
A sound pulls me from my thoughts. Faint, distant—a scuffle, coming from the back of the store. Adrenaline floods my system, and I’m moving again, gun raised as I weave through the chaos.
Every overturned shelf, every shadow feels like a threat. My grip on the weapon tightens as I approach the back door, the noise growing louder.
I pause at the door, pressing my back against the wall. My heart pounds in my chest, but my breathing is steady.
My mind sharpens, every sense on high alert. I listen closely—footsteps, voices, the scrape of something heavy against concrete. My hand hovers over the door handle.
I pull it open. The other guard slumped dead. The sharp tang of gunpowder lingers in the air, mingling with the acrid stench of blood and sweat. I should have sent more men.
Nearby is another body, blood pooled underneath it. Not her. One of Marco’s men. Stabbed to death, a box cutter on the ground nearby. She didn’t go down without a fight.
Then I see my wife. Two men near her. One at the end of the alley, coming her way, the other holding her in place.
She wrenches herself out of his grip, using the technique I taught her. She whips her foot back and catches the guy in the balls, sending him down to the ground. He reaches out for her but she’s already running my way.
She blinks when she sees me, shock making her pause. “Help,” she says.
Marco is turning to run away, realizing I set this up. I pull out my gun and fire, hitting him in the leg. He goes down at once, trying to crawl away from me.
The man who held her is reaching for his own weapon. I put a bullet in his skull.
The crack of the shot echoes through the narrow alley, and his body crumples like a discarded rag doll.
Veronica stares at me, wide-eyed, her chest heaving. Relief flickers in her gaze for just a moment before it’s replaced by something harder—determination.
“Let’s end this,” I tell her, taking her hand, leading her over to where Marco is still trying to crawl away.
The asshole stops dead in his tracks when we reach him, his arms lifting slowly as if surrendering will somehow save him.
“Your guards are dead,” I say as he glances past me. “Any last words?”
The smugness vanishes from his face, replaced by a mask of pale, wide-eyed terror. “Maxim,” he stammers, his voice quivering. “Please, we can talk about this. You want money? I have money. My uncle will pay-”
“This isn’t about money,” I reply, my voice lethal. “Any last words?”
He reaches for me. “Please,” he says, desperation dripping from every word. “Don’t do this.”
“If it were up to me,” I say, my voice as cold and sharp as a winter’s night, “I’d burn you alive right now.”
I flip the gun in my hand, holding it out to Veronica, butt first. “But it’s not up to me,” I say. “It’s up to my wife to decide your fate.”
For a moment, silence blankets the alley, thick and oppressive. Marco turns to her, his expression a pathetic mix of fear and pleading.
“Honey,” he chokes out, taking a hesitant step toward her. “You don’t want to do this. I know you don’t. We had something, didn’t we? You felt it too. Something real.”
Her hand trembles as she takes the gun from me, her knuckles white around the grip. I don’t move, my eyes never leaving hers.
This is her moment. Her choice. Whatever happens now, it will be on her terms.
Marco continues his pathetic attempt at persuasion, his voice rising with desperation. “We can fix this! You belong with me, honey, please.”
I stand back, watching her. My chest tightens as I take in the fire in her eyes, the set of her jaw. She’s different. She’s always been strong, but now she’s my queen.
“Marco?” she says.
“Yeah?” There’s a note of hope in his voice.
“I told you before not to call me honey.” She pulls the trigger.
The gunshot echoes off the brick walls, sharp and deafening. Marco’s body jerks as the bullet finds its mark.
She stares down at his corpse, the gun still raised, her breathing heavy. The tension in her shoulders doesn’t ease.
I step toward her, my boots crunching against the gravel, and gently place a hand over hers.
“It’s over,” I say softly, easing the gun from her grip. Her fingers resist for a moment before finally letting go.
Her face crumples, and the tears come in a rush. I pull her into my arms, holding her tightly as her body shakes against mine.
“You’re safe now,” I murmur, my lips brushing against her hair. “No one can ever hurt you again.”