7. Maxim
MAXIM
“If only they knew,” I say under my breath, allowing myself a smile as a self-obsessed couple practically barge their way past me on the sidewalk. “If only they knew…”
The midday sun cuts through the gaps between skyscrapers, throwing sharp shadows across the bustling downtown sidewalk.
Despite my run-in with two obnoxious assholes, I walk alone, hands in the pockets of my black wool overcoat, collar turned up against the chill wind whipping off the river.
No security detail.
No armored SUV crawling behind me.
I’m simply the Pakhan of the Kovalev family moving through the city like any other man. And those two jokers on the sidewalk were none the wiser. Had they known though, I could bet my last dollar that they would have got out of my way, and fast.
But they didn’t. And I’ll keep walking this way when I can.
Some would call it reckless. I call it necessary.
Every few weeks I make a point of doing this—slipping out on foot, letting the crowd swallow me for a few blocks. The risk of a gunman stepping out of an alley or a sniper on a rooftop is real.
It is always real.
But that edge keeps me sharp.
And more importantly, it gives me something I rarely feel anymore: a fleeting sense of normalcy. For ten or fifteen minutes I am not the man whose name makes lesser bosses check their exits. I am simply another face in the current of the city I have bled to control.
As I walk, my shoes strike the pavement in a steady rhythm.
Around me, office workers hurry past with paper cups of coffee, delivery cyclists weave between pedestrians, and street vendors shout about hot dogs and knockoff watches. The noise is a living thing: honking horns, distant sirens, the low thrum of a thousand conversations. I breathe it in.
I think back to the old days, when I was nothing more than a street soldier…
Young, hungry, moving through these same blocks with a pistol tucked in my waistband and nothing but instinct to keep me alive. I didn’t have to worry about the weight of an entire organization on my shoulders then.
But I also didn’t have control.
One wrong move, one bad deal, one rival deciding today was the day to settle a grudge, and I could have been caught in someone else’s crossfire and become another nameless body dumped off the western bridge before sunrise.
I do not miss those days.
Now I am Pakhan. If death comes for me, it will be on my terms. Not because some low-level crew got lucky. Not because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. When my time ends, it will be because I chose the fight, because the line was crossed and I delivered the consequences myself.
That’s the plan anyway.
The thought settles something inside me. I adjust my stride and continue toward the Veridian Hotel, a grand gothic building that rises like a dark cathedral at the end of the block.
The building’s stone facade is carved with intricate gargoyles and arched windows that have watched this city change hands for over a century.
I step through the heavy revolving door into the hushed elegance of the lobby—marble floors, crystal chandeliers, the faint scent of aged leather and fresh flowers.
A few heads turn, but no one dares hold my gaze for long.
I take the private elevator to the top-floor dining rooms. The door to our reserved suite is already ajar. Michael is waiting inside, seated at the long mahogany table with a neat bourbon in front of him. The heavy curtains are drawn across the windows. Privacy first.
I shrug off my coat and hang it on the rack. “Kobek?”
“Dock situation,” Michael replies smoothly. “Minor crew dispute with one of the longshore unions. Nothing that requires your attention. He’s the best man for it.”
I nod and take the seat across from him. “Good. And I’m guessing when they see Kobek rock up, they’ll all decide that this is a situation that doesn’t require too much more negotiation.”
“Precisely.” Michael swirls the amber liquid in his glass, studying me with that sharp, lawyer’s gaze. “And how is our new houseguest progressing?”
I allow myself a small exhale.
“As expected,” I answer. “The boy is not exactly compliant yet, but he isn’t mounting any serious rebellion either. He tests boundaries. Pushes. Sulks. The usual.”
Michael’s mouth curves into a knowing smile. “He’s a handful. Beautiful handful, though. Have you given any thought to making it more… permanent? Seeing him as a potential partner for real?”
I let out a short, sharp laugh. “Now is not the time for jokes, Michael. We have a truce to solidify and a city to keep in line. A true relationship is the last thing on my mind.”
He raises his glass in mock surrender, but the knowing glint in his eyes remains. I ignore it.
The idea is absurd.
Milo is a strategic asset, a live wire I intend to tame.
What the boy most certainly is not is a wife.
We settle into silence as the appointed time nears. Our contact is a man from back in Russia with serious connections—access to military-grade weapons that would let us cut ties with the cartel south of the border.
Cleaner supply lines. Better margins. Fewer complications.
This is exactly the kind of leverage we need while the Lentini truce holds.
I glance at my phone out of habit. The encrypted apps are all quiet. Then, almost without thinking, I open the surveillance feed for the apartment.
The bedroom camera fills the screen.
“You have to be fucking kidding me…”
My blood turns to ice.
Milo is pressed against the inside of his bedroom door, back to the wood, breathing fast. In his hands is a sleek black phone—definitely not his.
I watch as he types furiously, thumbs flying across the screen.
Rage surges through me, hot and immediate.
I stand so quickly the chair scrapes loudly against the floor. Michael’s eyebrows lift.
“Problem?”
“Handle the meeting yourself,” I say, voice low and clipped. “I need to return to the apartment. Immediately.”
Michael’s smile turns sharp, almost amused. “Give him hell, Pakhan.”
I don’t reply. I’m already moving toward the door, coat in hand, pulse pounding with fury and something darker… anticipation.
The walk back feels endless even though I’m going as fast as I can without drawing any unwarranted attention to myself.
I can feel myself building up a sweat as the muggy inner city heat creeps up around me.
Or maybe it’s just the thought that the boy has somehow pulled the woold over Yuri’s eyes for long enough to snatch his phone.
And it must be his phone. There is no way that Milo snuck in another handset, it’s just not possible.
By the time the private elevator opens into the apartment, my jaw is locked tight enough to crack teeth.
Yuri is in the living area, laughing at something on the big screen, karaoke mics still out. The moment he sees my face he freezes.
“Uncle Maxim—”
“Out,” I snap. “Now. I will deal with you later. And if you’re lucky I’ll give you your phone back.”
“Oh crap,” Yuri says, his hands panicked as they tap his trouser pockets. “Uncle…”
“Out! Now!” I roar.
Yuri doesn’t argue or hesitate for even a single moment. He grabs his jacket and practically runs for the door, the click of it shutting behind him echoing through the space.
I stalk down the corridor toward Milo’s room.
My hand closes around the knob.
I don’t knock…
The door swings open.
Milo startles violently, spinning around. The stolen phone is still clutched in his hands. His eyes go wide with shock, then fear, then that familiar flash of defiance.
“Maxim…”
“Give me the phone.” My voice is deadly calm.
He hesitates half a second too long. I cross the room in two strides, close my fingers around his wrist, and pry the device from his grip. I don’t even look at the screen. That can wait.
“You were told the rules,” I say quietly. “You were told there would be consequences.”
Before he can protest, I sit on the edge of his bed and pull Milo down with me. He struggles, but I am of course stronger and far more determined. In one smooth motion I flip the boy face-down across my lap, his hips draped over my thighs, legs kicking uselessly.
“Get off me!” he snarls, twisting.
I hook one arm around his waist to pin him in place. My other hand yanks Milo’s lounge shorts and briefs down in one rough motion, baring the smooth, perfect curve of his ass to the cool air of the room.
The sight alone… soft olive skin, the faint tan lines, the way his cheeks clench in anticipation… well it makes my cock harden all the way despite my fury.
“You stole a phone,” I say, voice low and controlled. “You deliberately broke my trust on day one.”
My palm comes down hard.
The sound cracks through the bedroom like a gunshot.
Milo gasps, body jolting. But the defiance remains.
“Fuck you!” Milo spits. “Fuck you all the way to the bank!”
“I see,” I answer, Milo’s outburst actually calming my own temper.
I need to take my time with this, make the boy suffer, show him that while I might be angry, I’m calm enough to ensure that this is a bare bottomed spanking he will never, ever forget.
“Your naughty peach of a bottom will feel the force of my hand,” I growl. “And don’t think I’ll go easy on you. I’m not some civilian corporate Daddy form those clubs you go to. I’m the real deal. I’m a true Daddy.”
I hear Milo’s breath hitch and sense him grinding himself ever so slightly on my lap.
I’ve got him just where I want him.
But this isn’t about pleasure… this is about punishment.
I spank Milo with deliberate, measured force—right cheek, left cheek, the sensitive underside where thigh meets ass. His skin blooms pink almost instantly.
“You will learn,” I continue between strikes, “that when I give an order, you obey. No games. No sneaking. No manipulation of my own blood to get what you want.”
Milo writhes across my lap, breath coming in sharp little cries now, but I don’t stop.
My hand rains down again and again, turning his ass a deeper, angrier shade of red. Heat radiates from the boy’s skin. Every impact sends a jolt straight to my cock where it presses against his hip.
Milo’s struggles grow weaker, his protests dissolving into shaky gasps and whimpers.
But I’m not finished.
Not even close…