39. Maxim
39
MAXIM
T he explosion rocks the building, sending shockwaves through the compound. The reinforced doors blast inward, smoke and fire consuming the entryway.
Guns up.
We storm inside.
Game on.
My men fan out, moving with precision. Bullets ricochet off walls, sparks flying as we push forward. I take down the first guard with a single shot to the chest, my focus unrelenting.
Dmitri is at my side, moving like a shadow. We don’t need to speak; years of fighting together have honed our instincts. He covers my left as I sweep right, our movements synchronized like clockwork.
A guard rushes me, his weapon raised. I sidestep, driving the butt of my rifle into his gut before finishing him with a clean shot, wincing as my hip pain jabs at me. Blood splatters across the stone wall.
“Maxim, second floor!” Dmitri shouts, pointing toward a balcony where snipers are taking position.
I lift my rifle, firing in quick succession. The snipers drop before they can get a shot off.
We push deeper into the compound, the air thick with smoke and the acrid stench of gunpowder.
The team at the south side are doing their jobs, causing chaos. Lombardi won’t know where the main assault it taking place.
Explosions rock the ground beneath our feet, but I keep moving, my mind locked on one goal: Vito Lombardi.
As we reach the main building, resistance stiffens. Guards pour out in droves, their numbers forcing us into a brutal firefight. I dive behind a stone column, bullets whizzing past my head.
Dmitri slides in beside me, reloading his weapon. “They’re throwing everything they’ve got at us,” he says with a grim smile.
“They’re scared,” I reply, peering around the column and taking out another guard.
“They should be,” Ivan replies. “Bunch of pussies, the whole lot.”
With a burst of coordinated fire, we break through the last line of defense and storm the main hall. The room is eerily quiet, the only sound the distant crackle of flames from the chaos outside.
Dmitri and I move as one, sweeping the room until we find him—Vito Lombardi, standing at the far end, a pistol clutched in his trembling hand as he tries to pull the window open to escape.
“Drop it,” I command, my voice cold and steady.
Vito hesitates, his eyes darting between me and Dmitri. “We can make a deal!” he pleads, his voice cracking. “You don’t have to do this!”
I limp closer, my gun trained on him. “The time for deals ended the moment you let your nephew come after my wife.”
Vito’s face twists in desperation as he lowers his weapon. “Please, I’ll give you everything. All the money I have, just let me go.”
I fire. The shot is deafening in the confined space. Vito crumples to the ground, blood pooling beneath him. I hit him again and then again until I’m out of rounds.
Dmitri claps a heavy hand on my shoulder, the gesture jarring against the weight pressing down on my chest.
“It’s done,” he says, his voice a mix of relief and pride. “Vito’s finished. You’ve secured the Bratva’s future, Maxim. No one will dare cross us again. Good work.”
I glance at him, his face smeared with dirt and streaked with sweat. There’s satisfaction in his eyes, a sense of accomplishment.
I nod, because that’s what’s expected, but the words catch in my throat. Victory should taste sweet, but all I feel is the bitterness of absence.
My gaze sweeps the scene: Bratva men moving like shadows to secure the area, the distant wail of sirens that will never reach us. I should feel something—pride, triumph, relief. But all I can think about is Veronica.
Her face floods my mind, unbidden and relentless. The way she smiles when she’s pretending not to care, the fire in her eyes when she’s angry, the quiet vulnerability she lets slip when she thinks no one is looking. And now, the child growing inside her. My child.
I exhale sharply but the hollow ache in my chest only deepens. Vito Lombardi is dead. The war is over. I’ve achieved everything I set out to do. So why does it feel like I’ve lost the only thing that matters?