8. Maksim
MAKSIM
T he surveillance office occupies the third floor of a nondescript building on Leningrad Avenue. From the street, it looks like another abandoned commercial space—dusty windows, faded signs. It blends into the urban landscape without drawing attention. That's exactly what we need.
I climb the back stairs, using the key that opens three different locks. The hallway inside is narrow and poorly lit, lined with doors that lead to storage rooms and dead ends. Only one door leads to the real office.
Inside, banks of monitors line the walls, each one connected to cameras and microphones placed throughout the city.
Audio equipment hums quietly in the corner.
Filing cabinets hold surveillance reports dating back five years.
This is where we keep track of everyone who might be a threat, everyone who might be useful, everyone who might know something we need to know.
I settle into the chair at the main console and pull up the files from last night.
Three audio recordings from Zoya's apartment—one from the living room, one from the kitchen, one from the bedroom.
The microphones are small, nearly invisible, planted during a routine maintenance visit to her building two days ago by a very eager landlord who accepted our generous donation to his building's maintenance fund.
The first recording captures our entire conversation as she sat on my lap sipping vodka before I fucked her again.
I listen to my own voice offering compliments, building intimacy, laying the groundwork for trust. I hear her responses—cautious but warming, suspicious but attracted.
The sound quality is excellent. Every word, every pause, every change in tone comes through clearly.
She mentioned feeling lonely without using the word directly.
She admitted to finding me attractive despite her better judgment.
She spoke about trust being earned, a clear reference to whatever her brother taught her about survival.
All useful information. All tools I can use to break her down further.
The second recording is shorter—just our conversation in the kitchen while she made coffee this morning, but it captures the way her voice changed when she asked why I was really there. She knows I'm not telling her everything, but she's willing to play along for now. That makes her predictable.
The third recording is the most revealing.
Our kiss, the sound of her breathing, the small noises she made when I touched her.
I replay that moment three times, analyzing the tone, the timing, the way she leaned into me.
Her defenses are crumbling exactly as they should.
She's falling for the version of me I've created, the gentle suitor who shows up at her door with declarations of love.
She has no idea what I really am. Part of me is okay with that because it's the game I'm playing, and part of me already feels possessive over her.
I can't even put my finger on the reason I feel like I have to claim her, but it isn't going to be easy to put a bullet in her head when we find her brother and put him down for what he's done.
And we can't just sit back and let him or the people he works for kill one of ours and do nothing.
Zoya will be nothing more than collateral damage.
I open a new file on the computer and begin typing my assessment. Target is responding positively to romantic approach. Defenses are lowering but remain in place. No direct mention of brother's whereabouts or activities. Recommend continued contact to build trust.
The clinical language reduces last night to data points and strategic recommendations.
But it doesn't capture the way she looked at me when I said I was falling in love with her or the way my chest tightened when she kissed me back.
Those were just words I had to say to get the job done, and my pleasure in that moment was a silver lining. So why does it fuck me up?
I shake my head and close the file. This is the job. Personal feelings are a luxury I can't afford.
The door opens, and Grisha Morin walks in carrying a paper cup of coffee that smells like it came from the all-night diner down the street.
He's younger than me by five years, but he's been doing surveillance work longer than anyone else in the organization.
His instincts are sharp, his analysis usually accurate.
"Morning," he says, settling into the chair beside me that creaks as he leans back and sips his brew. "How'd it go last night?"
I gesture to the monitors. "Listen for yourself."
He puts on headphones and scrolls through the recordings while I continue reviewing my notes.
I watch his face as he listens, noting the moments when his expression changes.
He's good at reading people, even through audio recordings.
And he doesn't balk at the fact that I'm stark naked with that hot bird on my lap. Doesn't even blush at it.
After twenty minutes, he removes the headphones and looks at me.
"She's hooked," he says.
"That's my assessment."
"But it's not enough."
I turn to face him fully. "Explain."
Grisha sips his coffee and makes a face. "She's attracted to you, maybe even starting to open up to you. But she's not desperate yet. She's not at the point where she'd risk everything to keep you."
"And you think she needs to be?"
"I think her brother isn't going to surface as long as she's stable and safe. He's staying away to protect her, which means he can afford to stay away. But if she's in danger—real danger—he'll come running."
I consider this. Grisha's right about the dynamic.
Damir Mirov has been in hiding long enough for us to deduce that he knows how dangerous the city is for him.
And he's working with or for people who openly defy us, though we're not exactly sure which of our enemies it is.
He's not coming back on his own. We need to force his hand.
"What do you suggest?" I ask, shutting the file and saving it. I turn to Grisha and give him a hard stare.
"Push harder. Escalate this whole thing. Make it real."
"Real how?"
Grisha leans forward, his voice dropping to a more serious tone. "Marriage."
I keep my expression neutral, but inside, something shifts.
Marriage isn't just escalation—it's a declaration of war.
Damir won't see my taking Zoya as my wife as a romantic gesture.
She's naive, easily fooled by an act and some lies.
But Damir will know what game I'm playing.
It's been three days. Love at first sight is nothing more than a fairy tale they put in movies to make people swoon. Damir isn't a fool.
"You want me to propose to her?" Even Zoya will see that as moving too quickly. I told her I love her, but proof is in the pudding, and I'm serving yogurt right now.
"I want you to make her believe you're going to propose. Talk about the future, about commitment, about making it official. Make it clear that you're serious about her." He leans back, sets his coffee down, and smirks at me with a nasty expression in his eyes that is haunting.
"And then?"
"Then you make it public. Let word get around that Zoya Mirova is about to become Zoya Vetrova. Let people know she's under our protection, that she's going to be family." His fingers drum on the table and I tense.
I understand the strategy immediately. It's brutal and effective. "You think her brother will hear about it."
"I think her brother has sources in the city, people who keep him informed about what's happening to her. And I think he'll lose his mind when he finds out his sister is about to marry into the organization that's hunting him—his enemy." Grisha's eyes narrow. "Don't you think?"
"He'll come back to stop it." I lift an eyebrow and look away.
It's getting harder to push down thoughts of her to begin with.
Escalating things to the level of talking about a future with her is going to fuck me up in ways I'll never be able to talk about.
Why the fuck does this woman have such a spell cast over me?
"He'll have to. No way he lets her take the Vetrov name, not when he knows what we'll do to her if we find him."
The logic is sound. Damir won't be able to stay hidden if he believes his sister is in immediate danger. He'll surface to protect her, and when he does, we'll be ready. Ready to make him pay for every problem he's caused, every life he's cost us, every day we've had to spend cleaning up his mess.
But the plan also means lying to Zoya on a deeper level, making promises I have no intention of keeping.
It means using her feelings against her, turning her trust into a weapon.
I have to remind myself that this is my job, that this is what my brother is expecting, but it's going against the grain inside my thoughts as I picture her crying face when she's pleading with me not to harm him, not to harm her.
"What if she says no?" I ask, deflecting. He can't know what's going on inside my head or they'll just haul her in and torture her instead of letting me play the slow game.
"She won't. Not if you play it right. She's already halfway there—lonely, attracted, starting to believe in the fantasy you're selling her. Give her a reason to say yes."
"Such as?" There has to be another way, but if Grisha is here pushing this idea, I might not have a way out of it.
"Tell her you love her. Tell her you can't imagine your life without her. Tell her you want to protect her from whatever dangers she's facing." Grisha pauses. "From what I heard on those recordings, she's scared of something. Use that fear."
I know he's right. There was something in her voice last night, a tension that went beyond normal caution. She's afraid of something, and that fear is making her more vulnerable to offers of protection.
"How public do you want this to be?" I ask, sighing. I have no choice but to do what he's asking. This is going to end badly, and she's going to end up dead because of it, and I'm not sure how I'll feel when that happens. But worse things have happened to me and I've survived. I can do this.
"Public enough that word gets back to her brother. Put the engagement announcement in the papers. Throw a party. Make sure everyone knows that Zoya Mirova is about to become untouchable."
"And when her brother surfaces?"
"We take him down. No negotiations, no second chances. He's caused enough problems already."
The plan is elegant in its simplicity. Use the sister to draw out the brother, then eliminate the threat permanently. It's exactly the kind of strategy that's made the Vetrov family successful for three generations.
"There's one problem," I say.
"What's that?"
"She's not stupid. If I push too hard, too fast, she'll know something's wrong. She already suspects I'm not telling her everything."
"So don't push. Make her come to you. Create a situation where marriage feels like her idea, or at least like the natural next step."
"How?"
Grisha stands and walks to the window, looking out at the city below.
"Be obsessed with her. Give her the world.
It's the role of a lifetime, Maksim. Play it with the intent on winning an Oscar.
" He turns to narrow his eyes on me and says, "And make your love for her seem more real than the love she has for her family. It's the only way."
"Give me a week to lay the groundwork," I say. "Then we'll see how much Zoya Mirova is willing to sacrifice for love."
Grisha nods and heads for the door. "For what it's worth, I think you're good at this. She really believes you care about her."
After he leaves, I sit alone in the surveillance office, surrounded by the tools of my trade. I pull up the recording from last night one more time, but I don't listen to the strategic parts. Instead, I find the moment when she laughed at something I said—a genuine laugh, surprised and delighted.
I replay it three times before I catch myself and shut off the audio.
Then I open a new document and begin planning how to destroy the life of a woman who's starting to trust me. I'll make her fall in love with me completely, make her believe I'm her salvation. Then I'll use that love to draw her brother out of hiding so I can put a bullet in his brain.
The irony isn't lost on me. I'm about to become exactly the kind of man her brother probably warned her about—someone who would use her feelings against her, who would lie to her face while planning her destruction.
But that's the job. That's what I do. That's what I'm good at.
And if there's a part of me that doesn't want to do it anymore, that part will have to learn to live with disappointment. Because I have work to do, and Zoya Mirova is going to help me do it whether she knows it or not.