Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
MAKSIM
The first pale light of dawn is just beginning to bleed through the heavy velvet curtains when my eyes snap open.
I am awake instantly, my mind automatically shifting into the cold, strategic awareness required of a Pakhan.
But as I move to sit up, the soft, warm sound of breathing beside me pulls my attention back to the mattress.
I look down at Camilla.
She is buried deep beneath the duvet, her silky hair splayed across the white silk pillows like spilled ink.
Her face is soft in sleep, completely stripped of the fierce defiance she wears like armor during the day.
On her collarbone, a faint, purple mark from my mouth stands out against her pale skin—a visual reminder of exactly what happened in this bed hours ago.
I stare at her, and a strange, heavy sensation tightens in my chest. I don't understand my own heart right now. Why the hell am I feeling this way?
I think about last night, tracking the memory of her body writhing beneath mine, and a hard truth settles in my gut: I have never been so deeply satisfied after sex in my entire life. More than that, I have never felt such a desperate, consuming need to worship another human being.
In the past, sex was a transactional release.
I’ve always been a little selfish in bed—focused on my own climax, my own control, my own timing.
If my partners found their pleasure, it was usually a byproduct of that selfishness, a secondary result of me taking what I wanted.
I never managed their reactions, and I certainly never cared enough to pace myself for their comfort.
But with Camilla, everything was entirely different. Her safety and her pleasure were paramount to me. The thought of genuinely tearing her or causing her lasting pain had sent a spike of unfamiliar panic straight through my veins.
I had deliberately restrained my own burning hunger, torturing myself just to make sure she was ready for me, ensuring she felt every single wave of pleasure before I took my own. I wanted to possess her, yes, but I needed to protect her while doing it.
The depth of that realization makes me uneasy. Vulnerability is a death sentence in our world, and looking at her right now feels a lot like weakness.
I turn away from her sleeping form, swinging my legs out of bed. I move quickly and silently, slipping into the dressing room to pull on a pair of dark gym shorts and a heavy cotton shirt. I don't look back at the bed as I slip out of the master suite, the heavy oak doors clicking shut behind me.
I need clarity, and I need it now.
I head down to the mansion’s private gym facility in the basement, the cold air of the concrete corridors matching the sudden chill in my thoughts.
I don't turn on the main lights, preferring the dim, shadow-filled room as I approach the heavy leather punching bag hanging from the reinforced steel beam.
I wrap my hands with practiced precision, the tight cloth binding my knuckles. Viktor is waiting at the gates, my infrastructure is burning, and I am letting a Caruso girl soften my edges.
I raise my fists and strike, the loud, echoing crack of leather hitting the bag shattering the morning silence as I begin working out, desperate to sweat the memory of her touch out of my system.
I work out for a while, burying the frustration into the heavy bag until my shirt is soaked through with sweat and my knuckles ache beneath the wraps.
I’m deep in my own head, calculating the logistics of the shipment from Chicago, when the distinct sound of footsteps echoes down the concrete steps.
I pause mid-strike, catching the heavy bag with my forearm to still it, and turn around.
Camilla walks into the gym. She’s wearing tight gym wear that hugs every single curve I memorized last night, the dark fabric clinging to her hips and highlighting the small waist I held so fiercely in the dark.
She looks incredibly sexy, completely destroying the mental barrier I’ve spent the last hour trying to build.
Fuck.
I can’t take my eyes off her.
She eyes me up, her dark gaze taking in my sweat-sheened chest and the raw aggression rolling off me. With a cool, deliberate slowness, she sets her gym bag and water bottle down on a bench across from me. She arches a perfect eyebrow.
"Are you working out or are you just watching me?" she asks, her voice dripping with that effortless arrogance.
"Come here," I command, my voice a low, rough growl that brooks no argument.
She lets out a soft scoff, stepping back slightly. "Excuse me?"
"I won't repeat myself, Camilla. Come here."
She rolls her eyes, but the defiance in her posture softens just enough for her to cross the gym floor, her sneakers squeaking softly against the rubber mats until she is standing right in front of me.
Before she can utter another sharp word, I step into her space, my hand moving like a flash as I wrap my fingers securely around her throat. I don't squeeze to hurt, but the grip is firm, an unyielding anchor that forces her chin up and locks her gaze to mine.
"I come down here to avoid distractions," I say, my thumb pressing right against the frantic thud of her pulse point. "Why are you here?"
She scoffs against my palm, her dark eyes flashing with that beautiful, stubborn heat. "Are you saying I’m a distraction, Maksim?"
"Yes," I answer flatly, my gaze dropping to her lips before snapping back to her eyes.
"Too bad," she murmurs, a dangerous little smile touching her mouth. "Deal with it."
She twists out of my grip with a fluid grace, turning on her heel to saunter off toward the free weights section. As she goes, she throws a casual look over her shoulder. "I’ve always done Pilates, so I don’t know much about done gym workouts. Can you get me a personal trainer?"
The words hit my ears, and my head instantly heats up. All I see is red. The mere image of another man putting his hands on her, adjusting her form, or looking at her in this gear makes a primal, possessive fury explode in my chest.
"What did you say?" I ask, my voice dropping into a lethal, quiet register that should have made her run.
She turns around to face me fully, completely unfazed by the storm brewing in my eyes, and repeats it with agonizing clarity. "I asked for a personal trainer, Maksim."
"I'll train you myself," I growl, taking a slow, predatory step toward her, the hand wraps stretching tight over my knuckles.
She sighs, crossing her arms over her chest. "I’m serious, Maksim. I want to learn how to properly protect myself."
I stop a mere inch from her, my massive shadow completely engulfing her small frame. I look down at her, my eyes narrowing as a memory clicks into place. "Is that why you were carrying my knife the other day?"
Camilla tilts her chin up, meeting my heavy stare with absolute resolve. "Yes. And I’m going to carry it everywhere.”
I stare down at her, the sheer audacity of this girl never failing to amaze me. A knife in the hands of someone who doesn't know how to wield it is just a weapon waiting to be turned against them.
"Have you ever used one?" I ask, my voice flat, testing her.
"No." The truth slips out, stark and honest.
I look into her dark eyes and see the flickering fire there. The realization settles in my gut: she has the courage to use it—the raw, ruthless defiance guarantees that—but she doesn't have the skill. Not yet.
"A blade is better than nothing," Camilla argues, her jaw tightening as she senses my judgment. She steps closer, refusing to let me intimidate her. "If someone gets too close, I want to be able to gut them."
"In our world, hesitation gets people killed," I counter, my voice dropping into a harsh, realistic grate.
"A knife requires you to be within arm's reach of a monster.
If you don't cut deep enough, if you flinch for even a fraction of a second, they will take that blade from your hands and slit your throat with it. "
She scoffs, crossing her arms, but I don't let her speak.
"A gun would be more useful," I continue, my gaze raking over her stubborn expression. "But only if you learn how to handle it properly. At least with a firearm, you keep the threat at a distance."
Camilla raises an eyebrow, a mocking challenge flashing across her beautiful face. "Are you offering to teach me, Pakhan? Or are you just trying to scare me into staying locked in your bedroom?"
A dark, dangerous grin tugs at the corner of my lips. She wants to play with fire, and I am more than willing to let her burn.
"I’m not scaring you, princess. I’m educating you," I say, reaching down to unwrap the cloth from my knuckles with a slow, deliberate motion. "I’m going to teach you how to shoot myself, so you can learn something that might actually save your life."
"When?" she asks, her dark eyes flashing with a mix of impatience and curiosity.
"Soon," I reply, tossing the unwrapped cloth wraps onto the bench next to her water bottle. "For now, let’s take you through basic workouts to build your form. If you can't balance your weight or hold a stance under pressure, a firearm will only knock you off your feet."
She scoffs, but there’s no real heat in it this time. She nods, stepping out into the center of the rubber mats, ready to see what I have in store.
For the next hour, the tension between us shifts into a different kind of intensity. I don't give her an easy, gentle routine. I put her through a grueling circuit of core and stability work—planks, squats, and agility drills designed to test her balance and endurance.
Every time her form slips, I am right there.
I don't just shout orders; I step in close, my large hands placing firmly on her waist to correct her alignment or pressing down on her shoulders to force her lower.
The contrast between my sweat-dampened skin and hers is electric in the quiet gym.
She gasps for air, her muscles trembling under the strain, but she refuses to quit.
Every time I think she's about to complain, she just grits her teeth, her stubborn pride pushing her through the burn.
By the time we finish, Camilla is flushed, breathing heavily, with tendrils of dark hair damp against her neck. She leans against the weight rack, wiping her brow with the back of her hand, looking utterly exhausted but completely unbroken.
I stand in front of her, barely breathing hard, watching the fierce rise and fall of her chest with a quiet, lethal satisfaction. She wanted to learn our world, and today, she proved she has the stomach for the grind.
The sharp click of heavy boots against the concrete stairs shatters the quiet of the gym.
Dmitri steps into the room, his face a grim, unreadable mask. He looks at Camilla, then at me, his eyes carrying the heavy weight of the underworld business that never sleeps.
"Maksim," Dmitri says, his voice tight, cutting right through the lingering tension of our workout. "We have the preliminary tracking data back from the northern docks. We need to talk."
I pick up a towel, wiping the sweat from my neck while keeping my eyes on him. "Speak. She stays."
Camilla doesn't flinch. She straightens up, crossing her arms over her chest, her dark eyes instantly sharpening as she shifts from Dmitri ’s face to mine.
Dmitri nods once, accepting the order, and steps closer, pulling out his secure satellite phone.
"The attack on Warehouse Seven wasn't just calculated, Maksim.
It was meticulously sourced. Our tech guys pulled the telemetry from the arsonists' breach points.
They bypassed three separate blind nodes that were rotated just forty-eight hours ago. "
My jaw tightens. "That route wasn't on the main servers."
"It wasn't," Dmitri says, his voice dropping into a dark, dangerous register.
"The transport schedule and the specific vault routing used for that international package were known only to a very small, exclusive number of people.
A select few within our own council, and the inner circle of the Caruso family. "
A cold, lethal silence drapes over the gym.
I feel Camilla's posture stiffen beside me, but I don't look at her.
My mind is already mapping out the pieces of the puzzle, the picture coming together in a bloody, vivid display.
Viktor didn't just get lucky. He didn't just stumble upon our vulnerability.
"A rat," I growl, the word tasting like poison on my tongue. "Viktor bought someone inside the organization. He has a mole deep enough to pull active manifests."
"It's the only way they could have pulled it off without tripping the silent alarms," Dmitri agrees, tapping the screen of his device. "The timing is too perfect. They wanted the hit to land exactly when our focus was distracted by the wedding."
"Show me the routes again," I command, stepping up to him. "Every node, every checkpoint from the moment the freighter docked."
Dmitri extends his arm, turning the glowing screen of the phone toward me. "Right here. Look at the timeline."
When the screen turns in my direction, Camilla sucks in a breath.