Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MAKSIM
I walk out of the foyer, the cold night air hitting my face as the tight coil of anger in my chest relaxes just a fraction. When Dmitri stopped me earlier with the intel that Viktor might actually show his face at the gala tonight, I almost exploded.
I want to find Viktor. I want to rip his operations apart root and stem and end this war once and for all. But not when Camilla is there. I don't want that bastard anywhere near my future wife.
When I reach the center of the driveway, my eyes instantly scan the area, but Camilla isn’t waiting by the car. A sharp spike of adrenaline hits me.
"Where is she?" I bark at the nearest driver.
The man straightens immediately, pointing a cautious hand toward the eastern edge of the property. "She took a short walk that way, Pakhan. We kept eyes on her."
I head in that direction, my shoes crunching quietly against the gravel. As I round the corner of the stone walkway, I spot her. She thinks she's being subtle, pretending to admire the manicured hedges, but I know what a target looks like when they're calculating their odds.
I stop in the shadows and watch her. Her eyes subtly track the sweep of a security camera. She pauses, noting the timing, before her gaze shifts to the guard standing near the side entrance, mapping out the routes and blind spots of my estate.
A dark sense of respect blooms in my chest. She isn't behaving like a helpless, terrified captive waiting to be broken. She’s assessing her cage, looking for weaknesses, preparing herself for whatever comes next. She has the survival instincts of a predator's mate.
Of course, I have no intention of telling her this.
"The scenery isn't going to change, princess," I say, stepping out of the darkness.
She stiffens for a fraction of a second before quickly smoothing her features into a mask of polite boredom. I step up beside her, offering my arm once more, my voice dropping into a firm, unyielding command. "We're leaving. Time to show the world who you belong to."
She prickles at my words, a sharp flash of irritation crossing her face, but to her credit, she keeps her mouth shut.
I lead her back to the waiting convoy, sliding into the leather interior of the armored vehicle beside her as the doors click shut, locking us into a heavy, charged silence for the drive into the city.
The car ride to the gala is thick with a heavy, charged silence. I sit beside Camilla in the back of the armored SUV, watching the city lights streak across her face as she stares out the window. She looks completely composed, but I can feel the rigid tension radiating off her.
Suddenly, she breaks the silence, her voice clear and entirely unbothered by the quiet. "I am going to meet my sisters tomorrow."
I shift in my seat, turning my head to look at her profile. I open my mouth to speak, but before I can get a single syllable out, she snaps her head toward me, her eyes flashing with defiance.
"I'm not asking for your permission, Maksim," she says flatly, cutting me off before I can even start. "And I'm certainly not asking for your opinion. I am seeing them."
A low, genuine laugh rumbles in my chest. The sheer audacity of this girl never fails to amuse me. Most people wouldn't dare breathe an unauthorized word in my presence, yet here she is, drawing lines in the sand.
"I wasn't going to stop you from hanging out with your sisters, princess," I say, leaning back against the leather seat and crossing my legs.
My amusement fades slightly, replaced by the grim reality of our situation.
"But you are well aware of the threat Viktor poses right now. He’s hunting.
So, I will only ask that you have this dinner in one of my restaurants. "
She narrows her eyes at me, but I keep my expression firm.
"At least that way, I can control the environment and assure your safety," I add, my tone leaving absolutely no room for negotiation. "You'll have my men inside, and the perimeter will be locked down. You get your sisters, I get the peace of mind that you won't be snatched off the street. Deal?"
Camilla lets out a loud snort, rolling her eyes as she turns her head back toward the window. She doesn't argue, though. She knows I'm right about the danger, even if it kills her to admit that my compromise is entirely reasonable.
When we finally arrive at the grand venue hosting the gala, the atmosphere is buzzing with high society elites, heavy security, and flashbulbs. I lead Camilla toward the private entrance, where a line of broad-shouldered security detail stands guard.
As we approach, the lead guard steps forward, a handheld metal detector in one hand. "Protocol, sir. Everyone needs to be patted down and checked at the door."
My jaw tightens instantly. I step in front of Camilla, shielding her from his line of sight, my aura turning ice-cold. "You don't touch her," I say, my voice a flat, lethal promise. "No one touches my woman."
The guard pales slightly but holds his ground, swallowing hard. "Sir, it's strict protocol for the event. Security reasons. We have to ensure no weapons enter the main hall. If we can't search her, we can't let her pass."
"I said, you won't touch her," I repeat, stepping closer until I am towering over him. "I will do it myself. You stand there and watch the scanner. If anything reacts when I press the dress, you'll know."
The guard nods quickly, eager to avoid a bloodbath before the party even starts.
I turn back to Camilla. She is looking up at me, her eyes wide, her lips parted slightly in surprise. The space between us vanishes as I step into her, backing her up slightly against the velvet-roped barrier.
They check me first and then I turn to Camilla. The search begins, and the air between us instantly turns thick, vibrating with a heavy, intoxicating sexual tension.
I start at her shoulders, my large hands sliding slowly down her bare arms, feeling the goosebumps erupt along her skin.
I bring my hands to her torso, my palms pressing firmly against the expensive fabric of her dress.
I slide them down her ribs, smoothing over the curve of her waist, mapping out every inch of her body right in front of the guards.
When my hands press against her lower stomach, I feel her entire body go rigid.
Her breath hitches sharply, a tiny, breathless gasp escaping her throat.
Her eyes lock onto mine, dark and completely trapped by my gaze.
My mind flashes back to the bathroom an hour ago, the memory of her slick warmth on my fingers hitting me like a physical wave.
Seeing her react to my touch like this, right here in public, tests every ounce of my control. A primal urge rips through me, urging me to abandon the gala entirely, drag her back to the car, cart her straight home, and rip this dress off her body just to fuck her until she forgets her own name.
My hands glide further down, smoothing over the tight fabric of her gown along her legs. As my palm brushes high up against her inner thigh, my fingers hit something solid, rigid, and completely out of place beneath the silk.
A knife.
I don't freeze, keeping my movements perfectly fluid so the guards don't notice a thing. A dark, wicked smirk tugs at the corner of my lips. She stole a blade from my nightstand, I’m sure.
Instead of being angry, a twisted sense of amusement washes over me. My little captive has teeth, and she’s preparing for war. I slide my hands away to finish the sweep.
I turn a cold glare back to the guard, whose eyes are glued to the green light on his scanner. "We're clean," I state flatly.
"Y-yes, Pakhan. Go right ahead," he stammers, quickly stepping aside.
I offer my arm to Camilla again, my heart hammering a brutal rhythm against my ribs as I lean down to whisper in her ear. "You're lucky we have business inside, princess. Walk."
The heavy double doors open, and we step into the grand ballroom. The opulence of the gala is blinding—crystal chandeliers, flowing champagne, and the absolute elite of the criminal underworld and high society gathered under one roof.
But the moment we step onto the marble floor, a suffocating silence ripples through the crowd nearest to us.
The shock is instantaneous. Necks snap in our direction, and within seconds, the room is buzzing with frantic, hushed whispers. Seeing the Bratva Pakhan with a Caruso daughter creates immediate political distress. The tension in the room spikes to a fever pitch.
Everyone here knows about Viktor’s claim on her; they know about the blood feud brewing and seeing us together is equivalent to watching a match being dropped on a powder keg.
As we walk deeper into the room, the crowd parts before us like the Red Sea. I don't look at them, keeping my chin high, but I feel the raw, suffocating wave of fear following our footsteps.
An underboss from a minor syndicate attempts to step into our path to offer a polite greeting, his hands trembling as he holds a champagne flute. "Pakhan Sokolov, what a—"
I don't even slow down. I simply look at him.
I fix him with a cold, dead-eyed stare that promises a slow death if he takes another syllable.
The man chokes on his own breath, turning completely pale as he instinctively stumbles backward, lowering his head in absolute submission.
No one dares to look me directly in the eye.
They pull their wives closer, step out of my peripheral vision, and lower their voices to a terrified murmur.
They are reminded, in a single heartbeat, exactly why I rule this territory with an iron fist.
I glance down at Camilla, her arm locked securely in mine, ensuring she feels the sheer weight of the power protecting her tonight.
Despite the underlying panic freezing the room, the classical orchestra continues to play, and the party goes on, wrapped in a beautiful, dangerous facade.