16. Maksim
MAKSIM
T he Nevsky Hotel rooftop transforms into a cathedral of power and money.
White flowers cascade from wrought iron arches, and candles flicker in glass hurricanes despite the afternoon hour.
Every detail screams expense and taste, from the imported marble aisle runner to the string quartet positioned near the bar.
The guests arrive in waves—men in Italian suits with their wives draped in jewelry that costs more than most people's homes.
I stand at the altar wearing the same charcoal suit I reserve for funerals, watching familiar faces fill the chairs.
Rolan sits in the front row, his expression unreadable behind dark glasses.
Vadim and Renat flank him, their presence more security than sentiment.
The photographer circles the perimeter, capturing every angle, every guest, every moment that will prove this union happened.
The music shifts to announce the bride's entrance. Conversations die as heads turn toward the double doors at the back of the space. When Zoya appears, the collective intake of breath from the assembled crowd is audible.
She moves down the aisle with the controlled grace of someone who knows she's being watched.
The dress is simple—white silk that skims her body without clinging, long sleeves that cover her arms, a neckline that reveals nothing.
Her dark hair is swept up in a style that shows off her neck and the delicate bones of her face.
She carries no bouquet, wears no veil, needs no adornment beyond her own stark beauty.
But it's her expression that commands attention.
Calm, poised, almost regal. She doesn't smile or lower her eyes or play the blushing bride.
Instead, she looks directly at me as she approaches, her hazel eyes steady and assessing.
The woman walking toward me could be negotiating a business deal or accepting a crown.
When she reaches the altar, she takes my offered hand without hesitation.
Her fingers are cool, steady, and I feel the slight callus on her ring finger where she once wore different jewelry.
The officiant begins the ceremony, but I barely hear the words.
My attention stays fixed on Zoya's face, searching for cracks in her composure.
"Do you, Maksim Vetrov, take Zoya Mirova to be your lawfully wedded wife?"
The question cuts through my distraction. I look into her eyes and see something flicker there—uncertainty, maybe, or hope. When I speak, my voice carries across the rooftop with absolute clarity.
"I do."
The words taste real on my tongue. Not the hollow promise of a strategic marriage, but something deeper, more binding. The realization should concern me, but instead it settles in my chest with the weight of certainty.
"Do you, Zoya Mirova, take Maksim Vetrov to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
She doesn't hesitate. "I do."
Her voice is steady, confident, and when she says the words, I believe them completely. Whatever game she's playing, whatever angle she's working, in this moment, she means it.
The officiant declares us husband and wife.
When he tells me to kiss the bride, I cup her face in my hands and kiss her with deliberate tenderness.
Her lips are soft, and when she kisses me back, there's nothing calculated about it.
For the space of that kiss, we're not adversaries or pawns in someone else's game.
We're just two people who chose each other.
The crowd erupts in applause. Cameras flash. Champagne corks pop. But I only see Zoya's face, the way her cheeks flush pink, the way she looks at me like she's seeing me for the first time.
"Mrs. Vetrova," I say, and she smiles—a real smile, not the careful mask she usually wears.
"Mr. Vetrov," she replies, and there's something in her tone that makes my chest tighten.
The reception flows around us in a blur of congratulations and toasts.
Zoya plays her part perfectly, accepting kisses on her cheek from men who could order her death with a phone call, making small talk with their wives about honeymoon destinations and wedding planning.
She moves through the crowd like she belongs here, like she was born to this life.
But I catch her tells. The way she touches her stomach when she thinks no one is looking. The way she sips her champagne but never actually drinks it. The way she excuses herself to the restroom more frequently than necessary. Small things that add up to a picture I'm not ready to examine.
"Beautiful ceremony," says a voice behind me. I turn to find Dominik, a distant cousin who runs numbers for the family. His smile is all teeth and no warmth. "Your wife is lovely. You're a lucky man."
"Thank you." I keep my voice neutral, but my hand moves automatically to the knife concealed in my jacket. Dominik has always been ambitious, always looking for an angle.
"I knew her brother, you know. Damir. Good man. Shame about his current situation."
The words are carefully chosen, designed to provoke a reaction. I don't give him one. "I'm sure he'll surface eventually."
"Oh, I'm sure he will." Dominik's smile widens. "Family has a way of finding each other."
He moves away before I can respond, but his message is clear. People are watching, waiting to see how this plays out. The marriage announcement has already served its purpose—everyone knows Zoya belongs to me now, which means Damir will have to act.
Grisha appears at my elbow as the crowd begins to thin. "Boss, we need to talk."
I follow him to a corner of the rooftop where we can speak without being overheard. The city spreads out below us, Moscow's skyline glittering in the afternoon sun. From here, the world looks manageable, controllable. But I know better.
"Damir showed up at one of the crew garages," Grisha says without preamble. "About an hour ago. Unannounced."
My pulse quickens. "Where?"
"The Sokolniki spot. He walked in asking questions about his sister, about the wedding. Got aggressive when nobody wanted to talk." Grisha's expression is grim. "We tried to corner him, but he slipped out before we could pin him down."
I curse under my breath. We've been waiting for this moment, planning for it, but the timing is wrong. Too public, too many witnesses. "How many men?"
"Six. They're mobilizing now, spreading out to cover his likely routes. But boss..." Grisha hesitates. "He looked desperate. Angry. This isn't going to be clean."
I glance back at the reception, where Zoya is accepting congratulations from another group of guests. She laughs at something someone says, the sound carrying across the rooftop. For a moment, she looks genuinely happy.
"Keep her here," I tell Grisha. "Make sure she doesn't leave until I get back."
"What do I tell her?"
"Nothing. Just keep her busy."
I stride toward the exit, already pulling out my phone to coordinate with the men in the field. The elevator ride down feels endless, and by the time I reach the parking garage, my jaw is clenched tight enough to crack teeth.
The garage is dimly lit, full of shadows and blind spots. My footsteps echo off the concrete walls as I walk toward my car. The keys are in my hand when I hear the soft scrape of a shoe on pavement.
"Maksim."
I turn slowly. Damir Mirov steps out from behind a concrete pillar, a pistol held steady in his right hand. He's thinner than I remember, his clothes wrinkled and stained. Dark circles ring his eyes, and his usually neat hair hangs in greasy strands. But his grip on the gun is steady.
"Damir." I keep my voice level, nonthreatening. "I was hoping we'd run into each other."
"I bet you were." His voice carries the rough edge of someone who's been running, hiding, looking over his shoulder. "Nice wedding, by the way. Real touching."
"Your sister looked beautiful."
"Don't." The word comes out sharp, dangerous. "Don't talk about her. Don't pretend this is anything other than what it is."
"And what is it?"
"You using her to get to me." He steps closer, the gun never wavering. "You think marrying her makes me vulnerable or weak? You think I won't do what needs to be done?"
The threat is clear, but I don't react. Instead, I study his face, looking for the tells that will give away his next move. Damir has always been emotional, quick to anger, prone to mistakes when pushed. Today, he looks like a man with nothing left to lose.
"Back off," he continues. "Leave Zoya out of it. Stop whatever game you're playing."
"No game." I take a step closer, testing his resolve. "Just business."
"Business?" His laugh is bitter. "You married my sister for business?"
"I married your sister because I wanted to." The words come out before I can stop them, but they feel true. "The business comes later."
For a moment, something flickers in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or confusion. Then his expression hardens again. "You're lying."
"Am I?"
He lunges forward, leading with the gun. I grab his wrist and twist, feeling the satisfying crack of bone as his grip loosens. The pistol clatters across the concrete floor, but Damir doesn't stop. He drives his knee toward my ribs, and I barely manage to deflect the blow.
The fight is fast and brutal. Damir has desperation on his side, but I have training and experience.
We trade blows in the narrow space between cars, our breathing harsh in the enclosed garage.
He catches me with a solid punch to the jaw that snaps my head back, then follows up with an elbow aimed at my throat.
I duck under the strike and come up with my knife, the blade sliding free from its sheath in one smooth motion. The steel catches the overhead lights as I slash across his ribs, opening a line of red through his shirt. He stumbles backward, one hand pressed to the wound.
"Next time, I won't miss," I tell him, but he's already moving toward the emergency exit.
The heavy door slams shut behind him, leaving me alone in the garage with the taste of blood in my mouth and the echo of his footsteps fading. I retrieve his pistol, check the clip, and slide it into my jacket.
My phone buzzes with updates from the men in the field. No sign of him. Lost him in the metro tunnels. Gone to ground again. I read each message with growing frustration, then delete them all.
Damir is bleeding, angry, and desperate. The wedding announcement worked exactly as planned—it drew him out, forced him to act. But it also escalated the situation beyond clean containment and I fucked up my shot. He's not just running now. He's hunting.
I check my reflection in the side mirror of my car. My lip is split, and there's blood on my shirt collar. The cut on my cheek will need attention, but it's not deep. I look like I've been in a fight, which will require explanations I don't want to give.
The elevator ride back to the rooftop feels longer than it should. When the doors open, the reception is still in full swing. Zoya stands near the bar, talking to Rolan's wife about something that makes them both laugh. She looks up when I enter, and her expression changes instantly.
"Maksim?" She crosses to me quickly, her eyes taking in the blood, the torn shirt, the way I'm favoring my left side. "What happened?"
"Car trouble," I say, but she's already reaching for my face, her fingers gentle on the cut.
"This isn't from a car." Her voice is quiet, meant only for me. "Who did this?"
I look into her eyes and see genuine concern there, real worry. Not the calculation I expected, but something that looks like fear. Fear for me.
"It's handled," I tell her, and she nods, but her hand stays on my cheek.
"We should get you cleaned up."
"Later." I glance around the reception, taking in the guests who are watching us with barely concealed interest. "After everyone leaves."
She nods again, but I can see the questions in her eyes. The wedding was supposed to be the easy part, the public declaration that would draw her brother out. Instead, it's become the opening move in a much more dangerous game.
Damir is out there, bleeding and angry, planning his next move. The stakes have been raised, the pieces are in motion, and I still don't know how to force him into a position where we can finish this.
But looking at Zoya's face, seeing the way she touches my cheek like she actually cares what happens to me, I realize the game has changed in ways I didn't anticipate. She's not just bait anymore. She's not just a means to an end.
She's my wife. And that changes everything.