Chapter 5
MAKSIM
As soon as our renewed fervor dies down, I do something I haven’t done in a year—call the two remaining syndicate leaders who refused to pick a side during my war with Anton Sidorov.
Alisa Morozov.
Luka Terenin.
Powerful in their own right, unaligned. At least, that’s how they preferred to describe it when they kept themselves cut off from the rest of us under the guise of neutrality.
They watched while our Bratva bled itself dry fighting Anton’s faction.
They weighed their options from behind fortified walls and when the smoke finally cleared, they were the only ones left standing still untouched.
I had every reason to cut them off after that and yet, here I am, patching them both in to a conference call.
My hands hover over the burner keypad for a long moment.
Each number I press feels like swallowing pride in bitter mouthfuls as I route the calls through encrypted lines, bury the signal beneath layers of code.
While they may believe they owe me nothing, they also know better than to ignore a direct call from me.
We may have been at odds during the war, dancing the fine line between alliance and silent opposition, and we’ve remained at a cold standstill ever since, but I am still their Pakhan.
Even the boldest wolves know better than to pretend the Alpha's growl means nothing.
It doesn’t take long for either of them to answer. The screen flickers once, then splits cleanly between their feeds.
Luka appears first. He’s draped across a leather chair in what looks like a penthouse high above St. Petersburg.
Dark windows are behind him, city lights glinting like stars at his back.
He’s nursing a cigar, the smoke curling in lazy spirals toward the ceiling.
His shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, but the gleam in his eyes is anything but relaxed.
Alisa appears next, as collected and deadly as always.
She sits on a velvet chaise, a silk robe tied loosely around her waist and a wine glass poised between her fingers like a weapon of elegance.
Her white hair is slicked back, her lips painted the color of dried blood.
She doesn’t smile, but her gaze is sharp and watchful.
I don’t waste time. “Anton’s son took my child and the woman who bore him.”
Luka’s brow lifts with slow, theatrical surprise. “You had a child?”
Alisa doesn’t blink. “That American tutor.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “You knew.”
Her silence is all the confirmation I need. The tilt of her chin, the way her gaze doesn’t drop, tells me it wasn’t just a guess.
“I suspected. You were never good at hiding your distractions, Maksim. That woman was the first thing to ever rattle you,” she clarifies coolly, swirling the wine in her glass.
Luka chuckles. “So that’s why you disappeared off the map for months. We all assumed you were licking wounds after the Anton fallout. Turns out you were playing house.”
I don't dignify that with a response. My voice is hard as steel when I speak again. “I’m not calling for your amusement. I’m calling because I’m being blackmailed. Mikhail is using them against me to get what he wants.”
Alisa’s wine glass stills mid-swirl, the burgundy liquid sloshing once before settling. Her gaze sharpens. Luka shifts too, straightening slightly in his leather chair, no longer lounging. His smirk fades, replaced by a flicker of curiosity.
“Which is?” she asks.
I exhale through my nose and lean back, dragging a hand through my hair in frustration. “The Bratva. Full control over it. That’s what he wants.”
The words taste like ash in my mouth, but there’s no use dressing it up.
“He’s not stupid,” I go on. “He’s been… terrifyingly methodical this entire time.
Just like his father was. We haven’t been able to track him since his first sighting in the States weeks ago.
Every move he’s made has been calculated.
I didn’t even know he was alive until I got the initial phone call when he first took them. ”
Luka lets out a low whistle, dragging the tip of his cigar across the edge of an ashtray. “So that’s the game. He wants your crown. Why in the world did you let him take them from you?”
“They were never supposed to be part of this,” I say, jaw tightening.
Alisa’s face doesn’t shift. She sets her glass aside with deliberate care, then rests her elbows on her knees, her silk robe parting just enough to reveal the black steel of a holstered pistol at her thigh.
“Then you should’ve kept your girl somewhere safe instead of letting her walk away the first time. ”
My teeth grind. “She didn’t want this world.”
“She had your heir, Maksim,” Alisa snaps, fire catching in her eyes like dry kindling. “While you may not have known at the time she was carrying him, you let her disappear knowing there was a chance. That’s not selfless. That’s stupid. That’s you being a coward about facing what this life costs.”
“I thought she would be safe far away from the war. No one was supposed to know she existed.”
Alisa hisses, rising partway up from her couch.
“You don’t let a woman like that disappear into the world alone, Maksim.
You especially don’t let her vanish when you know your enemies are still out there, waiting for you to fuck up and make a mistake like this.
You think you’re the only man in this world with secrets?
We all carry them. The difference is, we know better than to leave our weaknesses unguarded. ”
Luka chuckles, leaning back again with a casual shrug. “What does it matter, anyway? Women come and go. As do children. Heirs are replaceable. Bloodlines can be rewritten. It isn’t as if anyone has to know that one is your first born. Besides, if he dies, then he won’t be.”
“Shut your mouth,” I growl.
Luka blinks, surprised. “Touchy.”
My voice is low, edged with warning. “I mean it, Luka. One more word.”
For a moment, neither of us wavers, the years of unspoken tension pressing down on us. Luka’s gaze holds mine, testing the boundaries, seeing how far he can push it before I snap. He’s always been like this, too bored to care about consequences unless they show up armed and angry at his front door.
Eventually, he sighs and leans back, bringing the cigar to his mouth with a practiced flick of his wrist. He takes a long drag, the orange tip flaring briefly before he exhales. Thick smoke plumes from his lips, curling into the air and momentarily cloaking his face from view like a veil.
“You want advice? Cut your losses, Pakhan,” he says, voice slow, almost pitying.
My eyes narrow.
“Mikhail wants attention,” he continues.
“Don’t give it to him. Let him bark into the void all he wants.
You’re still in charge, you’ve still got the power here.
Use it and let her go. You can have another heir.
Another woman—a better one. One who stays, who wants to be a part of this world instead of running from it. ”
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Alisa watching me carefully. She hasn’t said a word since Luka’s little monologue, but she didn’t need to. Her silence is enough of an opinion of its own. Though her expression remains unreadable, it gives enough away. She agrees with him.
Not entirely—Alisa rarely ever sides with anyone completely—but the foundation of her opinion is the same as his. They both think I’m being reckless and emotional. That I’ve let a woman and the idea of a family turn me into a liability.
Alisa speaks again. “You’re not thinking clearly, Maksim. The Bratva just clawed its way back from Anton’s mess. We need stability. Your job isn’t to rescue a girl. Your job is to lead.”
I almost laugh. It bubbles up in my throat, bitter and dry, threatening to spill out. It’s not amusement, it’s rage. Contempt at the sheer absurdity of what I’m hearing. Of them, sitting on their thrones, acting like the Bratva’s survival was ever in their hands.
As if they were the ones who buried brothers in shallow graves and then walked back into meetings with their enemies like they hadn’t just left a piece of their soul behind in the dirt. They didn’t fight like we did, bleed like us.
They watched from the safety of their estates. From behind bulletproof glass and guarded gates. They waited to see which way the wind would blow, refusing to pick sides until the smoke started to clear. Until I had already taken the brunt of the storm and won.
My lip curls. “Will you help or not?”
Alisa’s eyes narrow, her voice dipping low with suspicion. “Would you give up everything for them? Even the Bratva, if it meant saving your little family?”
I don’t even hesitate. “Yes.”
They share a look. “You’ve gone soft.”
I already know the answer, have known it since the moment I saw Leo’s face for the first time and heard him call for his mother. Since the moment I realized Ivy was still fighting, still risking everything for the child I never had the chance to protect.
They share a glance. It’s a quiet exchange, but I see it for what it is. A judgment. A sentencing.
“You’ve gone soft,” Luka mutters, as though the word disgusts him.
Then the screen goes black. Just like that, the call is over, the line severed.
Their rejection is clear.
For a split second, I sit in stunned silence. Not because I’m surprised by their answer but because it still hits like a blow to the ribs. Then the rage catches fire, causing me to nearly throw the laptop.
My fingers flex around it, knuckles blanching as I force myself to keep hold, the urge to shatter something barely contained. The device creaks under the pressure of my grip. It would be so easy to hurl it across the room and hear the satisfying crunch of it breaking.
But that would be useless. Pointless.
I’ve come too far for that.
Instead, I rise from my chair, breath seething through my nose as I pace the length of my office like a caged animal.
Soft.