Chapter 14 #2
I thought about Maya sleeping in my bed, trusting me to keep her safe. About the way she'd played with the kittens yesterday, smiled at something normal and bright. About the marks I'd left on her skin, the promises I'd made with my body and words.
"When?" I asked.
"Soon," Nikolai said. "But we need to be smart about this. Brand has connections in the NYPD, the FBI, probably higher. We move wrong, and Maya ends up in federal custody. And we both know what happens to witnesses in federal custody when there's this much money involved."
They disappeared. Suicide by two bullets to the back of the head. Or they simply vanished, their organs appearing on the black market within hours.
"What do you need from me?" I asked, though what I really wanted was an address. A location. Five minutes alone with Brand and my favorite knife.
"Keep her safe," Nikolai said. "Keep her inside the compound. And Kostya?" He waited until I met his eyes. "Don't tell her about the bounty. Not the details. She's smart—she'll figure out what 'intact' means, and that kind of fear . . . it'll break her or make her run. Either way, we lose."
I nodded, though keeping secrets from Maya felt like swallowing acid. But he was right. She'd survived six months of running because she didn't know how valuable she was to them. If she knew they wanted her organs, that her body was worth half a million dollars in parts . . .
"There's more," Maks said, and I wondered how many times someone could say that before I put my fist through Nikolai's expensive desk.
He pulled up new files on his laptop, security footage that looked familiar.
Too familiar. The PetSmart parking lot, yesterday morning, Maya in my jacket looking small and happy and alive.
My chest tightened watching her on screen, carrying those ridiculous cat beds like they mattered more than anything in the world.
"You were followed," Maks said unnecessarily.
He switched to another angle, this one from a traffic camera across the street. A black sedan, tinted windows, parked with a perfect view of the store entrance. The timestamp showed it arrived five minutes after we did. Stayed until five minutes after we left.
"Professional?" Nikolai asked.
"Very." Maks zoomed in on the sedan, enhancing until we could see a shape in the driver's seat. "Long-lens camera. The kind paparazzi use, or—"
"Bounty hunters," I finished.
More files appeared. Photos, slightly grainy but clear enough.
Me and Maya walking into the store. Her laughing at something I'd said.
Me pushing the cart while she held up cat toys.
Domestic scenes that looked bizarre given who I was, what I did.
The Besharov enforcer buying cat supplies with an unknown woman.
"These are already circulating," Maks said. "Private channels for now, but it won't take long. Someone will recognize her. Former colleagues, patients, anyone who knew her before."
I stared at the photos, at Maya's smile caught in digital amber. She looked happy. Unguarded. Nothing like the terrified woman who'd stitched me up in a basement veterinary clinic just days ago.
"How did they find us?" I asked, though I already knew the answer. In our world, everyone watched everyone. One person sees the Besharov enforcer acting unusual, word spreads. Someone makes a connection. Information becomes currency.
"Could be random," Maks said, but his tone suggested otherwise. "Or someone's already connected her to you. To us."
"It gets worse," he continued, because of course it did. "The police have been asking questions in Brighton Beach. Specifically about a 'shadow doctor' operating out of a veterinary clinic."
My blood went cold. "The clinic?"
"They're checking every clinic, every underground medical setup in Brooklyn," Maks added. "Someone tipped them. Probably Brand, using his connections to let the cops do his hunting for him."
I thought about Maya's work at that clinic. How many desperate people she'd helped. Gang members, illegals, anyone who couldn't go to a real hospital. She'd risked everything to help them, and now that kindness might be what got her caught.
"If the cops find her first—" I started.
"She gets arrested," Nikolai finished. "And with Brand's connections, she doesn't make it to trial. She has an accident in custody. Or gets transferred to federal holding and disappears in transit."
"If Brand's people find her first—"
"We already know what happens then."
The photos stared at me from Maks's screen. Maya holding a feather toy, examining it like it contained medical secrets. Me standing behind her, and even in the grainy image, you could see the way I looked at her. Possessive. Protective. Mine.
"These photos," I said slowly. "They don't just show Maya. They show her with me. With a Besharov."
"Which makes her more valuable," Nikolai said. "Or more dangerous, depending on who's looking. Either she's leverage against us, or she's someone we're protecting for a reason."
"Brand will know soon," Maks said. "If he doesn't already. These photos, plus the clinic location, plus her medical background—it's enough to confirm identity."
I stood abruptly, needing to move, to do something besides stare at evidence of how badly I'd fucked up. One normal morning. One attempt to give her something simple and bright. And I'd exposed her, painted a target on her back in neon.
"I need to get back," I said. "If she wakes up alone—"
"Wait." Nikolai’s voice was heavy with feeling.
Maks looked up from his laptop, read something in Nikolai's expression, and started packing up his electronics.
"I'll run those traces," he said, which was code for I'll leave you two to talk.
He squeezed my shoulder as he passed, a rare gesture of affection from our brother who preferred keyboards to contact.
The door clicked shut, and it was just me and Nikolai in the office where our grandfather had built an empire. Where our father had ruled through paranoia after our mother left. Where generations of Besharov men had made decisions that shaped the underworld of New York.
"You love her," Nikolai said. Not a question. Not an accusation. Just fact, stated with the same certainty he'd use to say the sky was blue or blood was red.
I turned back to face him. No point in denying what he'd already seen. "Yes."
"How long have you known her? Days?"
"Mmhm," I said, then thought about it. "Feels like years."
He laughed, but not mockingly. There was understanding in it. "I knew Sophie for three days before I knew she was the one. Sometimes it happens like that. Lightning strike instead of slow burn."
I moved away from the door, sank into the chair across from his desk. The broken armrest creaked under my weight—evidence of my earlier loss of control.
"I've never," I started, then stopped. How did you tell your brother you'd never felt anything before? That thirty years of existence had been just violence and vodka and empty transactions until a broken doctor had stitched up your arm and everything had shifted?
"I know," Nikolai said quietly. "I've watched you for years, Kostya. Going through the motions. Fucking without feeling. Fighting because it was the only thing that made you feel alive. I worried."
"You worried?" That was new. Nikolai worried about strategy, about the family business, about maintaining power. Not about his enforcer brother's emotional state.
"Of course I worried." He leaned back in his chair, and for a moment he looked younger.
Just my brother, not the Pakhan. "After Mom left, we all broke in different ways.
I became obsessed with control. Maks became obsessed with information.
And you . . . you became the monster everyone needed you to be.
But monsters don't live long in our world. They burn out or get put down."
The truth of it sat heavy between us. I had been burning out. The violence had stopped satisfying years ago. The women had never satisfied. I'd been going through motions, existing rather than living, until Maya.
"But now," Nikolai continued, "you look alive. Actually alive, not just functional. She did that?"
"She did that," I confirmed. "She's . . . fuck, I don't have words for what she is."
"You don't need words. I can see it." He studied me with those grey eyes that missed nothing.
"Sophie's been asking about her." A soft smile crossed his face, the kind reserved only for thoughts of his wife.
"She wants to meet Maya properly. Not as the Pakhan's wife making a social call, but as .
. ." He paused, choosing words carefully. "As someone who understands."
"Understands what?"
"The Little side. The need for structure, for Daddy Dom dynamics. Sophie doesn't have anyone who truly gets that part of her. The other bratva wives think she's weak for calling me Daddy. They don't understand it's not weakness—it's trust. Strength through surrender."
I thought about Maya saying "Daddy" as I'd held her after the spanking. The way she'd melted into me, finally able to let go of the control that was killing her slowly.
"There's a room," Nikolai said, pulling me from the memory.
"East wing, third floor. Sophie calls it her nursery, though that's not quite right.
It's more . . . a safe space. Where she can be little without judgment.
Soft colors, comfortable furniture, toys and books and things that let her regress when she needs to. "
"She wants to share that with Maya?"
"She wants Maya to know she's not alone.
That this thing she needs, this part of herself—it's not shameful.
It's not broken. It's just another way of being.
" He paused, eyes serious. "But more than that, I think Sophie needs a friend.
Someone who won't judge her for needing to color in a coloring book after a hard day.
Someone who understands why sometimes she needs me to make all the decisions so her brain can rest."