Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
MAKSIM
The next morning, the sun streams through the high windows of the dining room, but the atmosphere inside is freezing.
We sit at opposite ends of the long mahogany table, the quiet between us so thick you could cut it with a knife.
Camilla hasn't spoken a single word to me since we got back into the car last night.
Stubborn woman.
I cut into eggs, deliberately matching her silence with my own.
I have no intention of breaking it first. Part of me finds her icy little tantrum incredibly cute; it shows the sheer fire hidden beneath her high-society breeding.
The other part of me is highly amused, completely content to wait and see exactly how she plans to handle this silent treatment during our wedding in two days.
Let’s see if she refuses to speak her vows at the altar.
The heavy silence is abruptly shattered by the sound of hurried footsteps.
I look up to see the head of my perimeter detail entering the dining room. He carries a sleek, matte-black box in his hands. He approaches the table with a tense, rigid posture and sets the box down right beside my plate.
"This was left at the front gates, Pakhan," the guard swallows hard, his voice tight. "We swept it for explosives. It's clear. But... we don’t know what's inside."
Camilla’s eyes shift from her plate to the box, her fork freezing halfway to her mouth, her silent mask cracking for a fraction of a second.
I pull the box toward me and flip the latch, lifting the lid.
Resting inside the velvet lining is a crumpled piece of laminated cardstock.
It’s the number placard Camilla wore pinned to her dress on the auction block in Sicily—the one that had probably ripped off and fallen to the bloody floor during our frantic escape through the gunfire. I don’t fucking know.
Number 102.
Only now, the white card is heavily smeared with dark, dried blood.
Tucked neatly beneath the placard is a small, heavy piece of parchment. I pick it up, unfolding it to reveal a message written in a familiar, jagged script.
You bought only time, Sokolov. Not ownership. She is mine.
- V
Viktor.
A sharp, ragged gasp pierces the quiet of the dining room.
I snap my head up, my eyes instantly locking onto Camilla.
The stubborn defiance she wore like armor just seconds ago has completely evaporated.
Her face is stark white, her eyes pinned to the bloody placard inside the open box, staring at it as if she’s looking at a ghost.
I slam the lid of the black box shut, cutting off the sight, and slide it out of view.
"Are you okay?" I ask, my voice dropping its edge, turning sharp and serious.
She swallows hard, her fingers trembling as she grips the edge of the mahogany table. She forces her chin up, trying desperately to piece her walls back together.
“I'm fine."
"You're not fine," I insist, pushing my chair back.
"I said I'm fine, Maksim!" she suddenly blows up, her voice cracking as the terror and pent-up frustration from the last twelve hours erupt all at once.
"Stop telling me what I am! Stop hiding things from me!
That man is hunting me, he's leaving blood at our gates, and you're treating me like a piece of glass you can just lock in a room! "
I don't argue with her. I don't say a word as I cross the expanse of the dining room in a few heavy strides.
Before she can process my movement or try to flee, I lean down and scoop her up into my arms.
"Let go of me!" she screams, hitting my chest with her fists as I turn toward the grand staircase. "Put me down, you arrogant bastard! I told you not to carry me! Put me down!"
I ignore her entirely, my grip tightening like iron around her waist and thighs as I carry her up the stairs.
She thrashes and yells the entire way, but to me, she weighs nothing.
I march down the long corridor, push open the heavy oak doors of our bedroom with my shoulder, and step inside, kicking the door shut behind us.
I walk over to the bed and set her down gently against the mattress, but the moment her feet touch the fabric, she tries to scramble away.
I lean over her, my massive frame completely trapping her against the pillows, my hands coming up to firmly frame her face so she has no choice but to look at me.
"Look at me, Camilla," I command, my voice a deep, resonant rumble that cuts right through her panic. "Look at me."
She freezes, her breathing frantic, her dark eyes wide and shimmering with unshed tears of absolute fury and fear.
"He is never touching you. Ever," I say, each word hit with a flat, lethal certainty.
"Do you hear me? Viktor can send all the blood and notes he wants, but he is a dead man walking.
I don't care what he thinks he owns. You are under my roof.
You are carrying my name in two days. Nobody takes what belongs to me. Nobody."
I trace my thumb roughly but gently across her pale cheekbone, forcing her to feel the absolute solidity of my weight, the reality of the fortress I've built around her.
"I don't hover to cage you, princess. I hover because the moment anyone tries to reach for you, I am going to rip their hands off.
You are safe here. With me. Believe nothing else. "
She lets out a shaky, trembling breath, her hands coming up to rest against my chest, no longer pushing, just holding onto the lapels of my shirt for anchoring.
On the outside, my words are an unyielding shield for her.
But deep down, beneath the calm, firm assurance I am feeding her, a terrifying, primal fury is roaring to life in my chest. Viktor thought he could threaten my woman at my own gates.
He thought he could make her look this terrified in my house.
He wants war. I am going to give him a massacre.
There’s a sharp, tentative knock on the bedroom door.
"Camilla?" Nastya’s voice calls out from the hallway, hesitant but clear. "Are you in there? I was wondering if you wanted to hang out for a bit... maybe look over some dress designs with me?"
The intrusion shatters the heavy, suffocating spell holding us together. Camilla blinks, the dazed panic in her eyes quickly giving way to relief at the sound of my sister's voice.
"Yes!" she calls out, her voice slightly breathless as she looks up at me, practically begging me with her eyes to release her. "Yes, Nastya, give me a second!"
I slowly pull my weight off her, straightening up to my full height.
The moment the space opens, she slips out from under me, scrambling off the edge of the mattress.
She smooths down her clothes with trembling fingers, not sparing me another glance, and hurries across the room, slipping out the door and closing it firmly behind her.
Alone in the quiet of the bedroom, I close my eyes and take a long, dragging breath, trying to force the primal, chaotic fury back down into a cold, calculated box.
It doesn't work. The image of Camilla’s pale face and the blood-stained auction placard is burned into my retinas.
I don't just have to find Viktor anymore; I have to make him suffer in ways this city has never seen.
After ensuring Camilla is safely occupied with Nastya deep within the mansion, I head downstairs to deal with the security breach. Nothing like this can ever happen again.
I stride into the main security hub in the basement, where Dmitri is already waiting, his face grim as he stands before the bank of monitors. The two guards who were stationed at the front gates during the morning shift are standing at absolute attention, sweating through their vests.
"Talk," I command, my voice dangerously soft as I step into the room.
The guard on the left swallows hard, his eyes fixed on the wall behind me.
"Pakhan, a standard courier motorcycle pulled up to the gate ten minutes before breakfast. The driver wore a helmet and a standard delivery uniform.
He stated it was an urgent wedding delivery for the estate.
We swept the exterior of the box for explosives and tracking devices.
It was entirely clean, sir. We... we didn't open it.
Protocol dictates we pass sealed personal deliveries straight to your detail.
"You didn't open it," I repeat, stepping closer until I am looking down at him.
A terrifying, icy calm washes over me. "A man arrives at the gates of the Bratva Pakhan, during a high-alert blood feud, and you let a package through without verifying the sender?
If that box had contained a chemical agent, my fiancé would be dead at the breakfast table. "
"P-Pakhan, we—"
"Dmitri, strip them of their badges," I cut him off, not even bothering to look at the man. "Put them on the perimeter lines in the docks. If they fail me there, put them in the ground."
"Yes, Pakhan," Dmitri replies smoothly, gesturing for the heavy guards at the door to drag the two men out.
Once the room clears, I turn to Dmitri, the rage finally burning through my calm exterior. "Where is the security footage of the bike's license plate?"
"Scrubbed or stolen," Dmitri says, bringing up a map of the surrounding district on the main screen.
"The plate belongs to a vehicle reported stolen around Fifth Avenue two hours ago.
But I tracked the traffic cams. The courier dropped his uniform in an alley three miles away and got into a black sedan.
We have a partial on that plate, and it leads straight to a warehouse district near the old port. "
I reach to the small of my back, checking the weight of my firearm, before adjusting the cuffs of my suit jacket.
"Get the cars," I tell Dmitri, walking past him toward the exit. "We're going hunting."