11. Aria
ARIA
Daniel’s favorite toy dinosaur is missing. It was one of the first toys Maksim bought him and Daniel imprinted on it immediately. It’s not as dear to him as his stuffed rabbit, which is tucked safely away in his room, but it’s pretty damn close.
“It’s in the garage, Mama,” he insists from the doorway. “I remember bringing it out there when Maks was showing me the cars.”
“Then why don’t you go get it?” I’m sitting on his bed, exhausted from a morning of nausea that finally subsided an hour ago.
“There are spiders in there.” He makes a face. “Big ones. I saw them.”
So now I’m in the garage, rifling through a bin of toys that Maksim apparently keeps out here for when Daniel wants to play while he works on the cars. The garage is huge—a six-car space with tools and equipment I can’t even name, everything organized with military precision.
Of course I’m the one doing this, I think bitterly as I push aside another truck. Daniel’s scared of spiders, but somehow I’m the brave one now, even though I hate them just as much. Mother of the year, right here, risking life and limb for a fucking dinosaur.
I’m bent over the toy bin, pushing aside trucks and building blocks, when I hear the garage door start to open behind me. Len pulls in with Maksim’s Mercedes, the engine still running for a moment before he cuts it. The smell of gasoline and exhaust fumes hits me immediately.
And just like that, I’m gone.
The smell is the same. Exactly the same as that night eight years ago.
Eight years ago
I’m twenty-one years old and so stupidly in love it’s almost embarrassing.
Maksim Sokolov is the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen, and he wants me. Me. Ariana Delano, the girl who put herself through NYU working three jobs and eats ramen most nights because groceries are too expensive. The girl whose idea of luxury is buying name-brand shampoo instead of generic.
And yet somehow I have the attention of the most gorgeous man on the face of the planet.
We met three months ago at the gallery. I was working the evening shift, cataloging new acquisitions in the back room, when my boss Dmitry poked his head in.
“Aria, there’s a client asking for you specifically. Something about a Kandinsky?”
I’d authenticated that Kandinsky two weeks earlier—a stunning abstract from 1913 that had somehow ended up in an estate sale in Connecticut.
The research had taken me days, tracing its provenance back through private collections, auction houses, and finally to a wealthy Russian family who’d fled during the Revolution.
The Sokolov family.
When I walked out to the gallery floor, I saw him for the first time.
He was tall—well over six feet—with broad shoulders that filled out his suit perfectly. He had dark hair and sharp cheekbones with a strong jaw that gave him an almost aristocratic look. And his eyes—gray like winter storms, intense and focused entirely on me as I approached.
“Mr. Sokolov?” I offered my hand, trying to sound professional even though my heart was pounding. “I’m Ariana Delano. I understand you have questions about the Kandinsky?”
His hand was warm, his grip firm but not crushing. “Call me Maksim. And yes—Dmitry tells me you’re the one who traced its history.”
“I am.” I pulled out the folder with my research. “It’s fascinating, actually. The painting was owned by your family until 1918, when—”
“When my great-grandfather fled Russia with whatever he could carry.” Maksim’s smile was slight, but it transformed his face and made him look even more handsome. My mouth dries. “He sold it in Paris to pay for passage to America. I’ve been searching for it for five years.”
“Well, you found it.” I opened the folder, showing him the documentation. “The provenance is clean. No disputes or claims. If you want to purchase it, it’s yours.”
We spent two hours going over the paperwork.
He asked intelligent questions, clearly knowledgeable about art and history.
And the whole time, I was acutely aware of him—the way he leaned in when I was explaining something, close enough that I could smell his cologne.
Or how his eyes tracked me when I moved around the gallery.
Or how his voice dropped slightly when he said my name.
By the time he left—painting purchased, arrangements made for delivery—I was flustered and completely captivated.
He came back three days later, ostensibly to “look at more pieces.” He spent an hour walking through the gallery with me, asking about various works, but his attention kept drifting from the art to me.
“Have dinner with me,” he said as I was walking him to the door.
I nearly stumbled over my heels. “I—what?”
“Dinner. Tonight, if you’re free. Tomorrow if you’re not.” That slight smile again. “I’d like to get to know you better, Ariana.”
No one called me Ariana. Everyone used Aria. But the way he said my full name, with that slight Russian accent coloring the vowels, made it sound beautiful.
“I’m free tonight,” I heard myself say.
That was three months ago. Three months of the most intense, passionate, thrilling relationship of my life.
Maksim is unlike anyone I’ve ever known.
He’s sophisticated and worldly, taking me to restaurants I could never afford and buying me gifts I try to refuse but he insists on.
He’s attentive and passionate, making me feel like I’m the only woman in the world when we’re together.
And the sex. God, the sex is incredible. He’s patient and demanding in equal measure, teaching me things I’d never even imagined and making me feel things I didn’t know were possible.
He’s never told me exactly what he does for work—just vague mentions of “family business” and “import/export.” I don’t really care. I’m too caught up in the fairy tale of it all to ask hard questions.
Tonight, I’m planning to surprise him. We have plans to meet at ten. He said he has to work late, some meeting he can’t get out of. But I thought it would be thrilling to show up early and seduce him in his office.
I’m wearing the lingerie I bought special for this—black lace that makes me feel sexy and confident. I have wine in my bag, along with the overnight things I’ll need for afterward.
The address I found is in Red Hook, which surprises me a little. I was expecting a Manhattan office building, something sleek and modern. But the car pulls up to what looks like an industrial warehouse, and I hesitate.
Maybe it’s one of those converted loft spaces? Rich people do weird things with real estate. I’ve seen articles in magazines about stunning apartments hidden in old factories.
I pay the driver and get out, my heels clicking on the pavement. It’s nine o’clock—an hour before Maksim said he’d be done. Plenty of time to set the scene.
The front door is unlocked, which seems odd, but maybe that’s normal for business buildings? I slip inside and immediately know this isn’t some converted office space.
It’s an actual warehouse with concrete floors, metal shelving units loaded with crates, and industrial lighting hanging from exposed beams. The smell hits me immediately and I fight a gag. It smells like gasoline, motor oil, and something chemical I can’t identify.
This is where Maksim works? There’s no way. I must have gotten the address wrong.
But then I hear voices from deeper in the building. Male voices, speaking Russian. One of them is Maksim’s—I’d recognize his voice anywhere.
I should announce myself and let him know I’m here. But something stops me. Some instinct that whispers wrong, wrong, wrong. I move quietly toward the voices, my heels making too much noise on the concrete. I slip them off and carry them, padding forward in stockinged feet.
The voices are coming from beyond a stack of wooden crates. I creep closer, my heart pounding, telling myself I’m being ridiculous. It’s just Maksim finishing up a meeting. Nothing sinister.
I peek around the crates, and my entire world tilts.
Maksim is there, wearing dark clothes instead of one of his usual suits. There’s another man with him. He’s tall and lean, with salt and pepper hair and cold blue eyes. They’re standing over someone tied to a chair.
The man in the chair is crying. Begging. His face is bloody and swollen, barely recognizable as human. He’s saying something in Russian, the words coming out in desperate, broken sobs.
Maksim and the other man are calm and emotionless. Like this is just another Tuesday for them.
My brain is screaming for me to run and pretend I never saw this. But I’m frozen, unable to move or breathe.
Maksim says something in Russian. His voice is cold and flat, nothing like the warm tone he uses with me.
The man in the chair screams. Maksim pulls out a gun, and before I can process what’s happening he shoots the man in the head.
The sound is deafening in the warehouse, echoing off the metal walls.
The man slumps in the chair, blood and worse things splattering on the concrete behind him.
I clap my hand over my mouth, fighting the scream that wants to tear from my throat.
My breathing comes in short pants and my vision narrows to a tunnel.
Maksim just…killed someone like it was nothing.
The other man—the one with blue eyes—pulls out plastic sheeting.
They work together efficiently, clearly having done this before and wrap the body.
Their movements are practiced and coordinated.
Maksim says something to the blue-eyed man.
The blue-eyed man nods. Maksim checks his watch then walks toward the exit. Toward where I’m hiding.
I shrink back behind the crates, pressing myself into the shadows, barely breathing. He passes within feet of me, so close I could touch him. I can smell his cologne and my stomach roils. It’s the same cedar and leather scent I’ve buried my face in countless times.
The same man who makes love to me with such tenderness just murdered someone without hesitation.
The warehouse door opens and closes. He’s gone.