Chapter 23
Maksim
Iwake to dim morning light filtering through a grimy window. Every nerve ending in my body screams at me, reminding me exactly where each bullet entered, where each fist connected, where each wound festers.
But I'm alive.
And Kira is pressed against my good side, her breathing deep and even. Her hand rests on my chest, like even in sleep she needs to confirm I'm still here.
I study her face in the gray light. The bruises are darker today—purple and yellow staining her jaw where Roman hit her. There are cuts I don't remember seeing before, probably from the explosion. Her hair is a tangled mess, still crusted with blood and debris.
She's never looked more beautiful.
Carefully, moving like an old man, I extract myself from her grip. She stirs but doesn't wake, just curls into the warm spot I left behind.
I pull the IV needle from my arm and leave it hanging.
The bathroom is the next door. The journey feels like climbing Everest. I have to stop twice, leaning against the wall while my vision clears, and my body remembers how to function.
The mirror shows me a monster. Bruises. Cuts. The bandages on my shoulder and side are already seeping red. My face is gaunt, eyes sunken and haunted.
I splash cold water on my face in an attempt to wake myself up.
When I finally make it to the main room, Semyon is already awake, sitting at a tiny table with two chairs. Coffee steams from a chipped mug in front of him.
"You look like death," he says without preamble.
"Feel worse." I lower myself into the other chair with a grunt that might be a scream if I let it be. "But I'm vertical. That's something."
"That's stubbornness." He pushes the coffee toward me. "Drink. You need fluids."
I take the mug with shaking hands and sip. It's bitter and strong and exactly what I need.
“You could have let me pull that IV out the right way,” he said with disgust.
“Bag was empty.”
“I got some antibiotics,” he says. “You need to take them. Don’t think you’re going to tough this out.”
“I'm surprised I’m alive,” I admit.
He snorts. “No shit. You certainly gave dying your best effort. I have no doubt that woman would have chased you into hell and dragged your ass back.”
I smile. “I think you’re right. Where are we?”
“This place is secure—one of my personal safe houses. No one knows about it except me."
I trust him. I know he’s careful. And it’s not like I have options.
"And Roman?"
Semyon's expression darkens. "Regrouping. The mutiny cost him—he lost about forty percent of his men. Those of us who were loyal to your father, who never believed the lies about Kira's family, we finally had a chance to act."
"So, he's wounded."
"But not dead." Semyon takes a long drink of his own coffee. "Which means he's dangerous. Wounded animals always are."
I nod, then regret it when my head pounds. "We need a plan."
"We need you to heal first." His tone is firm. "You're no good to anyone if you're dead. You’re up now, but that’s only because I pumped you full of meds and painkillers.”
“Trust me, I feel the pain.”
“Oh no, you’d be feeling a lot more pain if you didn’t have my magic juice running through your veins. You have to heal. When I tell you death was close, I’m not joking. I honestly thought you were gone.”
"I'm no good to anyone if Roman gets to Kira or Anya while I'm lying in bed either."
We stare at each other, both stubborn, both unwilling to back down.
"I've got a lot to tell you," Semyon says finally. "But I need to know—are you ready to hear it? All of it?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean there are things I've learned. Things I've suspected for years but couldn't prove. Things about Roman. About what really happened."
"Tell me."
He takes a breath, and I see something in his eyes I've never seen before. Fear. Semyon's not afraid of anything, but he's afraid now.
"I don't have proof," he starts. "Not hard evidence. But I've pieced things together over the years, and I believe—" He stops, jaw clenching. "I believe Roman killed your father."
I want to be surprised, but I think part of me already knew.
"My father died of a heart attack."
"Did he?" Semyon leans forward. "A healthy man, fifty-three years old, no history of heart problems. Dies suddenly in his sleep six months after you disappeared. Convenient timing, don't you think?"
"People have heart attacks—"
"He was poisoned." Semyon's voice is flat. Certain. "I can't prove it, but I know it. Roman needed you gone, but he also needed your father gone. With both of you out of the way, there was no one to challenge his claim to leadership."
My mind races, trying to process this. My father. Murdered.
"Why didn't you say something? Why didn't you investigate?"
"With what evidence?" Semyon's frustration bleeds through. "I had suspicions. Gut feelings. But Roman controlled everything by then—the doctors, the autopsy, the funeral arrangements. Any investigation would have led back to him, and he would have known I was suspicious."
"So, you stayed quiet."
"I stayed alive." His eyes meet mine. "I had to wait for the right moment. If I had moved against Roman then, I'd be dead, and you'd have no one."
He's right. I hate that he's right, but he is.
"Tell me everything," I say. "Every suspicion. Every theory. All of it."
He does.
It takes twenty minutes, and with each revelation, my rage builds. The careful manipulation. The strategic eliminations. The way Roman positioned himself perfectly to inherit everything.
All stolen by someone I trusted like family.
"I'll kill him." The words come out cold. "I'm going to put a bullet in his head and watch him take his last breath."
Semyon's smile is grim. "But first, you heal. We plan. We do this right."
"How long?"
"A week. Maybe two. Your body needs time."
"We don't have two weeks. Every day we wait, Roman consolidates power. Hunts for us. Plans his revenge."
"And every day you push too hard, you risk dying for real this time." Semyon's voice hardens. "I didn't drag your ass out of that compound just to watch you kill yourself with stubbornness."
Before I can argue, I hear movement from the bedroom. Soft footsteps. Then Kira appears in the doorway.
She's wearing borrowed clothes—sweatpants and a t-shirt that are too big. Her hair is still tangled. The bruises on her face look worse in daylight.
But her eyes light up when she sees me sitting at the table.
"You're up." She crosses to me quickly, her hands immediately going to my face, checking my temperature. "You shouldn't be up. You should be resting."
"I'm fine."
"You're a terrible liar." Her fingers trace the edge of the bandage on my shoulder. "You're bleeding through again."
"It's fine."
"It's not fine." She looks at Semyon. "Tell him it's not fine."
"It's not fine," Semyon says dutifully. "But he's stubborn."
"I'm aware." She moves behind me, her hands gentle on my good shoulder. "Come back to bed. Let me change your bandages at least."
I want to argue. But her touch is so gentle, and I'm so tired.
“You two were planning,” she says.
I nod. “We were.”
"Maksim heals," Semyon says. "That's the only plan for now."
“Are you sure we’re safe?” Kira asks.
"For now," Semyon agrees. "Maksim needs to heal. When Roman does find us—and he will eventually—we're ready."
I know he's right. I know I need time to recover if I'm going to be any use in the fight ahead.
But every instinct screams at me to move now, strike while Roman's vulnerable.
"One week," I say. "I'll give it one week. Then we end this."
Semyon looks like he wants to argue but finally nods. "One week. But you actually rest. No pushing. No testing your limits. You heal properly."
"Deal."
Kira's hands tighten on my shoulder. "Come on. Back to bed. Let me take care of you."
I let her pull me to my feet, leaning on her more than I want to admit. The walk back to the bedroom is slower than the walk out, my body finally admitting defeat.
She helps me back into bed. Then she disappears and returns with fresh bandages and supplies.
"This is going to hurt," she warns.
"Everything hurts."
"Fair point." She starts peeling away the old bandage on my shoulder.
I hiss through my teeth as the fabric pulls at the wound. She murmurs apologies but doesn't stop. She’s gentle as she assesses the injury.
She applies fresh bandaging, her fingers gentle despite the clinical efficiency.
I watch her. “Are you hurt?” I ask softly. “Beyond the bruises. Did he—”
“No,” she replies. “I was tossed in a room. You found us before anything could happen.”
“Good.”
"I’m mad at you,” she murmurs.
“I know.”
“You threw yourself between me and bullets."
"Always will."
She pauses, her eyes meeting mine. "I know. And that terrifies me."
"Why?"
"Because you'll get yourself killed protecting me." Her voice cracks slightly. "And I can't lose you again, Maksim. I can't survive that twice."
I catch her hand, pulling her down until she's sitting beside me on the bed. "You're not going to lose me."
"You can't promise that."
"I just did." I bring her hand to my lips. "We're going to end Roman. Together. And then we're going to have the life we should have had.”
“Does that life include you taking your place as the rightful Barinov heir?"
I sigh. “I don’t know. Even if Roman is killed, I don’t know.”
"You're legitimate. Your father's son. Roman is a usurper who murdered his way to power. People will follow you, Maksim. If you're willing to lead."
The question I've been avoiding. Am I willing to take power? To become what my father wanted? To lead the Barinov bratva?
A week ago, the answer would have been no. I wanted revenge, not responsibility.
But now, looking at this evidence of Roman's systematic evil, I realize someone has to stop him. Someone has to build something better. And that someone might have to be me.
"I don't want to perpetuate the same systems," I say finally. "The same violence. I’m tired of the brutality.”
"Then don't,” she says. “Take power. Then change how it works. All those progressive ideas Roman killed you for? Implement them."
"That's assuming I survive to take power."
"We'll survive."
"I need to make this right," I say quietly.
"You will. But first, you need to rest. Heal.”
I nod, settling back against the pillows. "One week. Then we plan."
"One week," she agrees.
She finishes with my bandages and climbs into bed beside me, careful of my injuries. Her body fits against mine like it was designed to be there.
"Tell me something," I murmur. "Something good. Something that has nothing to do with Roman or revenge or any of this."
She's quiet for a moment, thinking. "When I was ten, before everything got complicated, I wanted to be a dancer. Ballet. I used to practice in our ballroom when no one was watching."
"Why did you stop?"
"My father said it wasn't appropriate for a Markov daughter. That I needed to focus on things that would make me a good wife to a bratva heir." Her voice is soft and wistful. "I still remember the routines though. Sometimes, when I'm alone, I practice the positions."
I try to imagine her dancing—graceful and beautiful, free from all the weight she carries.
"When this is over," I say, "I want to see you dance."
"I'm rusty."
"I don't care." I press my lips to her temple. "I want to see you do something just because it makes you happy. Not because it's strategic or necessary. Just because."
She makes a sound that might be a laugh or a sob. "That sounds like a fantasy."
"It's a plan." I pull her closer. "We're going to do things that make us happy. And no one will tell us we can’t.”
She lets out a soft sigh. “I like the sound of that.”