Chapter 7 Maksim
Maksim
Brooklyn — Nightfall
My breath hitched before the phone finished ringing. The feeling that washed over me was something I couldn’t really explain.
That shift in the air. A gut feeling that something wasn’t right. The kind that settles in your chest when something precious has almost been taken from you.
Archer didn’t waste words. Then again, he never did.
“Attempt made,” he said without preamble. “Vehicle strike. Hospital exit. She’s unharmed. We’re moving now.”
The world went crimson.
I don’t remember ending the call. I remember the sound my fist made when it hit the corrugated metal. Once. Twice. And again. Pain bloomed across my knuckles, sharp and welcome, but it wasn’t enough to bleed out what was roaring inside me.
They had tried to kill her.
In public.
In a hospital parking lot.
While she was carrying my child.
Cold determination seeped into my very bones. I grabbed my coat and my gun and left without explanation. Dima looked up, startled, but didn’t say a word. The men around me knew better than to ask. Rage like this didn’t need translation.
* * *
The Armenian clubhouse smelled like tobacco and spilled liquor. It always had. A converted social hall squatting in the middle of their little territory, it had seen better days.
I didn’t knock.
The door splintered under my boot, wood cracking like bone. Shouts erupted. Guns came up, but I didn’t so much as flinch.
“Lower them,” I calmly ordered.
They did, but the wary expressions didn’t leave their faces. Because they knew me. Because they knew what followed if they didn’t.
Tavit Petrosyan stepped forward from the back room, hands raised slowly, face carved from decades of survival. He wasn’t a soldier anymore—he was a king who knew how to read a room.
“Maksim Sokolov,” he said evenly, a single dark brow arching. “You bring war into my house?”
“You brought it to mine,” I snarled.
His brow furrowed—not feigned confusion. Real. “I did no such thing.”
“Don’t lie to me.” I slammed my hand against the table, the sound cracking through the room. “Someone tried to kill a woman under my protection tonight.”
Tavit’s gaze sharpened. “The bartender.”
The words hit wrong. Too casual. Too informed.
My gun was in my hand before I realized I’d drawn it, barrel pressed under his chin. “How do you know who she is?”
“Because your Boris doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut,” Tavit quietly murmured. “He’s been telling a lot of people he shouldn’t that you’ve lost your edge over a pregnant girl.”
The room went silent.
Pregnant.
The word echoed like a gunshot. I would’ve sworn each and every person present held their breath.
I stepped back slowly, my mind snapping into place with brutal clarity. “You didn’t order the hit.”
Tavit lowered his hands, anger suddenly flaring in his gaze. “No. Because if I had, she’d be dead and you know this. We do not miss.” He brought himself nearly toe-to-toe with me. “And we don’t kill women carrying children unless war demands it.”
That was Armenian truth. Ugly. Honest.
“Are we at war, Maksim Sokolov? I know we have had petty tiffs in the past, but am I missing something?”
“You shot Boris,” I accused.
“Yes,” Tavit admitted without hesitation. “Because he lied to us. Told us you were planning to wipe us out. Told us we were already marked. But I know you, Maksim. If that was true, we would’ve been dropping like flies instead of one single stupid soldier that you killed at Halloween.”
My pulse pounded in my ears. He knew I’d killed one of his men and yet he hadn’t retaliated. Why?
“Your actions were justified. Which is why I let it lie. For some reason, he wanted war,” Tavit continued. “We wanted quiet… peace. He pushed. We responded. A warning shot. Nothing more.”
“And the attempt tonight?”
Tavit shook his head. “Not us.”
The pieces slammed together.
Public intimidation. A woman labeled as a weakness. Armenians painted as monsters. Boris always nearby. Always soothing. Always helpful.
I holstered my gun.
Tavit studied me carefully. “You didn’t come here for blood.”
“No,” I flatly replied. “I came for truth.”
“You have it.” His jaw tightened. “Unfortunately, my friend, I’m afraid your enemy wears your own colors.”
I left without another word.
Snow bit into my face as I stepped back into the night, my breath coming hard and fast—not from exertion, but from the sick realization clawing its way up my spine.
Boris hadn’t just miscalculated.
He’d planned this.
Sofia wasn’t collateral. She was the point.
I pulled out my phone and dialed Archer.
“Move her again,” I snapped the second he answered. “Immediately. No known locations. No patterns. Message me your location on the burner.” I paused and took a deep breath. “How is she?”
“She’s shaken,” Archer explained. “But she’s strong.”
“She has to be,” I replied. “More now than ever. Because Boris just signed his death warrant.”
I ended the call and leaned against the car, staring up at the snow-choked sky. Fluffy flakes fell thick and heavy around me, sticking to my lashes and my hair.
Boris wanted my loyalty. No… he expected it. I’d known him practically my whole life. Yet he would do this to me?
He thought if he took her from me, I’d return to the man I was before—cold, empty, obedient.
He was wrong.
He hadn’t weakened me and neither has Sofia.
He’d given me purpose.
And now?
Now I was going to make him truly understand what it meant to touch what was mine.