Chapter 40 Maksim
MAKSIM
The SUV's engine rumbles, steady and relentless. September rain streaks across the windshield, Chicago's lights blurring into smears of red and gold.
Zakhar sits beside me, phone pressed to his ear. His voice is low, urgent, stripped of its usual calm.
"Victoria. We're coming. Do you hear me? We're coming for you right now."
Then I hear her voice through the phone and something in me fractures.
Her voice.
Breathless. Terrified. Alive.
Air fills my lungs again.
I hadn't realized I'd stopped breathing until this moment. Until the confirmation that she's still there, still fighting.
"Hold tight," Zakhar says, and his voice cracks. "We're coming. We love you."
The control I've maintained for the past twenty minutes threatens to shatter completely.
Victoria.
I want to be the one on that phone. Want to hear her voice directly, not filtered through Zakhar's receiver. Want to tell her myself that nothing will stop us, that every man standing between me and her is already dead.
"Maison Lyra," Zakhar confirms.
The same address Luan sent. Her territory. Her safe space.
Ramiz violated it.
Something primal ignites in my chest.
He took her. He took my wife.
He's going to die for it.
"ETA three minutes," Alexei says from the front seat. His voice is flat, emotionless, but I know him. I know what that flatness means. He's gone somewhere cold and remote, the place where killing is mechanical and mercy doesn't exist.
Good.
We'll need that tonight.
Behind us, two more SUVs follow in formation. Our best men, armed and ready. Ahead, Luan's convoy, three black vehicles moving with military precision.
An ally after all.
The surprise of it registers somewhere beneath the rage. Luan Krasniqi, moving against his own father. Luan Krasniqi, meeting us at the gates of hell with weapons drawn and loyalties suddenly, improbably clear.
I'll think about the implications later.
Right now, there's only Victoria.
The SUV takes a corner too fast. I brace against the door, checking my weapon for the third time. Makarov, fully loaded, safety off. The weight of it is familiar, comforting in a way nothing else has been since the moment Victoria disappeared.
"Thirty seconds," the driver says.
Zakhar lowers his phone. His hand trembles. "The call dropped. Ramiz was shooting at the door."
The SUV screeches to a halt outside Maison Lyra.
Luan's vehicles are already there, men pouring out with weapons raised.
Our men exit in synchronized precision. Bodies moving as one unit, trained and lethal.
I step out into the rain.
Luan crosses to me, rain soaking his hair, his suit. His eyes are different. Harder. Colder.
"My father's men are scattered," he says without preamble. "Most fled when they realized what was happening. The ones who stayed won't be a problem."
"I take point," I say. "I know the layout."
Luan nods. "Your men flank left. Mine take right."
We move.
The restaurant's front entrance is unlocked. The door swings open silently, revealing darkness punctuated by emergency exit signs casting everything in sickly green.
The smell hits first. Stale fryer oil, the lingering scent of cooked food. Underneath that, something sharper. Metallic.
Gunpowder.
My eyes adjust to the darkness as we move inside. The dining room is a graveyard of overturned chairs and abandoned tables. Wine glasses lie shattered on the floor.
Our footsteps echo despite our attempts at silence.
I take the lead, Zakhar on my left, Alexei on my right. Behind us, Luan coordinates with hand signals, directing the men into position.
The corridor leading to the bathrooms is at the far end of the restaurant. Past the bar. Past the kitchen entrance.
The smell of gunpowder grows stronger.
Then I hear it.
Victoria.
A choked sob, muffled but unmistakable.
The sound punches through my chest.
Every calculated strategy, every careful plan, every ounce of control I've maintained threatens to explode into pure violence.
I force myself to breathe.
We reach the corridor.
The bathroom door hangs broken from its hinges, wood splintered around the lock. Emergency lighting casts everything in harsh shadows.
And there, in the middle of the hallway, Ramiz Krasniqi holds Victoria in front of him like a shield.
Gun to her head.
Arm locked around her throat.
Smile on his face.
Victoria's dress is torn, hair wild around her shoulders. Her eyes find mine immediately. Wide. Terrified.
Alive.
Relief cuts through me so sharply it hurts.
I step forward, Zakhar and Alexei moving with me. We form a wall across the corridor, three bodies blocking any escape. Synchronized. Absolute.
Behind us, our men fan out. Creating a perimeter. Cutting off every angle, every possibility, every chance Ramiz has of walking out of this building alive.
This is what we are.
The Severyn Bratva at full strength.
"Drop the weapon," I say. My voice is calm. Measured. "Let her go."
Ramiz laughs. The sound echoes off tile and concrete, wrong and hollow.
"Maksim Severyn. I was hoping you'd come." His accent thickens with excitement, with madness.
"Last chance," Zakhar says. His voice is quieter than mine. Deadlier. "Drop it."
"I don't think so." Ramiz presses the gun harder against Victoria's temple. She flinches, a tiny movement that makes my vision go white at the edges. "You see, we're going to negotiate. You're going to give me what I want, and I'm going to let your pretty wife live."
"You're in no position to negotiate," I tell him.
"Aren't I?" He shifts, pulling Victoria tighter against him. "I have the one thing you can't replace. The one weakness in your perfect empire."
He's right.
He's absolutely right.
And he's still going to die.
"What do you want?" I ask, buying time. Calculating angles. Watching for the moment when his focus slips, when his grip loosens, when I can take the shot without risking her.
"Respect," Ramiz says. "Recognition. This is my city. My territory. And I'm going to take it back, starting with your wife's blood on this floor."
Victoria's sob is soft but I hear it. Feel it between my ribs.
"You have three seconds to lower your weapons," Ramiz shouts. "Or I paint these walls with her brain."
The threat hangs in the air.
I don't lower my weapon.
Neither does Zakhar.
Neither does Alexei.
We've faced death before. Threatened. Outmaneuvered. Stood at the edge of extinction and refused to blink.
But this is different.
This is Victoria.
Ramiz's finger tightens on the trigger.
Then a hand touches my shoulder from behind.
I drop into a crouch on pure instinct, weapon tracking, body moving before thought catches up.
Behind me, Luan Krasniqi stands with his gun raised.
Pointed at his father.
Ramiz sees him. His eyes widen. The gun wavers, just slightly, away from Victoria's head.
"Luan?" His voice cracks on the name.
Something passes between them. Something wordless and final. A conversation conducted in silence, in the space between heartbeats.
Then Luan pulls the trigger.
The gunshot is deafening in the enclosed space.
Ramiz staggers backward, eyes wide with shock and betrayal. Blood blooms across his chest, dark against white shirt. His grip on Victoria loosens.
She tears free.
I'm moving towards her. Zakhar and Alexei with me, three bodies converging on her with singular focus.
My hands find her shoulders. Her arms. Her face. Checking for injuries, for blood, for any sign that we're too late.
She's crying, hands clutching at my jacket, my shirt, anything she can reach.
"I'm okay," she gasps. "I'm okay, I'm okay."
But she's trembling. Shaking so hard her teeth chatter.
Zakhar's hands join mine, steadying her. Alexei presses close, creating a wall of protection around her with our bodies.
"You're safe," I tell her. My voice sounds strange. "We have you. You're safe."
She buries her face against my chest and sobs.
Behind us, Ramiz draws his last breath. The sound wet and final.
Luan stands over him, gun lowered now, face expressionless.
For a long moment, no one moves.
Then Alexei speaks. "We need to get out of here. Take Victoria home."
He's right. The police will come. Questions will be asked. Bodies will need to be explained.
But first, I need to understand what just happened.
I look at Luan across Ramiz's corpse.
He meets my gaze steadily. No regret in his eyes. No triumph. Just cold acceptance of what he's done.
"Take your wife home, Maksim," he says quietly. "My men and I will handle this."
Why?
The question burns but I don't ask it.
"Thank you," I say instead.
Luan nods once. Then turns away, already issuing orders to his men in rapid Albanian.
I watch him for a moment longer. This man who killed his father without hesitation. This man whose motivations I don't understand and probably never will.
One complex and dangerous motherfucker.
But that's a problem for another day.
I turn to my brothers and to Victoria, who's still shaking in my arms.
"Let's go home," I tell them.
Victoria nods against my chest.
Zakhar and Alexei move to flank us, creating a protective wall as we walk toward the exit.
Behind us, Luan begins the grim work of erasing this night.
Ahead of us, Chicago waits in the rain.
And between us, Victoria breathes.
Alive. Safe.