11. Maxim
MAXIM
The apartment is quiet except for the low hum of the city far below the windows.
I’m not complaining. I like it like it. Especially in a moment like this…
I sit at the small antique table in my office, the one positioned so the afternoon light falls perfectly across the chessboard. My phone rests beside the board, screen glowing with a high-difficulty engine match.
I move the pieces on the physical board by hand… black marble and ivory-white opposite carved by a master in Moscow years ago. There is something satisfying about feeling the weight of each piece, hearing the soft click as it settles onto its new square. Apps are useful, but they lack soul.
Chess has always been my way of seeing the endgame when business grows complicated. Every move on this board mirrors the city: pawns sacrificed for position, knights leaping over obstacles, queens exerting pressure from a distance.
Right now the cartel threatens my flanks, the Lentini alliance is still untested, and Milo… Milo is a wild card in the center of the board.
He’s dangerous.
Captivating.
Totally impossible to ignore.
I advance my knight, taking the engine’s pawn. The phone chimes softly in acknowledgment. My mind drifts as I study the new position.
Ras Shevchenko.
The name brings a rare flicker of warmth and pain at the same time. He was already a retired senior boss when I was still a hungry street soldier clawing my way up. Most men in his position would have ignored a young hothead like me.
Ras didn’t. He saw something—potential, maybe stupidity worth shaping—and took me under his wing.
For years he was the closest thing I had to a father after my own died young.
We played chess in the park every Sunday we could, rain or shine.
He taught me strategy, patience, and the cold truth that emotions get men killed.
I lean back in the chair and let the memory pull me under.
MANY YEARS AGO…
The park was its usual windswept scene. Pigeons scattered as Ras set up the board on our usual bench, his thick fingers surprisingly delicate with the pieces.
He was in his late sixties then, silver hair still thick, eyes sharp as broken glass.
I was twenty-four, full of fire and freshly blooded from my first major hit.
The game was close—closer than usual.
I had developed my pieces aggressively, controlling the center, threatening his king with a strong bishop and knight coordination. For once I thought I might actually beat him.
Ras studied the board for a long minute, then moved his queen with quiet certainty. “Check.”
I frowned, scanning for escape routes. None. I moved my king. He countered immediately. Three moves later the trap closed.
“Checkmate,” he said softly.
I slammed my fist on the bench, nearly knocking pieces to the ground. “How? I had you!”
Ras leaned back, unperturbed. He lit a cigarette and took a slow drag.
“In a moment of defeat, Maxim, is sometimes the best time to strike for final victory against your enemy. Your rage blinds you. You stop seeing the whole board. Keep your emotions in check. Always. The man who masters himself masters everything.”
His words sank in. I could see it then, the way my frustration had made me miss the obvious counterplay. I exhaled, nodded, and started resetting the board for another game.
That was when the shot cracked through the peaceful afternoon.
Ras’s white shirt bloomed red across his chest. He looked down, almost surprised, then collapsed sideways onto the bench.
Blood soaked the wood.
Screams erupted all around us: mothers grabbing children, people diving for cover.
I already had my pistol out, scanning rooftops, trees, every shadow. My heart thundered in my ears.
“Ras!” I dropped to my knees beside him, pressing my hands over the wound. Blood bubbled between my fingers. His eyes met mine, calm even then.
“Never… lose control…” he rasped.
Another shot whizzed past my head. I returned fire blindly toward a distant tree line, but the shooter was a ghost.
By the time my men arrived, Ras was gone.
The park had emptied. Just me, the dead mentor who had shaped me, and the metallic smell of blood on a sunny afternoon.
Nothing would ever be the same again.
And I knew I would need to heed my fallen mentor’s words, or it wouldn’t be long before I was the one lying dead on the hard ground beneath.
PRESENT DAY…
I blink back to the present. My hand is steady as I move my rook, putting the engine in serious trouble. The phone thinks for several seconds before responding. I reach for the glass of vodka on the table and raise it toward the empty chair across from me.
“To you, old man,” I murmur. “Wherever you are, I hope the board is always interesting.”
The vodka burns clean down my throat. I set the glass down just as a soft knock sounds on the office door.
“Come in.”
The door opens and Milo steps inside. He’s wearing soft grey lounge pants and a simple white t-shirt, his chestnut hair looking as effervescent as ever.
The boy looks fresh from a shower, cheeks still slightly pink.
The sight of him in my space—hesitant but curious—does dangerous things to my focus.
One minute I’m honoring the man who taught me control, the next I’m fighting the urge to pull the boy across my lap again for entirely different reasons.
Milo hovers near the doorway, eyes flicking to the chessboard. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just… heard you in here and wondered what you were doing.”
I gesture to the empty chair opposite me. “Sit. I’m playing chess. Helps me think.”
Milo approaches slowly, studying the board with open interest. He pulls out the chair and lowers himself into it, crossing his legs.
“Against yourself?” Milo asks, nodding at the phone and the physical pieces.
“Against a strong engine. I prefer the real board. It feels more… honest.”
He leans forward, elbows on the table, studying the position. A strand of hair falls across his face. I resist the impulse to tuck it behind his ear. Instead I take another sip of vodka and watch him.
“You play?” I ask.
“A little. My dad taught me when I was young. Before…” He trails off, then shrugs. “I was never very good at it. Too impatient.”
I smile faintly. “Impatience is a common flaw. Ras, my mentor, used to beat it out of me one game at a time.”
His dark eyes lift to mine, curious now. “Ras?”
I nod. “He was like a father to me after mine died. Taught me almost everything worth knowing about this life. Strategy. Patience. Control.” My gaze drifts back to the board.
“He died right after checkmating me in the park one afternoon. Sniper shot, he barely knew what hit him. Never found the shooter.”
Milo’s expression softens. For a moment the bratty, defiant boy disappears and something gentler emerges. “I’m sorry. That sounds awful.”
“It was a long time ago.” I move my bishop, pressing the attack on the engine. “But I still play every time the situation gets complicated. The board doesn’t lie. It shows you the consequences of every choice.”
Milo watches me make the move, then surprises me by reaching out and touching the edge of the board lightly. “And what does the board say about right now? About… us? The truce? The cartel?”
Bold question. I like that he asks it directly. The boy is no wallflower, that’s for sure.
I lean back, studying Milo instead of the pieces. “It says the game is still in the middle stage. Many pieces still on the board. Alliances can shift. Sacrifices may be necessary. But the endgame… the endgame is still forming.”
Milo bites his lip, processing my words and probably his own thoughts on this damn situation too.
The air between us feels thicker than it did a minute ago. He’s thinking about last night, I can see it in the faint blush creeping up his neck. The ice cream. The way he came hard in his room while I was out handling business. My hidden camera never lies, never misses a beat.
I decide to push just a little.
“Would you like to play?” I ask, voice low. “Real game. No engine. Just you and me.”
Milo’s eyes flash with surprise and something hotter. He hesitates only a second.
“Yeah,” he says, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I’d like that.”
I reset the board slowly, placing each piece with deliberate care. Milo watches every movement. The chess match about to begin feels far less important than the one already unfolding between us.
And for the first time in a long while, I’m not entirely sure who has the advantage.
Milo settles into the chair across from me, his posture a careful mix of curiosity and wariness. He tucks one leg beneath him, eyes moving over the reset chessboard like he’s already trying to read my strategy before the first move.
“Like I said, I play,” he says, a touch defensive. “A little. My dad taught me the basics when I was younger. I was never serious about it, though.”
I allow myself a small smile.
“A little is more than most people manage.”
There’s a spark there… challenge, interest, maybe even a hint of excitement. For a moment, the tension eases. But this boy is nothing if not able to put me on the edge of my seat.
Milo traces the edge of the board with one finger. “Are you and Paolo… friends?”
The question is casual on the surface, but I catch the subtle probe beneath it. He’s fishing. Looking for leverage, information he might pass along, or simply trying to understand the man who now controls his life.
Smart boy.
But predictable.
I lean back, studying Milo. “I respect Paolo. He has modernized his family in ways many old bosses refused to do. He is disciplined. Ruthless when necessary. But we are not friends. In this life, friendship is a luxury few can afford. Allies, yes. Partners in certain ventures, perhaps. But friends?” I shake my head once. “No.”
He absorbs that, lips pressing together. I can see the wheels turning behind those dark eyes.
I decide to draw the line clearly. “The business side of my life is exactly that. My business. If we are going to build any kind of understanding between us, Milo, you will need to learn your place. You are under my protection. You are part of this household. But you are not my advisor. You are not my lieutenant. You do not get to ask questions about deals, alliances, or how I handle threats. That road only leads to disappointment. Or punishment.”
The words land exactly as I intended.
Milo’s cheeks flush: partly with embarrassment, mostly with irritation. His jaw tightens. For a second I think he might argue. Instead he reaches forward, flicks over my black king with a sharp movement, and stands up.
“Fine,” he says coldly. “Keep your precious business to yourself.”
He turns on his heel and walks out, the door closing behind him with a deliberate click, not quite a slam, but close enough to make his feelings clear.
I stare at the fallen king for a long moment, then shake my head disapprovingly. But a small smile tugs at the corner of my mouth despite myself.
The boy has guts. Real ones. Most people in his position would have cowered or tried to manipulate with sweetness. Milo pushes back. He tests boundaries. And he’s smart enough to know exactly what he’s doing.
I wonder, not for the first time, whether one day he could become a true asset to the Kovalev family? A boy with his bloodline, his fire, and an ability to read a room could be formidable at my side.
But that day is a long way off, if it ever comes at all.
Right now Milo is still a Lentini. Still raw. Still dangerous in ways he doesn’t fully understand.
I pick up the fallen king and set it back in its starting position. The board is reset. The previous game continues.
I reach for my phone and open the encrypted messaging app…
MAXIM: Come to the apartment this afternoon. I want to run through options on the cartel situation. Also need your read on whether Paolo Lentini can truly be trusted or if this truce is just convenient theater. Bring any new intel you have.
Michael’s reply comes back almost immediately.
MICHAEL: On my way. Should be there within the hour. I already have some thoughts on both fronts.
Good. With Michael and Kobek, we can map out the next several moves. The cartel probe at the bar was only the beginning. If they’re testing our strength, we need to respond in a way that discourages further aggression without starting an all-out war on multiple fronts.
And Paolo… I need to know if he’ll stand with us when blood starts flowing, or if he’ll watch from the sidelines and wait to pick over the remains.
I stand and walk to the window, looking out over the city.
From up here everything looks orderly: cars moving in neat patterns, buildings standing like silent sentinels.
But I know better.
Beneath the surface it’s all chaos and ambition, alliances shifting like sand.
My thoughts drift back to Milo. The way he flicked that king over. The flash of defiance in his eyes. He’s angry with me now, but anger is useful. It reveals what a person truly cares about.
The boy wants to matter. He wants information. He wants control in a situation where he has almost none. I can work with that…
Slowly. Carefully.
I finish my vodka and set the glass down. The chess engine is still waiting for my next move, but the real game has already begun. Milo is a new piece on my board. The boy is unpredictable, high-value, and currently sitting in my territory whether he likes it or not.
I will teach him the rules.
And if Milo proves worthy, perhaps one day I will let him help shape the endgame.
For now, though, I have a cartel to deal with and a truce to test. I roll my sleeves up and return to the chessboard, mind already turning over strategies, contingencies, and the best way to handle the fiery brunette currently sulking somewhere in my apartment.
The next move is mine.