6. Maksim
MAKSIM
R olan's estate sprawls across forty acres of carefully manicured grounds, all stone walls and wrought iron gates.
I drive through the main entrance at six in the evening, headlights cutting through the darkness that settles between ancient oak trees.
The house itself rises from the landscape in elegant brutalism—clean lines, sharp angles, windows that reveal nothing of what happens inside.
I park beside the fountain in the circular drive and walk to the front door. The butler, a thin man with silver hair and no name I've ever learned, opens it before I can knock.
"Mr. Vetrov is expecting you in the study," he says.
I follow him through hallways lined with oil paintings—landscapes, mostly, scenes of Russian countryside that Rolan has never visited. The study door stands open. Rolan sits behind his desk, reading files by lamplight. He doesn't look up when I enter.
"Close the door," he says.
I do, then take the chair across from him. The leather is soft, expensive, just his taste.
Rolan finishes reading and sets the file aside. When he looks at me, his eyes are the same hazel as mine, but colder. Age hasn't softened him—if anything, the gray at his temples makes him appear more dangerous.
"Tell me about the girl," he says. "I want your assessment."
I lean back in the chair, considering my words. "She's intelligent. Cautious. She doesn't trust easily, but she's not completely closed off."
"Is she useful?"
"She's compliant but guarded. I'm working on her." I loosen my tie and study his stern expression. It's the same look he has on his face every time I look at him.
Rolan's fingers drum against the desk surface. "Working on her how?"
"I'm building rapport, making her feel safe with me. She's responding, but slowly."
"How slowly?"
"She agreed to see me again. We had drinks yesterday. She's warming to me."
"And her brother?"
Damir Mirov—the ghost we're all chasing, the loose thread that could unravel everything if pulled the wrong way. I keep my expression neutral.
"She hasn't heard from him recently. Or so she claims."
"Do you believe her?"
"I think she's telling the truth about not knowing where he is. But she's definitely not telling me everything she knows about his business."
Rolan nods slowly. "That's expected. Family loyalty runs deep, even when it shouldn't." He stands and walks to the window, hands clasped behind his back. "The girl is our best path to finding him. Stay close to her. Make her believe you're on her side."
"Understood."
"I mean it, Maksim. She needs to trust you completely. Whatever it takes."
I know what he's asking. Whatever it takes has a specific meaning in our world. It means crossing lines, breaking rules, doing things that can't be undone. I've done it before.
"I'll handle it," I say.
"Good." He turns back to me. "How long do you think you'll need?"
"Hard to say. She's not naive. If I push too hard, too fast, she'll pull back."
"Then don't push. Draw her in. Make her want to come to you."
I stand to leave, but he speaks again before I reach the door.
"Maksim?"
"Yes?"
"Be careful with this one. Smart women are dangerous in ways that aren't always obvious."
I nod and leave him to his files and his expensive furniture. The drive back to the city takes thirty minutes through empty streets. I use the time to think about Zoya, about the way she watched me during dinner, the careful way she answered my questions.
She's playing a game too. That much is clear. The question is whether she knows I'm playing one back.
By the time I reach her neighborhood, it's nearly nine. Her apartment building is a five-story brick structure with narrow windows and a green front door that needs repainting. I park across the street and study the building for several minutes.
Third floor, corner unit. I can see light behind her curtains. She's awake.
I cross the street and press the buzzer for her apartment. The intercom crackles to life after a moment.
"Yes?" Her voice sounds tired.
"It's Maksim."
A pause. "It's late."
"I know. I was in the neighborhood and saw your light on. I thought maybe..." I let my voice trail off, inject a note of uncertainty. "I'm sorry. This was a bad idea."
"Wait." Another pause, longer this time. "Come up. Third floor."
The door buzzes and I push it open. I climb to the third floor and find her waiting in her doorway, wearing jeans and an oversized sweater. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, and she looks younger without the careful composure she maintains in public.
"This is unexpected," she says.
"I couldn't stop thinking about last night." I move closer, not quite close enough to touch. "About you." My gut twists as I let the lie roll off my tongue. I'm the master of manipulation, speaking sly half-truths to women all the time, so why does this lie make me cringe?
She steps back, letting me into her apartment. "You could have called."
"Would you have answered?"
"Probably not."
I smile at her honesty. "Then I made the right choice by coming here."
Her apartment is small but clean, furnished with pieces that look secondhand but well-maintained. A narrow kitchen opens onto a living room with one couch, one chair, one small television. Bookshelves line one wall, filled with volumes that look actually read rather than decorative.
"Can I get you coffee?" she asks.
"Please."
She moves to the kitchen and I follow, ostensibly to continue our conversation but really to observe. The refrigerator holds the basics—milk, eggs, bread, nothing expensive. A single mug sits in the dish drainer beside the sink. She lives alone and doesn't entertain often.
The coffee she makes is strong and bitter. We sit on opposite ends of her couch, and I notice how she positions herself so she can see both the door and the kitchen. Survival instincts.
"You didn't really happen to be in the neighborhood," she says.
"No."
"So, why are you here?"
I set down my mug and turn to face her fully. "Because I've been thinking about you since this morning. Because I couldn't concentrate on work, couldn't focus on anything except wondering what you were doing, whether you were thinking about me too."
She watches my face as I speak, searching for tells.
I let her see what I want her to see—interest, attraction, the beginning of something deeper.
And inside, I'm conflicted, which is strange for me.
This game is old hat, and I am good at it, but Zoya's honesty and abrupt demeanor aren't like other women. I'm fascinated by her.
"You don't know me well enough for that," she says.
"Don't I?" I move closer on the couch, close enough that I can smell her shampoo. "I know you're careful with your trust. I know you're loyal to the people you care about. I know you're braver than you let people see."
"You learned all that from two conversations?"
"I learned it from watching you. The way you carry yourself, the way you think before you speak. The way you look at me when you think I'm not paying attention."
Color rises in her cheeks. "How do I look at you?"
"Like you're trying to solve a puzzle."
"Maybe I am."
I reach out and touch her arm, let my fingers trace a light path from her wrist to her elbow. She doesn't pull away.
"What puzzle?" I ask.
"You." Her voice is quieter now. "You show up out of nowhere, you're charming and attentive, you say all the right things. But there's more to you than owning a track and eating casual dinners."
"There's more to everyone."
"Not like this."
I cup her face with one hand, thumb brushing across her cheekbone. "You're beautiful, Zoya. Do you know that?"
She closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them, I see vulnerability there, carefully guarded but real. But I mean it. She's ravishing, the sort of woman I would bring to my bed more than once, which is saying something.
"You can't just show up at my apartment and say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because it's not fair."
"What's not fair about it?"
"You make me want to believe you."
Her admission opens the door for more, but I'm hesitant to snatch it up. I lean closer, close enough that our foreheads almost touch. This is thin ice I'm skating on and I know it. I like her more than I should, and that's dangerous in this game.
"Then believe me," I whisper.
She searches my eyes, looking for truth in a face that's been trained to lie. I let her look. I let her see warmth, desire, the promise of safety. It's not entirely false. There's something about her that calls to parts of me I usually keep buried. But it's not entirely true, either.
"This feels too fast," she says.
"Does it?" I stroke her hair, soft and thick between my fingers. "Because it feels right to me. It feels like something I've been waiting for without knowing it."
"Maksim..."
"I know it sounds crazy. Love at first sight, all of that. But I can't explain what happened when I saw you that first day. It was like everything clicked into place."
She leans into my touch despite herself. "You don't love me. You don't even know me."
"Then let me know you." I tilt her chin up so she has to meet my eyes. "Let me understand what's behind all that careful control."
"Some things are better left alone."
"Not this. Not you."
I kiss her forehead, gentle and reverent. She makes a small sound, almost a sigh. I can feel her resistance weakening, feel the walls she's built starting to crack.
"I want you," I say against her skin. "I want to know everything about you. Your favorite book, the songs you sing when you think no one can hear, what you dream about when you're alone in this apartment."
"Why?"
"Because I think I'm falling in love with you."
The words come out honest, believable. They're meant to be a tool, a way to break down her defenses. But as I say them, I realize there might be more truth in them than I intend, and that realization feels nauseating. I'm playing her… and maybe myself, too.
She pulls back to look at me, and I can see the war happening behind her eyes. Logic against emotion, caution against desire.
"This is insane," she whispers.
"Maybe. But some of the best things are."
I lean in slowly, giving her time to stop me. She doesn't. When our lips meet, it's soft at first, tentative. Then she kisses me back with an urgency that surprises us both.
Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer. I cup the back of her neck, deepening the kiss. She tastes like coffee and something sweeter, something that makes me want to forget why I'm really here.
When we break apart, she looks stunned, like she can't believe what just happened.
"I should go," I say, though every instinct tells me to stay, to push this further while her defenses are down.
"Should you?"
The question is loaded with invitation and uncertainty. I stand and pull her up with me, then frame her face with both hands.
"I don't want to rush you into anything you're not ready for."
"What if I am ready?"
I study her face, seeing the flush on her cheeks, the way her lips are slightly swollen from our kiss. She wants this, wants me. The realization sends heat through my veins.
But I also see the uncertainty in her eyes, the fear of making the wrong choice. She's smart enough to know this could be dangerous but human enough to want it anyway.
"Then just say the word." I should be celebrating. I should be taking notes to return to my brother and tell him how easily I got her eating out of my hand, but instead of feeling like the victor, I feel like the fool.
Is she playing me or am I playing her? I can't even tell anymore.