Chapter 27 MAKSIM
MAKSIM
Morning light filters through the sheer curtains of my home office, painting everything in shades of gold and cream.
I sit at my desk with an espresso, sorting through documents that require my attention before the day officially begins. The quiet tick of the mechanical clock on the wall marks time in steady intervals. The house is still mostly asleep. This hour belongs to me alone.
I take a sip of coffee. Let the bitter warmth ground me while my mind works through yesterday's events.
Victoria handled Morrison perfectly. Better than perfectly, actually.
She defused a situation that was rapidly deteriorating with the kind of diplomatic skill that comes from years of navigating high society politics.
She read the room, identified the pressure points, and applied just enough charm and logic to bring two stubborn men back to neutral ground.
She could be a real asset to the Severyn Bratva. Her mind is sharp. Her instincts are good. Her ability to manipulate social situations rivals my own.
I wonder if she could be convinced to stay long term.
The thought surfaces with surprising intensity. Our contract specifies one year. Five million dollars. A business arrangement with clear parameters and an expiration date.
But what if we made it real? What if we turned this paper marriage into permanence?
The idea should feel like a cage. I've spent years avoiding exactly this kind of entanglement. Kept my relationships transactional. Maintained distance. Protected myself from the vulnerability that comes with genuine attachment.
Yet with Victoria, the thought of permanence doesn't trigger my usual defenses. Instead, it feels like possibility.
She disrupts me. Constantly. Her presence in my home has turned my carefully ordered life into unpredictability. Less controlled. She forces me to engage when I'd rather retreat into silence.
But she also stabilizes me in ways I didn't know I needed. When she held me after I played the piano, I felt safety I haven't known since I was fifteen years old. Understanding. The particular comfort of being seen completely and not rejected.
When I returned to the private suite yesterday after watching the polo match with Morrison, I could tell immediately that intimacy had occurred between Victoria and Zakhar.
The way they moved around each other. The careful distance that suggested recent closeness rather than avoidance. The flush still visible on Victoria's cheeks. The satisfaction in Zakhar's eyes when he thought no one was looking.
I expected jealousy. Possessiveness. Some territorial instinct to flare up and demand exclusivity.
Instead, I felt relief. And happiness for both of them.
Zakhar spends his entire existence taking care of others. Vigilant. Protective. Always the guardian, never the one being cared for. He deserves softness. Deserves someone who sees past the soldier to the man underneath.
If Victoria can give him that, I'm grateful. Not threatened.
The realization tells me this isn't just sexual chemistry, though that certainly exists in abundance. There's depth forming. Connection beyond physical.
Maybe we can make this work. The four of us. Unconventional. Complicated. But real.
I'm contemplating this possibility when there's a sharp knock at my door.
"Come in," I call, already knowing from the particular rhythm of the knock who's on the other side.
Zakhar enters, and one look at his face tells me the morning peace is over.
His expression is grim. Controlled, as always, but I can see the fury barely contained beneath the surface. His jaw is tight. His shoulders are set in that particular way that means violence is a breath away from erupting.
"What happened?" I ask, setting down my espresso with deliberate care.
"Last night, one of the éclat stores was hit." His voice is flat. Emotionless. Which means he's furious. "The Michigan Avenue location."
I go very still. éclat is our chain of high-end jewelry stores. Completely legitimate. Clean books. Proper licensing. The kind of business that proves the Severyns are more than just criminals in expensive suits.
"Details," I say.
"Professional job. They disabled the alarms without triggering any backups.
Got into the vault. Took close to two million in inventory.
" He pauses. "Whoever did it might have had inside help.
" Another heavy pause. “They also shot the security guard.
He's in critical condition at Northwestern Memorial. "
My hand finds the scarred knuckles of my other hand. Presses against the misshapen joints. I need the grounding sensation of old pain to keep newer rage from consuming me.
"Alexei is already at the hospital. Making sure the guard gets the best care available."
"Family?"
"Wife. Three-year-old son." Zakhar's voice tightens fractionally. "We have people with them. Making sure they're informed. Protected. Provided for."
I nod once. Take a slow breath. Force my mind into analytical mode instead of letting fury dictate action.
This is an attack on our legitimate business. Combined with the recent hits on our warehouses, the theft from the docks, the appearance of Valkov tattoos. This represents coordinated assault on multiple fronts.
Someone is coming for us. Systematically. Strategically.
"Theories?" I ask.
Zakhar moves to the window. Stands with his back to me, looking out at the morning light. "Albanians are the obvious suspect. But this isn't their style. They're more direct. More brutal. When Ramiz Krasniqi wants to send a message, he doesn't disable alarms. He kicks in doors."
"Could be a misdirect," I offer. "Make it look too sophisticated to be Albanian, throw us off the scent."
"Possible." He doesn't sound convinced.
"I'll reach out to Luan Krasniqi," I say, the decision forming as I speak. "See if he knows anything. See if his father is involved."
Zakhar turns to face me. "Can we trust him?"
"He got us out of his father's house when we were walking into an ambush. That counts for leverage." I lean back in my chair, steepling my fingers. "And he clearly has issues with Ramiz. Maybe issues we can exploit."
"Or maybe he's playing a longer game."
"Maybe." I acknowledge the possibility. "But right now, we need information. And he's our best source for understanding what the Albanians are planning."
Zakhar nods slowly. Accepting the logic even if he doesn't like the risk.
"Meanwhile," I continue, "we increase security across all operations. Legitimate and otherwise. I want armed guards at every éclat location. Extra patrols at the warehouses. Eyes on every property we own."
"Already started," Zakhar confirms.
"And we find whoever did this." My voice drops lower. Colder. "We can't be perceived as weak. Can't let anyone think they can attack us without consequence."
"Agreed."
We're discussing specifics, deployment schedules and contact protocols, when Zakhar's phone rings. He glances at the screen, then at me.
"Alexei," he says, answering and putting it on speaker in one smooth motion. "What do you have?"
"I talked to the security guard." Alexei's voice comes through clear. "Right before they took him into surgery. He was conscious for a few minutes."
"And?" I lean forward, every sense sharpening.
"He heard one of the attackers talking. Right before they shot him." There's a pause. "The guy said they were taking Eryan Nis's cut."
The words land like a physical blow.
I go completely still. My mind races through implications, connections, patterns that suddenly shift into new configurations.
"That doesn't make sense," Zakhar says, voicing what I'm thinking. "Eryan Nis hits illegal operations. Dirty money. He's never touched legitimate businesses. Never used violence."
"I know," Alexei replies. "But the guard was clear. That's what he heard. Eryan Nis."
"Could he have misheard?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
"He was certain. Repeated it twice before they sedated him for surgery."
I stand. Move to the window. Look out at Chicago spread beneath us. A city we've claimed as ours through blood and strategy and careful cultivation of power.
This is escalation. This is declaration of war.
"The guard," I say. "What's his prognosis?"
"Touch and go," Alexei answers. "Next twenty-four hours are critical. But he's young. Strong. The doctors are cautiously optimistic."
"Keep me updated. Every hour." I turn back to Zakhar. "And make sure his family wants for nothing. Whatever they need."
"Already arranged," Zakhar confirms.
"Good." I return to my desk. Rest my hands on the polished wood surface. Feel the cool solidity beneath my palms.
The morning's earlier thoughts about Victoria, about permanence, about building beyond just survival, they feel distant now. Naive. A luxury I can't afford when everything I've built is under attack.
War has rules. War has logic. I understand war.
What I don't understand is who's waging it against us and why.
"We need to find Eryan Nis," I say quietly. Each word precise. Measured. "Whoever he is. Wherever he's hiding. We find him, and we end this."
Through the phone, Alexei's voice: "I'll put out feelers. See if anyone on the street knows anything."
"Do it." I pick up my espresso. It's gone cold, but I drink it anyway. Let the bitter liquid focus me. "And be discreet. If Eryan Nis is watching us, I don't want him to know we're hunting him until it's too late."
"Understood."
We end the call. The clock ticks. The morning light continues its slow journey across the room. Outside, the city wakes up, oblivious to the war being waged in its shadows.
We stand in silence for a moment. Two men who've survived worse than this. Two men who will survive this too.
But the weight of it settles on my shoulders nonetheless. The knowledge that we're being hunted. That someone out there knows us well enough to hit where it hurts.
I look down at my hands. At the scars across my knuckles. The evidence of bones broken and badly healed.
I've rebuilt once before. From nothing. From streets and hunger and the ashes of my family.
I'll do it again if necessary.
But this time, I have more to lose.
"We keep this to ourselves but double the security on Victoria," I tell Zakhar. "She doesn't leave the house without armed escort. She doesn't go anywhere we haven't vetted first."
"She won't like it," he observes.
"I don't care." My voice is flat. Final. "If Eryan Nis is targeting our operations, she's a target by association. I won't lose her because I was too concerned with her comfort to keep her safe."
Zakhar studies me for a long moment. Then nods. Understanding passing between us without additional words needed.
He leaves. The door closes behind him with a soft click.
I'm alone again in my office. The morning light. The ticking clock.
But the peace is gone. Shattered like glass beneath a hammer.
War is coming. Or more accurately, it's already here. We just didn't recognize it until now.
I straighten my cufflinks. Adjust my collar. Smooth any evidence of disorder from my appearance.
Then I sit back down at my desk and begin making calls.
If someone wants to destroy what I've built, they're going to learn what happens when you come for the Severyn Bratva.
They're going to learn that some men don't just survive violence.
Some men return it tenfold.