19. Maksim
MAKSIM
Three weeks after the poisoning, we’ve dismantled half of Alexander’s network. It’s slow, methodical work. Each person we interrogate gives us pieces of the puzzle—names, locations, account numbers, and contacts. We follow every lead, squeeze every source, and trace every connection.
What we’re discovering is worse than we imagined.
“Fifteen years,” my brother growls. He stands at the head of the conference table in his secure operations room.
It’s a windowless space in the compound’s basement with reinforced walls and signal jammers.
The table is covered with files, photographs, and financial records.
A map of the eastern seaboard is pinned to one wall, covered in red pins marking Alexander’s operations.
“He’s been planning this coup for fifteen fucking years.
” My brother’s face is so red I’m starting to wonder if he’ll have a stroke.
I study the map, my ribs aching with every breath, but the pain medication Dr. Petrov prescribed sits untouched in my pocket. I need to be sharp and see this clearly.
“The Corsican connection is extensive,” Dmitri reports.
He’s been handling the financial investigation and tracing the money flows.
“We’ve identified ties to at least five separate Corsican families.
Union Corse, obviously, but also the Guerini clan, the Francisci network, and smaller operations in Marseille and Nice. ”
“What kind of ties?” I ask.
“Everything.” Dmitri spreads out bank records across the table.
“He’s been feeding them intelligence about our operations for over a decade.
Shipping routes. Guard rotations. Warehouse locations.
He gave them everything they needed to know about how we move, how we operate, and”—his gaze cuts to mine—“where we’re vulnerable. ”
“And in return?” Nikolai says softly, and the hairs on the back of my neck rise.
“Money, for one. We’ve traced at least sixty million dollars flowing from Corsican accounts into Alexander’s network over the past twelve years.
But it’s not just money.” Dmitri pulls up another file.
“Military-grade weapons. Explosives. Personnel. The car bomb that nearly killed Maksim? Corsican-supplied C-4. The poison used on young Daniel? Corsican neurotoxin, the same stuff they use for political assassinations in France.”
My hands clench into fists at the mention of Daniel. Three weeks later and my son still wakes up screaming most nights. He still won’t eat without watching someone else taste his food first. He still needs both of us in the room to sleep for fuck’s sake.
“Every attack used Corsican-supplied materials and personnel,” Dmitri continues. “The maintenance worker who planted the bomb? Recruited and trained by a Corsican operative. Alexander wasn’t just working with them. He was coordinating with them.”
“To what end?” I ask, though I think I already know.
“A complete restructuring of organized crime on the East Coast.” Nikolai’s jaw is tight.
“Alexander wasn’t just embezzling money.
He was building a coalition. Bratva from within, Corsicans from outside.
A pincer movement designed to crush our organization and divide the territories between him and his Corsican allies. ”
Anger rises in me. “How close was he to succeeding?”
“Too close.” Nikolai looks at all those red pins on the map.
“Another few months and he would have had enough people in place, resources positioned, and intelligence gathered. The car bomb was supposed to be the opening move. Kill you, shake my confidence, and make me vulnerable. Then a series of coordinated attacks on our key operations while I was distracted and grieving for my brother.”
“And me?” I ask. “Why target me specifically?”
“Because of what you might have known, plus you’re my right hand. My enforcer. The person I trust most in the world.” Nikolai meets my eyes and my heart twists. I always thought that had been Alexander. “With you dead, I’d be isolated and vulnerable. Easier to manipulate or eliminate.”
The coldness of it is stunning. Fifteen years of loyalty and it’s all a lie. I crane my head to look at some of the papers.
“We’ve interrogated twenty-three of his people so far,” Pavel reports.
He’s been handling the actual interrogations, and his knuckles are still bruised from the work.
“Most of them were low-level and didn’t know the full scope.
But we’ve identified eight key lieutenants in Alexander’s network. Seven are dead or in custody.”
I jerk my head up. “And the eighth?”
“Yuri Abaza. Artem’s older brother.”
My brows furrow. Artem was the one who put the poison on Daniel’s plate. “Artem never mentioned a brother during the interrogation.”
Pavel’s expression darkens. “He went underground as soon as we picked up Artem. We’ve been looking for him for three weeks.”
I scoff. So the fucker lied even under torture. I can’t help but be slightly impressed. Guess Artem wasn’t the sniveling fuckwad I thought he was.
“Find him,” Nikolai orders. “Whatever it takes. He’s been with Alexander for seven years. He knows things.”
We find Yuri Abaza two days later in a shitty apartment in Brighton Beach.
Pavel leads the team of six loyal and experienced men. I’m supposed to stay at the compound and continue recovering. Dr. Petrov has been very clear about my limitations. But I ignore him and go anyway.
The apartment is on the third floor of a rundown building that smells like piss and cabbage. We go in hard and fast. Pavel kicks in the door, and we flood the space with guns drawn.
Yuri is inside, alone, trying to climb out the fire escape. He’s definitely Artem’s older brother, tall and lean with the same dark hair and nervous energy. When he sees us, he freezes.
“On the ground! Now!”
He complies, going to his knees, hands behind his head. Yuri isn’t an idiot. He knows what happens to people who resist.
We zip tie his hands and drag him downstairs to the waiting vehicles. No one in the building sees anything. This is Brighton Beach. People here know how to mind their own business.
The interrogation happens in the same basement room where I killed his brother. Yuri knows it too. I can see it in his eyes when we walk him in and he sees the drain in the floor and the tools arranged on the table. There’s still a dark stain that bleach couldn’t quite remove.
“Please.” His voice shakes. “Please, I don’t know anything. Artem never told me what he was doing. I swear—”
“Your brother poisoned a seven-year-old child.” Like I did with Artem, I pull up a chair and sit down across from him. “Before he died, he told us you’ve been working for Alexander for seven years and you helped recruit operatives. That you coordinated with Corsican contacts.”
It’s all lies, but Yuri doesn’t need to know that.
The little fucker blanches, eyes bulging. “That’s not—I never—”
I nod at Pavel, who steps forward and breaks Yuri’s left index finger with a quick, practiced twist.
Yuri screams.
“Let’s try again,” I say calmly, not bothered. “You’ve been working for Alexander Morozov for seven years. What do you know about his operations?”
For the next two hours, we break Yuri Abaza. Pavel is efficient. He knows exactly how much pain to apply, when to pause, and how to make someone talk without killing them. I’m genuinely impressed and look at the man with newfound respect.
Finally, Yuri breaks.
“There’s a safe house!” He’s sobbing, three fingers broken, his face swollen from Pavel’s fists. “In Red Hook. Near the old waterfront. Alexander uses it when he needs to disappear. I helped set it up two years ago.”
“Address,” I demand.
He gives it to us. A warehouse district, mostly abandoned and easy to defend. Smart location.
“Who knows about it?”
“Just me and two others.” He names them. “We’re the only ones Alexander trusted with it.”
“Are they there now?” I ask, leaning forward, pinning him with a glare.
“I don’t know! I haven’t been there in months! Alexander cut me off after the poisoning failed. He said I was compromised and I needed to disappear and wait for contact.”
I grind my teeth. “Is Alexander there now?”
“I don’t know! Maybe! He mentioned it once as his final fallback. If everything went to shit, that’s where he’d go.”
I look at Nikolai, who’s been standing in his usual spot in the corner. He nods.
“Get the address to our tactical team,” Nikolai orders. “We move tonight.”
Red Hook. Of course it’s fucking Red Hook.
This is where it all started eight years ago when Aria witnessed the execution and overheard Alexander’s conspiracy. Now it’s where it ends.
We prep in the compound’s armory—a room lined with enough weapons to start a small war. Nikolai has assembled a team of twelve men who are ready to kill or die for the brotherhood. I’m gearing up alongside them, strapping on body armor, and choosing my weapons.
“You shouldn’t be here.” Nikolai says quietly, meant only for me. “You’re still recovering. One wrong move and you could puncture a lung.”
“I’m going.” I don’t look at him and continue checking my Glock. It has a full magazine and one in the chamber. There are two backup mags on my belt.
My brother sighs. “Maksim, listen to reason.”
“This is personal.” I finally meet his eyes. “Alexander tried to kill me and my son. He threatened my girl. I’m going to be there when we take him down. This is non-negotiable, Kolya.”
Nikolai studies me for a long moment. Then he nods. “You stay in the second wave,” he orders. “Back position. If it goes to shit, you pull out. Understood?”
“Understood.”
It’s a lie and we both know it. If it goes to shit, I’m not pulling out. Not until Alexander is either dead or in custody.
We leave the compound at 11 p.m., a convoy of three SUVs with darkened windows. The drive to Red Hook takes forty minutes.