18. Maksim
MAKSIM
I wake at five thirty, the way I always do.
The apartment is dark around me, Moscow still sleeping outside the windows.
Zoya lies curled against my chest, her dark hair spread across the pillow.
In sleep, she looks younger. Less guarded.
The hard lines around her eyes have softened, and her mouth is slightly parted.
I watch her breathe for a moment before extracting myself from the bed. She doesn't stir. Good. She needs the rest, and I need to think.
The shower runs cold, the way I prefer it.
The water shocks my system awake, clears the fog from my head.
Last night was... complicated. The way she looked at me when I mentioned Damir, the questions she asked about mercy…
She's not going to let this go. She's going to keep pushing, keep digging, until she finds out things that will destroy her.
I dress in dark jeans and a black sweater and check my phone. Three missed calls from Rolan, all from the past hour. My jaw tightens. He wants his report.
The drive to the Vetrov estate takes forty minutes through morning traffic.
The guards at the gate nod as I pass and pull my car up to the front door.
Inside, the house is already buzzing with activity.
Rolan's men are moving through his house, and at this hour it means something is going on.
Even if that "something" is simply my brother being impatient with them. He wants blood.
I find my brother in his office, standing behind his desk with his hands braced on the surface. Maps cover the wood, marked with red pins and black lines. He looks up when I enter with a grim expression.
"You're late," he says.
"It was my wedding night, Rolan. I was up late."
"Sit." He gestures to the chair across from his desk. I remain standing. "Tell me about yesterday."
"Damir showed up after the ceremony. He was waiting in the parking lot." I ease myself into one of the chairs beside his desk and rub a hand over my face.
"And?"
"He made his feelings clear. About the marriage, about me staying away from his sister.
" I recount what actually happened, how Damir almost got the drop on me.
I wasn't going soft, but returning to my new bride soaked in her brother's blood didn't seem optimal at the time.
I thought my men were chasing him and I'd join the hunt. I had no idea he'd be in the garage.
Rolan's eyes narrow. "Did you kill him?"
"No."
"Why not?"
I could tell him the truth—that Damir caught me off guard, that the confrontation happened too quickly, that there were too many witnesses. But those are excuses, and Rolan doesn't accept excuses.
"It wasn't the right time," I say instead.
"The right time?" His voice rises. "Alexei is dead, Maksim. Our cousin is in the ground because of that bastard, and you're worried about timing?"
"I'm worried about exposure. Killing him in a public parking lot after my wedding would have brought unwanted attention."
"So would letting him walk away."
I cross my arms, meet his stare. "It's only a matter of time. I saw the way he looked at me, Rolan. He's unraveling. Making mistakes. When he surfaces again, I'll be ready."
"When he surfaces again, he might have backup. The Karpin crew isn't going to let one of their assets disappear without a fight." He pushes the hair off his forehead and sits in his chair.
"Then we make sure he surfaces alone."
Rolan leans back, studying me. "How?"
"We leak the wedding photos to contacts known to pass information to the Karpin crew. Let them know Zoya is now family. It'll draw out Damir's allies, force them to make a move."
"And if they come for her?" he asks, and the thought of anyone laying hands on Zoya makes my chest tight, my hands curl into fists. "Because Grisha says you're too close to this."
"They won't get close enough." My hands curl into fists. Grisha needs to learn his place.
"You sound certain."
"I am certain."
Rolan nods slowly. "Do it. Get the photos out by noon. I want this finished, Maksim. No more delays." I nod and turn to leave, but his voice stops me at the door. "And Maksim? Don't let personal feelings complicate this. The girl is useful, but she's not worth losing sight of the mission."
I don't answer—can't answer. Because the truth is, I'm not sure where the mission ends and my feelings begin anymore.
The gym is in the basement of the estate, a concrete room filled with weights and heavy bags. I change into workout clothes and start with the weights, pushing iron until my muscles burn. It's not enough. The anger is still there, coiled tight in my chest.
Grisha finds me twenty minutes later, already sweating from his own workout. He tugs on a pair of boxing gloves, bouncing on his toes near the heavy bag.
"You look like shit," he says by way of greeting.
"Thanks for the observation."
"Rough night with the new wife?"
I drop the barbell with more force than necessary. "Watch your mouth."
"Touchy." He grins, but there's concern in his eyes. "Come on. Glove up. You need to hit something."
I pull on the gloves, feeling the familiar weight of them on my hands. We've been sparring together for years, know each other's moves by heart. Usually, it's controlled, technical. Today, I come out swinging.
I catch him with a right hook to the ribs that makes him grunt. He backs away, hands up defensively.
"Easy there, tiger."
I don't ease up. I advance, throwing combinations that have real heat behind them. He blocks most of them, but I can see the surprise in his eyes. This isn't practice anymore.
"What the hell, Maksim?"
I answer with a left cross that he barely deflects.
He's forced to engage now, throwing punches of his own.
We circle each other, trading blows. My knuckles sting inside the gloves, but I don't stop.
Can't stop. All the frustration, all the confusion from the past few days pours out through my fists.
I overextend on a hook, and Grisha takes advantage. He slips inside my guard and takes me down, using my momentum against me. We hit the mat hard, and he pins me there, his forearm across my throat.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" he demands, breathing hard.
I struggle against his hold, but he's got me locked down. "Get off me."
"Not until you tell me what's eating you alive."
"Nothing's eating me alive."
"Bullshit. You've been different since the wedding. Hell, you've been different since you started spending time with her."
Heat flares in my chest. "Don't."
"Don't what? Don't point out the obvious? She's got you twisted up, Brother. And that's dangerous." His weight is crushing, but I know I can take him.
I buck against his hold, manage to throw him off. We both roll to our feet, gloves up. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"I know you've never hesitated to pull the trigger before. I know you've never cared about collateral damage. And I know you sure as hell never let emotion cloud your judgment."
"She's not clouding anything."
"Then why is Damir Mirov still breathing?" Grisha's guard is down and my rage is sky high.
I charge at him, throwing wild haymakers. He dodges most of them, but I catch him with an uppercut that snaps his head back. He staggers, blood trickling from his nose.
"Fuck off, Grisha."
He wipes the blood away with the back of his glove, his expression serious now.
"Listen to me, Maksim. I've known you since we were kids.
I've seen you kill men without blinking, watched you torture information out of people who crossed the family.
You're ice cold when you need to be. But this girl—she's changed you. "
"She hasn't changed anything."
"Then prove it. Do your job. Kill the man who killed our cousin. Stop letting her pretty face get in the way of justice."
I pull off my gloves and throw them at the wall. They hit with a dull thud and fall to the floor. "I said fuck off."
"Be careful..." His voice is quiet now, almost gentle. "If she's in your head, if she's making you soft, you're not just putting yourself at risk. You're putting all of us at risk. The family, the business, everything we've built."
He turns and walks toward the door, leaving me alone with the heavy bags and the smells of sweat and leather. I watch him go, my hands shaking with adrenaline and something that feels dangerously close to fear.
Because he's right. Zoya is in my head, and I can't get her out.
I think about her sleeping in my bed this morning, the way she looked so peaceful. I think about her questions last night, the way she pushed for information about Damir. I think about the way she kissed me, the way she felt in my arms, the way she made me forget everything else.
I think about the order sitting in my filing cabinet, the one that says her brother has to die. The one I'm supposed to execute.
And I think about how the thought of her hating me for it makes my chest feel hollow.
I walk to the heavy bag and drive my bare fist into it. The canvas splits my knuckles, but I don't stop. I hit it again and again until my hands are bloody and raw. Until the physical pain drowns out everything else.
But even then, I can't stop thinking about her. About the way she trusted me enough to fall asleep in my arms. About the way she looked at me when she asked for mercy for her brother.
About the way I wanted to give it to her.
Grisha is right. She's in my head, and I can't get her out. And that's going to get us all killed.
I pull out my phone and scroll through my contacts until I find the number I need. The photographer who covered the wedding yesterday. He answers on the second ring.
"I need you to leak some photos," I say when he picks up. "Send them to Rurik Karpin. Tell him they're from a friend."
"Which photos?"
"The ones of me and my wife. All of them."
"Understood. Consider it done," he mutters, and he understands without my giving him some two-bit lecture.
This is war, and he's setting a trap. The Karpins will know Damir's position to me now, and it will spur action on their part.
It will make Damir's life hell unless he retaliates, and they will march into battle right alongside him.
I hang up and stare at the phone for a long moment.
By tonight, Zoya's face will be circulating through the Karpin network.
By tomorrow, he'll come for her again. The thought should satisfy me.
This is what we wanted—to draw him out, to make him careless.
But all I can think about is Zoya in danger, Zoya in the crosshairs of men who would kill her without hesitation.
I punch the bag again, harder this time. The pain shoots up my arm, but it's not enough. Nothing is enough to quiet the voice in my head telling me I'm making a mistake.
That I'm about to destroy the only good thing I've ever had.
But it's too late now. The wheels are in motion. And I can only hope that when this is over, there's still something left of the woman I married.
Something left of me.