Chapter 25 #2
I walked back into the room. They'd resumed their bickering. Something about television shows. Apolena thought Maxim's taste was pedestrian. Maxim thought Apolena's taste was pretentious.
"A documentary about Russian prison systems is not pedestrian," Maxim was saying.
"It's boring."
"It's educational."
"It's designed for people who enjoy being depressed."
"Not everyone needs happy endings and musical numbers."
"Not everyone needs to wallow in misery for entertainment."
They were smiling. Not big obvious smiles, small ones. The private smiles people used when they were genuinely enjoying an argument. When the content didn't matter as much as the connection.
I cleared my throat. They both looked at me. Guilt flashed across Apolena's face again before she controlled it.
Interesting.
"I need to talk to Maxim," I said. "Alone."
Apolena hesitated and looked at Maxim. Some silent communication passed between them. He nodded slightly. She picked up her bag.
"I'll get coffee," she said. "The good kind from Market Street."
"I already brought coffee."
"Then I'll get lunch." She was already moving toward the door. Escaping. "Maxim, do you want anything specific?"
"Whatever you're having is fine."
"You hate sushi."
"I don't hate sushi. I'm just not enthusiastic about it."
"You told me last month that eating raw fish was a sign of societal decay."
"I was joking."
"You weren't joking. You spent fifteen minutes explaining your position."
"Maybe I've reconvolved my stance."
"You mean revised."
"That too." She left.
The door closed and silence settled over the room like fog over the bay.
I sat in the chair Apolena had vacated. It was still warm. She really had been here constantly.
"How long?" I asked.
Maxim didn't pretend to misunderstand. "Nothing's happened."
"That's not what I asked."
"Then you're asking the wrong question."
"Maxim." I kept my voice level. Reasonable. "Is there something between you and my sister?"
"We're friends."
"You're evading."
"I'm recovering from being shot. Evasion is allowed."
"Answer the question."
He met my eyes. Held them. Twenty years of friendship meant he knew when I was serious. When pushing would get dangerous.
"I care about her," he said finally. "She's important to me. But nothing has happened. Nothing will happen. I'm aware of the boundaries."
"The boundaries."
"You're my Pakhan. She's your sister. The math isn't complicated."
"The math is extremely complicated." I leaned forward. "Are you in love with her?"
Silence. Long enough to be an answer.
"Max."
"It doesn't matter what I feel. I would never act on it. I would never disrespect you or her like that. She's twenty-three. I'm thirty-two. She's your baby sister. I'm your second. There's no scenario where this works."
"That's not what I asked."
"It's the only answer that matters."
I studied him, looking for deception but found only truth. Uncomfortable truth that he clearly wished he didn't have to acknowledge.
"How long?" I asked again.
"Does it matter?"
"Yes."
He sighed. Winced because sighing hurt his perforated chest. "A year. Maybe longer. Hard to pinpoint when friendship became something else."
A year. While I'd been negotiating alliances and planning my marriage, Maxim had been falling for my sister. And I'd noticed nothing. Too distracted by my own life to see what was developing right in front of me.
"Does she know?" I asked.
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Relatively sure. We don't talk about feelings. We bicker and discuss Russian literature and pretend that's sufficient."
"She's here constantly."
"She feels guilty. I took bullets protecting her. That's a lot of emotional baggage."
"Or she cares about you too."
"Don't." Maxim's voice hardened. "Don't give me hope for something that can't happen. It's cruel."
I sat back and processed. My best friend loved my sister. Had loved her for a year. Had kept it secret out of loyalty and respect and fear of crossing boundaries that very much existed.
Part of me wanted to be furious. Protective older brother instincts screaming about inappropriate age gaps and power dynamics.
But the rational part recognized the truth.
Maxim was honorable. He’d spent a year not acting on feelings that clearly weren't going away.
Had prioritized my comfort over his own happiness.
"Nothing can happen," I said finally.
"I know."
"She's too young."
"I know."
"You're in different life stages."
"I know."
"And if you hurt her, I will kill you in ways that would make my father proud."
"Understood."
"But…" I paused, choosing my words carefully. "If something were to develop naturally, if she approached you, if she made it clear she wanted something more, I wouldn't stand in the way."
Maxim stared at me. "What?"
"You heard me."
"You're giving permission?"
"I'm saying I won't be an obstacle. There's a difference." I stood. "But only if she initiates. If you pursue her while she's vulnerable and grateful, I will reconsider the killing you part. Slowly. With creative implements."
"Noted."
"And Max? If this happens, you protect her. Not just from bullets, from everything. From this life. From the consequences of being with someone in the Bratva. She deserves better than what we do."
"She deserves everything." His voice was quiet. Sincere. "And I would spend my life trying to give it to her."
Dangerous thing to say to an overprotective brother. Also the right thing to say.
I walked toward the door, then stopped. "For what it's worth, you have terrible taste in women. My sister is bossy, stubborn, and reads too much Tolstoy. You could do better."
"I really couldn't."
I left before I said something else. Something that might acknowledge the impossible possibility that my best friend and my baby sister might actually work.
That sometimes love developed where you least expected it.
That maybe, possibly, I'd been blind to obvious signs because I didn't want to see them.
Boris was waiting in the hallway. Smug expression firmly in place.
"Don't," I warned.
"Didn't say anything."
"You're thinking it loudly."
"Can't help what I think."
I walked past him toward the elevators. My phone buzzed.
Giulia: Where are you?
Right. I had a wife to face. A marriage to repair. A confession about Geraldo's execution to deliver. Suddenly Maxim and Apolena's complicated feelings seemed like the simpler problem.
At least they had time to figure things out. I'd already blown up my marriage and needed to rebuild from ashes.
Me: On my way home.
Time to face the music. Time to admit I'd been wrong. Time to see if love could survive stupidity.
And maybe, if I was very lucky, I'd get to see my sister happy with someone who'd literally taken bullets for her.
Stranger things have happened.
Though admittedly not many.