Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
MAKSIM
The heavy black SUV cuts through the mid-morning fog, tires humming loudly against the asphalt as my convoy speeds down the highway toward a secured Sokolov holding facility near the docks.
Dmitri sits in the passenger seat, tapping away at a secure tablet, reviewing the inventory logs for the shipment.
We are heading to personally inspect the replacement package I arranged following Viktor's recent attack on our supply lines—a critical delivery designed to send a loud, unambiguous message to the rest of the syndicates that my operation hasn't missed a single beat. It’s business. Brutal, necessary business.
Yet my mind isn't on the docks. It isn't on Viktor, or the weapons, or the millions of euros wrapped up in this cargo.
My mind is trapped back at the estate. With Camilla.
I can still see the radiant, breathless joy on her face when she realized her sisters were sitting in our dining room.
I can still hear the sound of her laughter echoing through the halls.
It unsettled me—how astonishingly little it actually took to make her truly happy, and how easily I could have given her that simple joy long before now.
The realization settles deep in my chest: I want to do more for her. I want to be the reason she smiles like that every single day.
Arranging her sisters' surprise visit this morning had been anything but simple. Getting four guarded women out of their routines, coordinating secure transport, clearing high-level security, and lining up armed escorts without leaking their movements to Viktor’s watchers had taken dozens of urgent, late-night phone calls and direct personal intervention.
I was genuinely relieved she had slept so deeply into the morning—it gave me the cushion of time I desperately needed to pull the strings together and have them waiting in the dining room before she woke.
It was a logistical headache, a massive security headache, and a breach of my usual paranoid protocol.
But after the way she had looked at me in the piano room last night—after she gently brought a strange, long-forgotten peace back into my dark, chaotic world—bringing her sisters to her was the smallest thing I could possibly do to repay her.
"We’re here," Dmitri says, breaking through my thoughts as the heavy SUV grinds to a halt inside the dimly lit, cavernous warehouse near the docks.
I pull myself out of my head, adjusting the cuffs of my coat as I step out onto the cold concrete floor. I need to focus. The soft warmth of my morning back at the estate vanishes.
Armed men stand guard around the massive shipping container sitting in the center of the bay.
We move directly inside, stepping past rows of sealed wooden crates stamped with our mark.
At first glance, the shipment looks intact—a heavy, million-dollar statement that Viktor’s interference didn't break us.
"Check the manifest," I order, my voice flat, eager to get this done and over with so I can return home.
Home.
Dmitri steps forward, scanning the physical seals on the row of crates, his tablet chiming with automated serial matches. But as he reaches the back stack, his movements stop. He frowns, running a glove over the empty wooden pallet where two crates should be sitting.
"The main package is intact," Dmitri says quietly, looking up from his tablet. "But two cases are missing. The side routing for those two specific crates was altered."
My jaw tightens. "Altered how?"
"Using a forged Sokolov authorization code," Dmitri explains, his fingers flying across the screen as he tracks the digital breadcrumb trail.
"Someone tried to delay and redirect two sealed cases off the main manifest. They wanted it to look like a failure in your own internal logistics—like a system glitch on your end. "
A cold, deadly quiet settles over the warehouse. A breach from the outside is an act of war; an internal breach using my own private authorization codes is treason.
"However," Dmitri continues quickly, looking at me, "we anticipated this exact type of tampering after Viktor’s last move. We put passive tracking redundancies on every primary crate. The signal was diverted, but it wasn't erased. I’m pulling the direct coordinates now."
I take a single step toward him, the air in the room dropping several degrees as my patience evaporates. The peace I felt hours ago is completely gone, replaced by a dark, familiar rage curling in my gut.
"I don't need an explanation, Dmitri," I growl, my voice dangerously low. "I need a location. You have ten minutes at most."
Dmitri doesn't even look up from his screen. "I don't need ten minutes. Found it."
I offer a single, tight nod.
While Dmitri coordinates with our tactical team, I begin to pace the damp concrete of the docks, my heavy boots echoing off the iron beams. I force myself to breathe, desperately trying to hold on to the strange, lingering peace Camilla had set loose in me yesterday.
But the violence in my blood is stubborn, clawing its way back to the surface with every passing second.
"Vehicle is ready," Dmitri announces, breaking into my stride. "Address locked in."
We move fast. Less than fifteen minutes later, our convoy screeches to a halt at a secondary, rundown dock facility two miles down the coast. The moment my boots hit the ground, the faint sound of panicked movement and muffled shouting echoes from inside the rusted metal warehouse.
"Move!" I bark.
My men fan out with terrifying efficiency, weapons raised, sweeping the dark perimeter.
But the bastards inside know this layout far better than we do.
Before my guards can pin them down, the intruders scramble through hidden access points and melt into the maze of shipping containers, vanishing completely into the fog-heavy air.
We recover the two missing cases intact before they can be moved off the property, but as I stare at the recovered crates, a bitter taste coats my tongue.
Finding the cargo isn't enough. The fact that someone had the audacity—and the internal access—to touch my inventory in the first place is a humiliating, unacceptable breach.
"I'm hungry for blood, Dmitri," I growl, staring into the dark shadows where the rats escaped. "I want heads."
Dmitri steps beside me, lower lip tight, scanning a fresh set of decrypted data on his phone. "Then you're in luck."
I turn my head toward him, eyes narrowing. "Speak."
"You were scheduled to attend the gala at the opera house tomorrow evening," Dmitri says, looking up.
"The forged authorization code used to route these cases just pinged back through a maze of dummy accounts.
The digital trail originates from a shell foundation directly connected to that very opera house. "
I hum softly, a dark, dangerous thrill replacing the irritation in my chest.
Up until two minutes ago, I had every intention of skipping that damn event. Matteo Rossini is set to host half the city's high society there, and I wanted absolutely no business breathing the same air as that bastard.
"It seems my plans have changed," I say softly, a lethal edge sharpening my voice. "Something is brewing behind those velvet curtains, and I intend to find out exactly what it is.”
Despite how desperately eager I am to go home, I can't just drop everything and walk away. My responsibilities as Pakhan are a cross I've long learned to carry with grace, but today, the weight is damn near unbearable because my heart simply isn't in it.
My heart is back at the estate. With her.
Yet the duties of my position keep me chained to secure houses, meetings, and endless security reports until long after midnight.
By the time my car finally rolls up the long, dark driveway and I step into the silent foyer, the entire house is drowned in shadows.
I assume Camilla is already fast asleep in our bed.
Exhausted, I drag my hand over my face and turn toward the grand staircase, ready to collapse next to her. But as I take my first step, the faint sound of the soft hum of a radio playing low static-filled music from the kitchen catches my attention.
I pause. It seems a member of my night staff is still up. Good. I haven't eaten a single bite since breakfast and my stomach is clawing at my ribs. I decide to detour to the kitchen to have them whip up a quick, light meal before I go upstairs.
I turn down the hallway, push open the heavy double doors of the kitchen, and stop dead in my tracks.
There is no staff.
Instead, standing near the massive stainless-steel stove, is Camilla.
She’s wearing one of my oversized black button-down shirts—the hem falling past her thighs, leaving her long, bare legs completely exposed—and her feet are completely bare against the cold tile.
The cook's old transistor radio is playing a faint, melodic tune on the counter, and floating through the air is the unmistakable, pungent smell of something slightly burning.
I sniff the air, my nose twitching at the sharp scent.
Oh. Burnt toast.
I try to smother the sudden laugh rising in my throat, but a soft, gravelly breath escapes me, and it's enough to give me away. She turns around quickly, holding a spatula like a weapon, but the moment her eyes catch mine, they light up like stars in the dark room.
A strange, heavy warmth settles right over my ribs. Once again, she reminds me of home—a feeling I haven't known in longer than I can remember. I like it. I’m finally home.
"What's that smell, princess?" I ask, stepping fully into the warm light of the kitchen.
She sighs dramatically, stepping aside to uncover a ceramic plate sitting on the counter, revealing four pitch-black, thoroughly incinerated slices of bread.
I let out a low chuckle, raising an eyebrow at the crime scene on the stove. "And what, exactly, was the goal here?"
She crosses her arms over the front of my shirt, her bare toes curling against the cool tile floor. "I was waiting up for you, got bored, and decided to try my hand at making a late-night snack."
I inch closer to the counter, leaning my hip against the island, right next to the plate. "When did your sisters leave?"
"Just past noon," she says softly, her eyes tracing my face, taking in the lingering exhaustion I haven't had time to hide. "They didn't want to overstay."
I nod, resting my hands on the edge of the granite as I tilt my head toward her. "Did you miss me?"
Camilla rolls her eyes, tossing her head back, but she doesn't bother to give me a verbal answer. She doesn't need to. I already saw the absolute truth in the way her whole face lit up the exact second I walked through that door.
Before she can pull the plate away, I reach out, snapping off a corner of the blackened, charred toast, and pop it straight into my mouth.
Her dark eyes widen in sheer horror. "Maksim! No, don't eat that!" she gasps, reaching out to grab my hand.
I just shrug, chewing thoughtfully as the bitter taste coats my tongue, and reach down to snap off another small piece. "It’s really not that bad."
"It's awful!" she insists, snatching the plate up and holding it out of my reach. "I tasted a piece earlier and it was completely inedible. You're only saying that because you probably haven't eaten all day and you're starving."
She’s probably right. I’m ravenous.
I smile, the lingering tension from the docks completely dissolving as I step closer, gently taking the plate right back out of her hands and taking another bite. "Maybe I am starving. But my wife made it... so I'm eating it."
She simply stares at me in utter disbelief, her mouth slightly open as I finish two burnt slices and reach straight for the third.
"You are completely insane," she whispers, though a tiny, fond smile tugs at the corner of her lips.
As I chew, I lean against the counter, but the momentary distraction fades enough for the day's weight to settle back onto my shoulders.
"What happened today, Maksim?" she asks softly, looking up into my eyes. "You smell like smoke. And you look like you’ve been at war all day."
I instinctively step back half an inch, my guard going up out of habit. "It’s nothing for you to worry about, princess. Just business at the docks. Standard protocol."
Camilla doesn't buy it. She crosses her arms over my oversized shirt, her dark eyes locking onto mine with steady, unwavering focus. "Don't do that. Don't give me the Pakhan brush-off."
"Camilla—"
"I'm not asking to run your business, Maksim," she cuts in quietly, her voice devoid of anger, carrying only a grounded, intense sincerity.
"I don't need the gory details, and I’m not asking to join your sit-downs.
But I live in this house. I am your wife.
Stop hiding the danger from me like I'm fragile.
If there's trouble coming, I want to know. "
I freeze, staring down at her. In my world, women are shielded until they are blind or used until they are broken. But Camilla stands here in my oversized shirt, barefoot on the cold tile, demanding nothing more than the truth so she can stand beside me in the dark.
I let out a long, quiet breath, the last remnants of my stubbornness deflating.
"Someone tried to intercept our replacement shipment today," I admit softly, taking her hands in mine and lightly thumbing her knuckles.
"They forged my authorization codes. Dmitri tracked the digital origin back to a shell foundation...
one connected directly to the opera house gala tomorrow night. "
Camilla absorbs the information without flinching, her fingers tightening around mine. "So tomorrow is a setup."
"Or a revelation," I murmur, leaning down until my forehead rests against hers. "Either way, I'll handle it."
"Just don't shut me out," she whispers against my lips. "That's all I ask."
"I won't," I promise, the dark, heavy isolation of my position lifting just a little more. "I won't hide from you."
When I finish the last bit of burnt toast, Camilla pours me a cold glass of juice and sets it down in front of me. She steps closer, resting her hands lightly against my chest, looking right up into my eyes.
"Yes, Maksim," she says softly, her voice warm. "I missed you today."
I’m momentarily speechless. The sudden, unfiltered honesty drops like a quiet shock through my chest, stripping away every last bit of defense I usually keep wrapped around myself.
Before I can gather my thoughts or find the words to reply, she reaches down, taking my hand in hers, her small fingers warm against my calloused palm.
"Come," she murmurs gently, leading me away from the counter toward the stairs. "I’ll run you a bath. You look exhausted. Let me take care of you tonight."
And who am I to say no to that?