14. Maksim
MAKSIM
R olan doesn't look up from his paperwork when I enter his office.
Three stacks of reports cover the mahogany desk, each one requiring his signature before money moves or people disappear.
The routine never changes—morning briefings, afternoon executions, evening cleanup.
Today, I'm about to disrupt that routine.
"I want to move forward with the marriage," I say.
His pen stops moving. He sets it down carefully, aligns it with the edge of the desk, then looks at me with the expression he reserves for subordinates who've overstepped. I'm not a subordinate, but I'm also not the brother who inherited leadership.
"Alright... We'll do it fast and loud," he says after a long pause. "We send a message. Everyone needs to see that she belongs to us now. It's a good play, brother. Our murderous enemy will come crawling out into the light, and we'll squash him like a cockroach."
The approval comes with conditions, but I expected that. Rolan never gives orders without calculating the ripple effects, the potential for blowback, the ways an operation can go wrong. He's survived this long by thinking three moves ahead while everyone else scrambles to keep up.
“This weekend," he continues, already reaching for his phone. "Saturday. The Nevsky Hotel rooftop. I'll get the security set up."
I nod at him, but my chest tightens as Rolan glances up at me, his brow lifting just slightly—the unspoken question clear.
It's the same look my father would get on his face when giving us the opportunity to change our minds, go a different route.
But I've thought of this a dozen ways and this might be the only path forward.
"You know what this means," he says, locking his phone screen and setting it flat on the desk. "Once she takes our name, she belongs to us. Any harm to her becomes a declaration of war. That’s how the rest of the Bratva will see it. That’s how I will see it."
I meet his gaze. "That's what I'm counting on."
He nods once slowly. There is no smile, no warmth—but I can feel the approval in the shift of his posture, the way his hand moves to the silver lighter he’s had since we were teenagers.
"You're crossing lines you don’t uncross, Maksim," he says.
I know. I've known since the night I let myself kiss her. Since I stepped into her apartment and started treating this like anything but a job. And if it ever comes down to her or the assignment, I already know which way I’ll fall. That makes me dangerous. Not to her—but to the family.
From the beginning she's been nothing but an asset to them.
But doing this—marrying her—means she becomes my property.
It means when all of this is said and done, only I will have the right to decide her fate.
I don't even know how that will play out, but I do know that if Damir shows his face before that ceremony, Zoya is as good as dead as far as my brothers are concerned.
This is just protection for her, plain and simple.
I finally pull out my phone. Zoya's number appears on the screen, and I realize I've memorized it without trying. Small details stick when you're watching someone closely, when their patterns become part of your operational awareness.
The call connects after three rings. "Maksim?" Her voice carries no surprise, which tells me she's been expecting this conversation. I move toward the window in Rolan's office and look past the gardener outside trimming hedges.
"We're moving forward with the wedding," I say, moving back toward the desk as Rolan studies me. "Saturday at the Nevsky Hotel rooftop."
The pause that follows lasts exactly long enough for someone to compose a response. When she speaks again, her tone holds the right note of breathless uncertainty. For the first time in my life real, painful guilt washes over me.
"So soon? I mean... yes, of course. Whatever you think is best."
The words sound rehearsed, but something about her tone makes me hesitate.
There's no game in her voice, no edge of manipulation. Just breathless shock trying to catch up with reality. Maybe she knew this was coming, but that doesn’t mean she was prepared.
Not for how fast, how final, how public this would become.
For a moment, I let myself believe her agreement isn't strategy—it’s surrender. And I hate how much that matters to me.
"The louder, the better," I tell her. "Everyone needs to know."
"I understand. Should I... is there anything I need to do?" Zoya sounds flustered.
"Invite your family. Everyone you want there."
The silence stretches longer this time. When she speaks, her voice carries a different quality—the sound of someone choosing their words carefully. "I don't have family, Maksim. Not really. And I haven't heard from my brother since..." She lets the sentence hang unfinished.
The lie slides off her tongue as smooth as water, but I catch the tremor underneath.
She's protecting Damir even now, even knowing what he's done.
Family loyalty runs deeper than survival instincts, which is exactly what we're counting on.
I don't give a single fuck what happens to her brother, and if she'll allow me when this is over, I will be the comfort she needs. She just has to stop lying to me.
"I'll handle the arrangements," I tell her. "Someone will be by to help you prepare."
After ending the call, I find Rolan watching me with sharp interest. His expression reveals nothing, but I know that look—the one that says he's cataloging every micro-expression, every vocal inflection.
"She agreed," I report.
"Of course she did." He stands, moving to the window. "Damir will surface. He won't be able to resist."
The certainty in his voice matches my own assessment. Damir Mirov might be a murderer, but he's also a brother—a protective one. The announcement will draw him out of whatever hole he's hiding in, and when he makes his move, we'll be ready.
I spend the next hour in Rolan's living room making calls, arranging details and assuring everything is perfect.
A wedding planner for Zoya, a dressmaker sent to her apartment.
The venue manager at the Nevsky knows better than to claim unavailability when a Vetrov calls.
The florist, the photographer, the officiant—all fall into line with utter obedience as they hear the dollar amounts thrown out.
By noon, invitations are being hand-delivered across Moscow.
The guest list reads like a catalog of Bratva families, along with select members of the legitimate business community who serve as our public face.
Everyone will know that Zoya Mirova is now under Vetrov protection, that any move against her is a move against us.
Grisha appears in the doorway as I finish the final call, his expression carrying the particular brand of concern that means he's about to say something I won't want to hear.
"Damir will come for you," he warns, "especially if he thinks you're using his sister."
I slide my phone into my pocket, meeting his gaze. "That's the point."
"Is it?" His tone carries skepticism. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're taking this marriage seriously."
The observation hits closer to target than I care to admit. I stand and stride to the liquor cabinet where I pour a drink and down it before responding. "I need you to arrange for a stylist to go to Zoya's apartment. Today. Everything she needs."
Grisha nods, pulling out his phone to make notes. "Dress, hair, makeup. Got it."
"Dress is handled, but call the track. Have her terminated, effective immediately."
Now his eyebrows rise. "Max, she's been working there for years. It's her normal life?—"
"She's marrying into the Vetrov family." My eyes snap up to meet his, and his jaw sets as his shoulders square. Grisha is a valuable and wise member of this family, but I refuse to let him bully me with his lectures. "I won't have my wife seen working at some illegal gambling den."
Grisha's expression shifts through several emotions—surprise, calculation, something that might be understanding. When he speaks again, his voice is carefully neutral.
"Your wife," he repeats.
"The woman carrying my name," I correct, but the distinction feels hollow even as I make it.
"Right." He types another note into his phone. "I'll handle it."
But he doesn't move toward the door. Instead, he studies me with the same intensity Rolan displayed earlier, and I realize I've revealed more than intended. The careful control I've maintained since this operation began shows hairline cracks.
"Grisha." My voice carries a warning.
"I'm just wondering," he says, pocketing his phone, "what happens when this is over? When we have Damir, when the job is done, what happens to her then?"
The original plan remains unchanged—eliminate Damir, tie up loose ends, move on to the next assignment. But the thought of Zoya as a loose end sends something cold through my chest.
"Get out," I tell him.
He leaves, but his question echoes in the space. I return to my seat on the couch, checking my phone for confirmation texts from vendors. Everything is falling into place, each piece of the trap clicking into position.
My phone buzzes with a text from the venue manager confirming Saturday's arrangements. The marriage announcement will be in tomorrow's papers, spread through social media, whispered in every Bratva-connected establishment in the city. Damir will hear about it within hours.
But as I sit there planning his elimination, my mind keeps returning to Zoya's voice on the phone.
The way she said my name, the careful modulation of her responses.
She's playing her part perfectly, but underneath the performance, I caught something else—a thread of genuine anticipation that mirrors my own.
But instead of pulling back, I find myself looking forward to Saturday with an intensity that has nothing to do with drawing out her brother.
My phone rings, interrupting the dangerous direction of my thoughts. Rolan's name appears on the screen.
"The announcements are out," he says without preamble. "Half of Moscow will know by evening."
"Good." I keep my voice level, professional. "Any word from our contacts about unusual movement?"
"Nothing yet. But give it time. Family loyalty is a powerful motivator."
The irony isn't lost on me. Family loyalty—the very thing that will bring Damir to us is the same force that's kept Zoya protecting him despite everything he's done. It's the thread that connects all of us, the weakness that can be exploited or the strength that can be wielded.
After ending the call, I lean back in my chair and consider what we've set in motion. Somewhere across the city, Zoya is preparing for a wedding that will change everything. The trap is set, the players are moving into position, and Saturday will bring the culmination of weeks of careful planning.
But as I review the guest list one more time, I can't shake the feeling that I'm the one walking into a trap of my own making.