2. Maksim
MAKSIM
T he call comes at seven in the morning, dragging me from sleep with the buzz of my phone against the nightstand. Rolan’s name glows on the screen.
"Maksim," he says the moment I answer. "Get dressed. Headquarters. One hour."
"What happened?"
"If it could wait, I wouldn’t be calling."
He hangs up without another word. No explanation, no detail—just the expectation that I’ll follow orders, the same way I have for years.
I drag myself out of bed and move through my routine. Shower. Shave. Black suit, clean shirt—the uniform. I finish dressing and check the line of my collar with a flick of my fingers. My knuckles are still marked from the last job—subtle reminders of what I do and what I am.
Moscow traffic moves in sluggish patterns through the city center, but I arrive at Vetrov headquarters with minutes to spare.
The building squats on Tverskaya Street, its facade unremarkable among the mix of businesses and office complexes that line the avenue.
Inside, polished marble and expensive fixtures announce the prosperity of legitimate enterprise.
The real business happens on floors that don't appear on public directories.
Vadim meets me at the elevator on the eighth floor.
My cousin has held the position of lieutenant for three years, long enough to develop the hard edges that come with managing operations for the family.
His handshake is firm, his mind already focused on whatever crisis has prompted this early meeting.
"Rolan's waiting," he says, leading me down the hallway toward the conference room. "We have a problem."
The conference room overlooks the street below, its windows tinted to prevent observation from outside.
Rolan sits at the head of the polished table, his attention focused on a laptop screen that displays what appears to be security footage.
He looks up when we enter with inky eyes that betray his simmering rage.
"Sit." He gestures to the chairs across from him. "We need to discuss last night's incident at the track."
I take the indicated seat and wait. Years of working for the family have taught me to listen first, speak only when directly questioned, and never volunteer information that hasn't been requested.
"Alexei is dead." Rolan's voice remains flat and emotionless. "Overdose from tainted cocaine. The preliminary investigation suggests the drugs were cut with fentanyl."
Alexei is our cousin by marriage. I knew him—not well, but well enough.
We saw each other at gatherings, shared drinks a few times, exchanged the kind of conversations that mean nothing until someone ends up dead.
He worked collections in Butyrka and he was steady, competent.
Not the type to overdose, and definitely not the type to mix his own supply.
His death isn’t just inconvenient for Rolan.
It’s personal enough to warrant attention and professional enough to demand action.
"Accident?" I ask.
"Intentional." Vadim slides a folder across the table. "The cocaine was specifically targeted. Someone wanted Alexei dead, or they wanted to send a message through his death."
I open the folder and scan the preliminary reports.
Crime scene photographs show his body near the track entrance, surrounded by paramedics and police equipment.
Witness statements describe convulsions, foaming at the mouth, the rapid onset of symptoms that indicate poisoning rather than typical overdose.
"Who supplied the drugs?"
"Damir Mirov..." Rolan turns the laptop screen toward me as his eyes darken from inky to jet-black with rage. "Small-time dealer who operates at the track. Sells to patrons, keeps a low profile, generally stays out of family business."
The security footage shows a man in his early thirties, dark hair, lean build, moving through the track's betting area with casual confidence.
He's familiar with the environment. He interacts with various customers, exchanges money for small packages, conducts transactions with tact. Not new to this game.
"You think he's the bullet or the weapon?"
"Both possibilities are under consideration." Rolan closes the laptop. "But our immediate concern is containment. Mirov disappeared after Alexei's death. We need to locate him and determine whether this was assassination or setup."
"What's my role?" I straighten, squaring my shoulders and looking down at my oldest brother, but it's my cousin who speaks up.
Vadim leans forward. "Mirov has a sister—Zoya Mirova. She works at the track, betting window twelve. We need to know what she knows about her brother's business and whether she can lead us to him."
The assignment takes shape in my mind. Surveillance, evaluation, potential interrogation. Standard procedure for gathering information about suspects and their associates.
"Direct approach or observation?"
"Your choice, but keep it quiet. No official family involvement until we understand the full scope of the situation.
" Rolan's eyes meet mine across the table.
"If Mirov is planning additional attacks, his sister may be the key to stopping them.
If he's been set up by competitors, she may be the path to identifying the real threat.
And we can't spook him, which means we can't scare her. "
I nod and close the folder. The parameters are clear, the objectives defined. Find Zoya Mirova, assess her knowledge and loyalties, use her connection to her brother for family advantage.
"Timeline?"
"Immediate. She's scheduled to work tonight. Track her routine, make contact, begin evaluation." Vadim slides another document across the table. "Personnel file from track management. Address, work schedule, basic background information."
I scan the details. Zoya Mirova, twenty-six years old, employed at Podsolnukh Racetrack for four years. Lives alone in a modest apartment in Sokolniki. No criminal record, no known associations with organized crime beyond her brother's activities.
The photograph attached to her employment file shows a woman with long, dark hair and sharp hazel eyes.
High cheekbones, narrow nose—she's stunning to look at, but often the most beautiful specimen creates the most dangerous toxin.
And she's a target or an asset. Which one will be open to her choosing, if I'm feeling generous.
"Anything else I should know?"
"She's smart." Rolan's tone carries a note of warning. "Track management rates her as their most reliable employee. Never misses shifts, never makes errors in her counts, never asks questions about irregularities. The kind of person who sees everything and says nothing."
The profile fits someone who's learned to survive in dangerous environments by maintaining invisibility. Which means approaching her will require careful consideration of tactics and timing.
"I'll start tonight."
"Good. Report back tomorrow morning with your initial assessment." Rolan stands, signaling the end of the meeting. "And Maksim—keep this operation quiet for now. No backup or family resources, no official involvement until we have a clearer picture."
I leave headquarters with the folder tucked inside my jacket and a mental list of preparations to complete.
Surveillance equipment, background research, route planning for tracking her movements.
The kind of detailed preparation that makes the difference between successful intelligence gathering and blown operations.
By evening, I've positioned myself across from Podsolnukh Racetrack with clear sight lines to the employee parking area.
The building comes alive with lights and activity as the evening racing schedule begins.
Cars arrive carrying patrons eager to risk their money on horses and odds.
Among them, employees reporting for their shifts.
Zoya Mirova arrives at six thirty, parking a modest sedan in the section reserved for track personnel. She heads straight inside without dawdling or chatting with the security guard—just out of her car and into the employee entrance like she’s done it a hundred times before.
The evening passes slowly. I monitor radio traffic from track security, watch the flow of patrons and staff, and maintain observation of the employee parking area.
Racing nights generate predictable patterns of activity, building to peak energy during the featured races, then gradually declining as events conclude.
At eleven forty, employees begin emerging from the building. Zoya appears among the first wave, walking toward her car with fatigue in her steps. She's staring down at her phone, distracted by something that has her rapt attention. This is the moment of contact, when approach becomes inevitable.
I emerge from my vehicle and intercept her path between the employee entrance and the parking area. The move is calculated to appear casual while preventing easy escape routes.
"Zoya Mirova?"
She stops but doesn't step back. Her eyes assess me quickly, sweeping from my head to my feet and back up to my eyes. The evaluation happens in seconds, revealing the survival instincts I expected from someone connected to Damir Mirov.
"Do I know you?"
"We haven't met." I keep my voice level, non-threatening. "But we have mutual interests to discuss."
"Such as?"
"Your brother."
The words produce a flicker of reaction—tightened jaw, slight shift in posture. But she doesn't deny the relationship or claim ignorance of his activities.
"I don't discuss family business with strangers."
"Smart policy, but circumstances have made your family business relevant to other people's interests." I step closer, maintaining eye contact. "People who don't appreciate being kept in the dark."
"Then they should ask better questions." Her voice carries an edge that tells me she's not going to be pushed easily. "And they should ask them of the right person."
"Maybe." I let the word hang there. "But I'm asking you."
She starts to move past me. I match her step. "Your brother vanished after someone died. That puts you on a list. But honestly, I’m more interested in you."
Her pace slows. I take that as permission. "Four years in a job most people burn out of in two. No errors. No sick days. No gossip. You keep your head down and your count perfect. That kind of discipline doesn’t go unnoticed."
"I’m good at my job. That’s not a crime." She hugs her arms over her stomach in a defensive move, and I know I'll get more flies with honey. If I press her, she'll slip into the wind too, and Rolan won't like that. I might just have to play the long game here.
"No, it’s not. It’s impressive. And it tells me you’re smart enough to know what’s happening around you, even if you pretend not to." Her mouth tightens, but she doesn’t argue. "That works in your favor, Zoya. Keep being smart, and this doesn’t have to get messy."
She holds my gaze for a moment. "Are you threatening me or complimenting me?"
"Both."
That earns the first crack in her expression—a flicker of something I can’t quite read.
"I, uh... I need to go. I'll keep that in mind," she says.
"Good. But don’t mistake silence for safety. You’ve made an impression. Just make sure it stays a good one."
She walks to her vehicle without looking back. Her movements are controlled but carrying an undercurrent of tension. I watch her drive away, noting the route she takes. Nothing about her behavior suggests she's checking for surveillance—just a tired woman going home after a long shift.
The initial contact has established the parameters of our relationship. She's intelligent, tough, and protective of her brother. She won't be easily intimidated or manipulated. But she's also isolated, vulnerable, and dealing with forces larger than she can manage alone.
She’s hotter than the photo. Sharper, too.
There’s something in the way she carries herself—steady, unbothered, like she’s carved out a little corner of control in a world that could crush her without trying.
It makes her tempting. Dangerous, maybe.
But if this plays out the way I think it will, I might get a taste of that forbidden fruit before it’s over.
Tomorrow, I'll begin systematic pressure designed to break down her resistance and turn her cooperation from possibility to necessity. The assignment has moved from surveillance to active manipulation.
But tonight, I find myself thinking about the intelligence in her eyes and the backbone she showed when confronted with a direct threat. Zoya Mirova will not be an easy target.
Which makes the eventual victory more satisfying to anticipate.