Chapter 9 Maksim
MAKSIM
The apartment is empty again when Roman and I travel back to visit Emily.
There’s something unsettling about the stillness that sets my nerves on edge. The soft whine of old plumbing behind the walls, echoes with the faint noise of our steps on the worn floor.
Roman mutters something under his breath in Russian—a clipped, biting curse—as he digs into his coat pocket to pull out his phone. He checks the screen with a growing scowl carved deep into his features. “She should’ve been back by now. Her schedule is fairly rigid.”
I don’t respond.
Not because I disagree, but because I feel the same unease curling in my gut and I’m not in the mood to say it aloud.
Emily’s routine is consistent to a fault, second grade teacher by day, prenatal appointments precisely every other Thursday, groceries every Friday night, calls with her mother on Sunday afternoons.
The kind of habits built by someone who finds comfort in structure.
So, yeah. She should’ve been back by now.
The truth is, we’ve been running in circles since getting Ivy back. Half of our resources have been exhausted just trying to track Leo’s whereabouts, and the other half? Lost down more dead-end leads, false alarms, and ghost trails that all eventually point back to nothing.
Finding Emily had been a beacon in that fog. The first real light inside the darkness, guiding us down a new path. A thread that, when tugged, we all hoped would unravel the mystery of where Mikhail has been hiding and what he’s been planning.
But strangely… it hasn’t.
We thought he’d show up in person. That the pull of looming fatherhood—or whatever twisted approximation of it he felt for the child growing inside Emily—would compel him to visit her and touch base. At the very least, to maintain control the only way he knows how. Face to face.
But no.
Not once has he come out of hiding to see her. It’s just been encrypted phone calls twice a day like clockwork. A voice through a secured line that Matvey still hasn’t managed to crack, no matter how many layers of his firewalls we peel back.
Still, Emily has kept her word.
Through the wiretaps, I’ve listened to her speak with him in calm, measured tones.
Not once has she slipped or hinted that we’ve been in contact with her.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think she really was the blissfully ignorant fiancée of a traveling businessman with too many secrets and not enough time for her.
She’s good. Damn good. I almost commend her for it.
Two days ago, we set up another meeting with her. Less formal than before, more like a check-in. We told her to act normal, to treat it like a friend stopping by for a cup of tea if Mikhail asked about her plans. It would only be a quick conversation and a few updates, nothing more.
Our meeting had been ten minutes ago and so far, there’s been no sign of Emily.
The bombshell we dropped on her less than a week ago about her fiancé living a double life as a Bratva puppet master and war criminal would be enough to break most people, let alone someone pregnant with his child.
But Emily hadn’t folded. At least not until now.
If anything, she’s seemed… a little steadier, like some things have begun to click into place after that first conversation.
Another ten minutes pass by, then twenty. We give her a thirty-minute grace period before Roman starts pacing.
“I don’t like this,” he mutters. “She was supposed to finish with school two hours ago. Where the hell is she?”
He pulls out his phone again, thumbs moving fast as he types something. I already know he’s telling Matvey to check traffic cams and public routes, seeing if she was spotted en route. Maybe she stopped for food or had a doctor’s appointment she forgot to mention.
“She could’ve finally gotten spooked,” I offer, my eyes drifting over the empty apartment. “He may have said something that made her doubt herself.”
Roman grunts. “We’ve been listening to all of her phone conversations. She hasn’t told him jack shit.”
“She’s pregnant and scared. That would make anyone want to run.
The second two strange men show up at your door, telling you the person you love is living a double life?
It’s instinct. You don’t trust them. You bide your time.
You get your affairs in order. You figure out how to disappear before they can drag you into something worse. ”
He doesn’t argue, but the silence between us turns colder.
I glance around, forcing myself to take in every detail.
There are two half-drunk mugs on the kitchen counter, one with lipstick smudged on the rim. An open book sits on the couch’s armrest, dog-eared and spine-broken, clearly having been read a hundred times before. The scent of a freshly burned candle lingers faintly in the air, lavender and sage.
I move toward the window that faces the street, the blinds tilted just enough to catch the early afternoon light, pale and golden. A soft breeze slips through the cracked windowpane, tugging at the edge of the curtain and brushing cool air against my face.
None of it carries any answers. No clues as to where she’s gone or when she’ll be back. If ever.
Roman’s voice cuts through the silence, following my line of sight. “If she was taken, we would’ve seen something.”
“Not if he knew how to do it right,” I reply, my tone flat. “You know what he’s capable of.”
Roman’s face darkens at that. “We should check the school. See if she even showed up this morning.”
I nod. “Good idea.”
Best case scenario, we pull footage from the CCTV outside the school.
We watch her leaving that afternoon, track her movements, figure out where our pregnant mistress has decided to run off to.
Worst case scenario, we trace the point where Mikhail or one of his men grabbed her and use that trail to take us deeper into his network.
Either way, we’ll follow it. We have to. Like Ivy, she’s in too deep now. Whether she knows it or not, she’s part of this war, and that means the only way out is through.