Chapter Thirty-Four
Maksim.
Brooklyn Heights, New York
Two weeks later
I wake with a jolt and sit up in bed, sweat-soaked silk sheets clinging to my skin with every motion.
Eyes trying to focus in the dark, anger courses through me when I can’t remember what the fuck caused me to panic.
It’s been weeks of this shit. I rub at my eyes and peer over at Sabrina, brows furrowed as her eyes shift back and forth beneath her eyelids.
That look on her face seems to be the one she wears the most these days—disgruntled—even in her sleep.
Her other side is empty. No Parker in sight.
That’s fine, it doesn't take me long to guess where he is.
Every morning I’ve gone downstairs, he’s in the gym already, covered in sweat.
By the time I get my jump rope out and finish my forty minutes of cardio, he’s wiping down the equipment he used and leaves me alone.
Which is fine. There’s just this… wall again.
It takes me back to when my wife was in her wedding gown again, veil over her face.
Except this time, I don't have permission to lift it. I haven’t earned that.
I wipe the nightmare-induced sweat off my brow and peek at my phone.
Four-fifty-seven in the morning. Great. I get out of bed and stretch, then make my way to the bathroom to relieve myself.
I contemplate waking Sabrina, but she looks…
peaceful even with her brows knitted together.
I get dressed as quietly as I can and go downstairs.
I head to the mansion’s gym but… second-guess it. I don’t think I need to workout here today. I don’t think I can watch Parker and feel his indifference. I type a message to Niko.
Me: U at Matteo’s?
Niko: Not yet. Be there in thirty. U good?
Me: See you in thirty.
I go to the coat closet, throw on my thickest hoodie, put on some old Nikes, and grab my gym bag from the floor in the corner.
It’s fucking freezing outside now that it’s December.
There are piles of dirty snow on the sidewalks from the plows that drove through this morning after last night’s storm.
I stayed away from the windows, not wanting to see the fucking snow fall even though my wife asked me.
I couldn’t. Because every time I looked out the window, I was back up in that goddamn tree, hearing a woman begging for her life before they did God knows what to her, and then her screams fell silent.
I climb into the SUV, push the START button so it’ll warm up, and sit there for a minute, staring at the steering wheel. It comes back to me so fucking clearly. Like a rat trap I can’t escape. I grab onto the steering wheel as tight as I can, like this would stop it.
My chest heaves up and down; panic rises in my throat as the sound of tires screeching against asphalt, the blasts of bullets hitting metal, Elio grunting while trying to maintain control of the wheel, the sound of my head hitting the window after Kane’s men hit us with their Humvees swirl around between my ears.
Fuck, the way the SUV tilted, the glass shattering as they rammed into the undercarriage over and over again until I blacked out from whiplash when they somehow managed to get the SUV to roll again.
I take a deep breath and groan.
It’s my fault when I put the SUV in Drive and glance up at my bedroom window.
My wife stands there, a frown marring her beautiful face…
I should get out or text her that I'm gonna be back in a bit. I should be a good husband and go back upstairs and… do anything except leave without even saying goodbye. Except that’s exactly what I do.
I face forward, put my foot on the gas, and press down.
Shit. I shake my head, driving in complete silence over the Brooklyn Bridge and to the outskirts of the Bronx, parking in front of an old red and orange brick building with a vintage sign up top that spells “Matt’s” in faded green, loopy cursive letters.
“Established in 1984” sits beneath it. I can see through the boxers already training and spot Niko talking to Matteo, the owner.
I switch off the engine and step out of the SUV, inhaling the brisk, city air.
As soon as I step inside, everything halts.
Men I've fought or trained stand tall, like they’re saluting me with nothing but a downward nod of acknowledgement.
Niko’s piercing icy blue eyes find me, and he grins, tapping Matty on the shoulder, who turns and greets me with a huge smile on his wrinkly face.
Older, tan, deep-set dimples, dark eyes, and salt and pepper brows and hair.
The old man’s missing a tooth he lost in his last fight in ‘02 and replaced it with a gold one.
He’s as OG as OG can get. “Eyyy, Maks! Haven’t seen you since September. Where ya been, ah? How’s the wife? She doin’ good?” He greets me with a clasp of his leathery hand and a pat on the shoulder. “Sabrina? That’s her name, right?” His voice is loud, and it’s grating on my nerves.
Tension building in my neck, I nod and smile weakly. “Yeah, good memory, Matty.”
He shrugs casually, folding his thick, hairy arms over his chest. “Ah, well, you know. She’s a beauty. The wife thought she was some old starlet reincarnated at the wedding. Thanks for inviting us, by the way.”
“Glad you came, Matt.”
“Sure, sure. Listen, about the New Year’s Eve fundraiser.
” He lowers his voice and tugs me to the side by the elbow, away from Niko and the window and anyone else that might eavesdrop, closer to the wall.
“You don’t have to fight, Maks. We were all worried about you, and you still gotta gain back some weight.
Niko told me you hurt your shoulder…” He trails off with a shake of his head.
I’ve fought with worse injuries than a fucked shoulder, and he knows this.
“I mean, it’s Liotta. He’s huge. As your old coach—”
“I can fight, Matt.”
“Listen, I’m not tryna tell ya how to take it, but if you wanna take it easy—”
“I’ve never taken it easy a day in my life. I said I'm fighting. I’m fighting.” I glance up at Niko. “You ready?”
Matt sighs heavily. “You can always change your mind, Maks. Nobody will think of you as less.”
“Niko,” I bark, ignoring the old timer.
He slaps Matty on the shoulder and grabs his gym bag off the floor, striding toward me, lips in a firm line. “Glad you made it out.”
I don’t respond, just tug off my hoodie, stretch until I feel limber, and take my jump rope out of my bag.
The music in the gym changes to 2Pac. I set the timer on my phone and then concentrate on the beat, the rope, my feet, and the sweat rolling down my back.
My lungs burn and so do my thighs. I shake my head to keep going.
I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me.
I feel like I’ve survived worse, and this shit is what has me down?
Because I don't remember everything that happened to me. I feel things that happened to me, but I don't remember. I feel uneasy all the damn time, like I gotta watch my back even more now. I know it’s the fucking fear of the unknown. The longer I jump, little memories replay but not fully. Half of what happened feels like a fever dream, the other half feels… adjacent. Like it didn’t really happen to me, but it did.
It feels like I'll never know. And not knowing is fucking killing me.
What did they touch while I was comatose?
Am I blocking it out because I don't want to remember? Alice’s face pops up, her brown eyes so full of hope—
Bile rises in my throat. I shake my head; I keep my chin up, sweat dripping into my eyes, but I don't stop until the timer goes off. I grab my towel and wipe off my face, throwing it back in my bag.
“Maksim?” He doesn't call me ‘Boss’ in this space. Here, we’re those thirteen-year-old kids whose lives were about to change in more ways than one. We’d both lost our mothers within the span of a year, and then we’d lived a life of vengeance for the next four. Murderers by age sixteen.
“Not right now, Niko.” I shake my head and begin wrapping my knuckles.
When I’m done, I shove my mouthguard in place, letting the familiarity ground me.
I blink a few times and shake the feeling of just wanting to be home with Sabrina off.
I have to get back in business. The fundraiser is coming up.
There’s a lot of shit I gotta do. I gotta go over numbers at the club, start prepping for tax season, make sure all the money’s been washed properly.
I can still control all of those things.
I walk over to the practice ring and roll in.
“Already?” Niko asks in disbelief, brows up to his fucking hairline.
I make a gesture with my hands.
“Not gonna glove up?”
I shake my head.
“Maks—”
I spit out the mouthguard into my palm. “Get the fuck in here.”
He does, and the first punch he lands doesn’t hurt. No, it… it feels… bright. It makes me laugh. It’s the first time I've laughed since… I can't remember. So I let him land another one.
“Fight back!”
Then a kick.
“Fight back, Maks! Fucking hit me!”
So I do. I lunge at him and get a few in.
We’re brawling, but every single one of his calculated hits feels like a burst of color…
until another one of those kicks lands perfectly.
I’m fucking facedown on the floor of the ring, mouthguard out, the taste of iron on my lips and tongue, but all I can see is that white, snowy abyss and hear a woman’s screams until they turn into soft whimpers in the night and then die like the end of a broken song…
“Get up!”
Sabrina running into the warzone, gun raised high and then… Raven opening the back of the van, eyes wide, snow flurries all around her… my wife holding Alice’s cold, dead hand, and Alice’s unsettling, lifeless eyes staring at me.
And yet… I… survived… the night.
“MAKS! Get the fuck up!” Niko screams, pulling me back. “Maks!”