6. Maksim #2
A week later, I’m expecting Alexander Morozov for dinner to discuss some territorial issues in Brighton Beach that need Nikolai’s attention.
Alexander has been Nikolai’s right hand for nearly fifteen years.
He’s saved my brother’s life twice and is one of the few people in the organization that both Nikolai and I trust implicitly.
He arrives at seven, his car pulling up to the front entrance. I meet him at the door, and we embrace in the Russian way—a brief, firm hug, a hand clasp and shoulder bump.
“Maksim.” His voice is smooth and cultured. Alexander has always had a way of making everything sound refined. “Thank you for hosting. I know you prefer your privacy here.”
“Nikolai said it was urgent.” I step back to let him in. “Besides, it’s good to see you.”
He’s dressed impeccably as always in a tailored gray suit, crisp white shirt, and shoes polished to a mirror shine. At forty-six, Alexander is a year older than Nikolai, with dark hair mostly grayed and cold blue eyes that miss nothing.
He’s lean and athletic, maintaining his physique with the discipline of someone who came up through the ranks as an enforcer before rising to his current position.
There’s a distinctive burn scar on his left hand from a car ten years ago. He usually keeps it covered with gloves, but tonight his hands are bare.
The scar tissue is shiny and pink, extending from his knuckles to his wrist. I don’t blame him. It’s a warm and muggy evening, even for the Hamptons.
“How is your brother?” Alexander asks as we walk toward my office.
“Busy. The expansion into—”
I stop mid-sentence.
Aria is in the hallway, clearly on her way to the library. She’s wearing jean shorts that hug her ass and a green tank top, her long hair pulled back in a simple ponytail.
She looks beautiful and my heart leaps into my throat.
Then she sees Alexander.
For a split second—so brief I almost miss it—her face goes completely white.
Her eyes go wide, pupils dilating with what looks like pure terror.
She freezes mid-step, one hand coming up to grip the wall like she needs the support to stay upright.
But by the time I blink, it’s gone. Her expression smooths out, and she straightens her spine.
“Excuse me,” she says, her voice steady. “I didn’t realize you had company.”
She turns and walks away quickly, disappearing around the corner toward the library. She’s not running or showing fear, but she’s moving with purpose, like she needs to put distance between herself and us immediately.
What the fuck was that?
“Who was that?” Alexander asks, his eyes tracking her departure.
“Aria,” I say slowly, still trying to process what I just saw. “The woman I’ve been searching for.”
Alexander’s eyebrows rise. “The one who disappeared eight years ago?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“You found her after all this time. When?”
“Nearly seven months ago.” I’m still staring at the empty hallway. “She was in Philadelphia.”
“And she’s…staying here now?” There’s something in his voice I can’t quite identify. Curiosity? Concern?
“Yes. With our son.”
“Son?” Alexander turns to me fully now, and I can see genuine surprise on his face. “Maksim, I had no idea.”
“Neither did I until I found her.” I gesture toward my office. “Come on. We have a lot to discuss.”
We settle into my office. Alexander sits in one of the leather chairs across from my desk, and I pour us both vodka from the decanter on the sideboard.
I hand him a glass and take my seat, but my mind is still on Aria’s reaction.
Why did she look at Alexander like that? It was like she recognized him and was scared shitless.
How would she even know him? She disappeared eight years ago, before Alexander would have had any reason to interact with anyone outside of Nikolai’s immediate circle. She worked at a gallery in Brighton Beach and lived a quiet life. Their paths shouldn’t have crossed.
“Maksim?” Alexander’s voice pulls me back to the present. “Are you alright?”
“Fine.” I take a drink. “Just distracted. What did Nikolai want to discuss?”
We talk business for the next hour. Territorial disputes in Brighton Beach. Problems with the Corsican families encroaching on our operations. Financial matters that need attention. Normal organization business.
But Alexander seems distracted too. He asks questions that seem tangential to the main discussion—questions about Aria.
“Where did you find her again?” he asks, swirling his vodka. “After eight years, she could have been anywhere.”
“Philadelphia. She was living under an assumed name.” I don’t elaborate. Aria’s privacy feels important to protect, even from someone I trust.
“And she just…came back with you? After all this time?” Alexander sounds surprised.
“It wasn’t a choice.” I meet his eyes. “I wasn’t letting her disappear again. Not with my son.”
He nods slowly. “Of course. What did she tell you about why she ran?”
That’s an interesting question to ask, but curiosity is a real thing.
“She said she was scared.” It’s the truth, if not the whole truth. “She apparently saw something that made her think she needed to leave.”
“Saw something?” Alexander leans forward slightly. “What kind of something?”
“She won’t say,” I say bitterly, still irritated with her that she won’t fucking tell me. “She’s holding on to whatever scared her eight years ago.”
“And you’re letting her?” His tone is mild, but there’s an edge underneath. “The Maksim I know would have gotten answers by now.”
“The Maksim you know didn’t have a nearly eight-year-old son to consider.” I set my glass down with more force than necessary. “I’m not going to traumatize the boy by forcing his mother to talk.”
“Of course not.” Alexander sits back. “Forgive me. It’s just…surprising. Everyone in the family knew about your search. Nikolai was worried about you. We all were. And now you’ve found her, and she still won’t tell you the truth?”
“We’re working on it,” I lie easily. But we’re not working on anything except finding new ways to hurt each other, neither of us willing to give ground.
Alexander studies me for a long moment. “Does she remember anything about New York? About her time in Brighton Beach?”
Another odd question. “I assume so. Why?”
“Just curious.” He picks up his glass again. “It must be strange for her, being back in this world after trying to leave it.”
There’s something in his tone that bothers me and I can’t quite put my finger on it. It’s like he’s fishing for information. But that’s ridiculous. Alexander has no reason to care about Aria beyond natural curiosity about the woman who’s consumed eight years of my life.
We finish our discussion, have dinner, then I walk him to the door. His car is waiting, ready to take him back to the city.
“Give my regards to Nikolai,” I say.
“Of course.” He pauses with his hand on the car door. “Maksim…be careful with this woman. She ran once. She could run again.”
“She won’t,” I say harshly. “I’ve made sure of that.”
He nods and gets in the car. I watch until the taillights disappear down the driveway, then I turn back to the house.
Something about that conversation bothers me. The questions about Aria. The way he seemed so interested in what she remembered and what she’d told me.
And Aria’s reaction when she saw him. That moment of pure terror before she locked it down.
I need answers.
I find Aria in her suite, pacing like a caged animal. The balcony doors are open. Despite the muggy evening air, she’s wrapped her arms around herself like she’s freezing.
“Aria.”
She spins to face me, and I can see the agitation in every line of her body. “I didn’t hear you knock.”
“I didn’t.” I close the door behind me. “We need to talk.”
“I have a headache.” She turns away from me, staring out at the dark ocean. “I want to be alone.”
“Bullshit.” I step closer. “What happened in the hallway?”
Her shoulders stiffen. “Nothing happened.”
“You saw Alexander and you looked like you’d seen a ghost. Your face went white. You could barely stand.” I’m right behind her now. “Don’t lie to me, Aria. Not about this.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She’s purposefully making herself sound disinterested. “I was just surprised you had company. That’s all.”
“You’re lying.” I grip her shoulders and turn her to face me. “You recognized him. And it terrified you. Why?”
“Let go of me.” She tries to pull away, but I hold firm.
“Tell me the truth. Do you know Alexander?” Jealousy rears its ugly head.
“No.” But there’s something in her eyes—fear or recognition—that says otherwise.
I growl in frustration. “Goddammit, Aria.”
“I said no!” She shoves at my chest. “I don’t know him. I don’t know anything. And I’m tired of you interrogating me like I’m some kind of criminal!”
“Then stop acting like you have something to hide!” I snap.
“I’m not hiding anything!” But her voice cracks on the last word, and I know for a fact she’s lying.
“Fine.” I let go of her and step back. “Keep lying. But we both know you saw something tonight that scared you.”
I turn to leave, heading for the door that connects our suites—a concealed entrance I had built into the wall that she doesn’t know about. Or didn’t know about until now.
“What are you doing?” Her voice is sharp behind me.
I press the hidden latch and the section of wall swings open, revealing the passage to my bedroom. “Going to my room.”
“There’s a door there?” She’s staring at the opening with a mixture of shock and fury. “You’ve had access to my suite this whole time?”
“Yes.” I don’t apologize.
“I thought you—” She stops, her face flushing. “You bastard. You’ve been spying on me?”
“No.” I meet her eyes. “The door stays locked from your side unless you open it. I’ve never used it without your knowledge.”
“Except right now!”
“Right now you’re being impossible, and I’m tired of fighting with you.” I step through the opening. “Lock it if you want. I don’t care.”
“Maksim—”
But I’m already walking away, letting the door swing closed behind me. Let her be angry. Let her rage about the door and my secrets while she keeps her own locked away.