Chapter 7
MAKSIM
The call comes in just as Lev and I step out of the warehouse.
My boots crunch over gravel as we cross the uneven lot, the metallic stench of blood and gun residue still clinging to my skin, making my nose wrinkle.
Behind us, the large rolling door at the back of the building slides shut with a groaning finality, sealing the echoes of what just transpired inside.
We’d just finished giving a very pointed reminder to one of our more reckless business contacts about why rerouting shipments without clearing it through me isn’t just frowned upon. It’s punished.
Vanya Evgeni, a local idiot. A twitchy little bastard whose arrogance is only outdone by his talent for screwing up perfectly simple instructions.
Rerouting shipments, pocketing side cuts, playing games with inventory that doesn’t belong to him because he thinks the Bratva is just a brand name to slap on his own hustle.
I don’t usually get my hands dirty like this anymore. That’s what lieutenants are for. Men like Roman who typically handles things old-school and methodically. Or Katya when she’s in the mood and wants to cause a little controlled chaos.
Delegation has always been the smarter play. Cleaner and quicker. One command down the chain and the problem vanishes like it never existed.
But lately, “cleaner” hasn’t been cutting it.
Too many hands have grown shaky. Too many ears have stopped listening. There’s a difference between fear and respect, and if you don’t enforce both with equal weight, you lose them altogether.
So I handled Vanya myself.
Lev wipes a smear of blood off his knuckle with a handkerchief as we reach the car. “Should’ve taken him out, you know. He’s bound to fuck up again.”
“Maybe next time,” I mutter.
He grunts, tucking the cloth into his coat pocket.
That’s when my phone rings. The vibration against my thigh sends a ripple of annoyance through me. No one calls me directly unless something’s gone wrong or they’re about to make it go wrong. So, yet another fire I’ll need to spend time putting out.
I fish the device out, scanning the screen.
Roman.
Of course. My vory v zakone is many things—loyal, ruthless, precise—but chatty isn’t one of them.
He is notorious for never calling unless something’s gone horribly wrong.
The man lives by a code older than the stones Moscow was built on, and part of that code means never bothering me with trivial updates.
So if he’s calling, it’s already bad.
I mutter a curse under my breath before answering with a clipped, “What?”
“That cafe owner you wanted me to question about what Matvey found regarding the Petrovs.”
I tense. “Yes?”
“He’s dead.”
I stop walking. Behind me, Lev stops too. He doesn’t say anything, but I can feel his gaze slide toward me, alert now, sensing the shift. I bring a hand up to pinch the bridge of my nose, willing away the tension already threading through my skull.
“What,” I say again, flatter this time. Not because I didn’t hear him, but because I need to hear it again just to believe it.
“A drive-by happened while Katya and I were there. Looked targeted from what I could tell. Owner was taken out. One of his employees too. I made it out without getting hit, but just barely,” Roman explains, his voice steady but tight.
“I assume the perpetrators weren’t apprehended?” He wouldn’t be calling me if they were. He would be in the middle of taking them back to the compound to interrogate information out of them by any means necessary.
“Not yet. My team’s tracking the vehicle now. We got partial plates and we’re scraping nearby surveillance footage. Once we find them, they’ll be taken back to ours to be questioned.”
He pauses, and I hear the faint sound of a door closing on his end. Then a softer voice, probably one of his lieutenants, murmuring in the background. Roman grunts something at them before speaking again. “Just wanted to let you know this lead is dead for the time being.”
Perfect.
Another goddamn door slammed shut before I even got a chance to look through it properly.
“Thank you for the update,” I say stiffly, already reaching in my pocket to grab the carton of cigarettes I shouldn’t be smoking.
Roman doesn’t hang up. There’s a pause, one that stretches too long. I know him well enough to recognize the rhythm of hesitation and keep the phone pressed to my ear while I shake out a cigarette and tuck it between my lips.
“There’s something else,” he says finally.
I don’t even try to hide my impatience. “What, Roman.”
“Sergei Sorokin’s daughter.”
I roll my eyes, flicking my lighter over the end of the butt. “What about her?”
“She was there. At the cafe. So was the American tutor.”
My entire body freezes.
“They weren’t hurt,” he adds quickly, “but they did witness everything. I’m bringing them back to the compound. It will be safer than letting them return to Sorokin without figuring out who the hell targeted the cafe in the first place. And you’ll need to make a call to him about this, anyway.”
He made the right decision, as he always does, but that doesn’t stop the sharp headache now drilling through my temple like a nail.
Of all the people in this goddamn city… it had to be Sergei’s precious little girl caught in the middle of a hit. And the tutor… the fucking American tutor. Now she’s a goddamn eyewitness.
I take a long drag from the cigarette, exhaling a ribbon of smoke into the cold air, and run a hand through my hair. “You’re sure they weren’t hurt?”
“Shaken but physically fine. The tutor shielded her during the shots by pushing her under the table. Quick thinking, actually.”
It does seem that this American tutor has turned out to be more than just a simple tourist looking for an easy way to make money while living abroad. She’s certainly gotten herself involved in a situation far outside her pay-grade.
I flick the cigarette ash away, watching the ember bounce once on the pavement before dying.
“Keep them in the lounge. I’ll make the call to Sergei.”
“Be prepared for backlash,” Katya says from somewhere in the background.
I toss my cigarette and snuff it out under my heel. “Oh, I’m counting on it.”
Sergei is a useful man. Brilliant with tech, well-connected, and one of the only civilians I’ve trusted to keep their head down and their loyalty steady while this shit with the Bratva has been brewing.
But this? It puts a crack in everything.
His daughter is his one soft spot. She’s not just a bargaining chip. She’s the only thing left of his late wife, and he guards her like a dragon does gold. He will not take this lightly.
And the tutor…
I’d written her off after our first encounter. Pretty little thing with wide eyes and a curious nature, sure, but a hired hand. Nothing more. A misplaced American who had been most likely looking to escape her own failures back home. Completely and utterly harmless.
Now she’s been dragged into this ongoing situation which means I can’t let her out of my sight until I know she won’t talk. I don’t need the American embassy looking and digging into things that are better left kept in the dark.
Lev is watching me with that unreadable stare of his, hands tucked in his coat pockets. He waits patiently for me to gather myself. After ending the call and shoving my phone back into my pocket, a long sigh escapes me.
“Change of plans,” I say, scrubbing a hand over my face. “We’re heading back to the compound. Sergei’s daughter was caught in the crossfire of a drive-by.”
Both of Lev’s brows lift in a rare display of genuine surprise. “How the hell did that happen?”
“She and the tutor were apparently at the same cafe Roman and Katya visited to talk to the owner who had been dealing to the Petrovs. It was shot up by someone looking to take out the owner.”
Lev lets out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Well, fuck. Another dead end.”
I merely sigh in response and turned to rip the passenger side door open. I don’t answer him. There’s nothing to say that isn’t already written across my face.
We climb back into the car, and the city starts rushing past us in a blur of tail lights and sleek buildings.
I lean against the window, watching it all go by, but none of it sticks to memory.
I’m not seeing the city. I’m seeing Yulia’s face, pale, wide-eyed, and frightened while her tutor crouches over her, shielding her from gunfire with her own body.
Roman had said Ivy reacted fast, on instinct. I doubt she’s ever seen a gun that up close before despite growing up in America. She didn’t strike me as the type when we first met, let alone had one fired in her direction. And yet she threw herself over that little girl like a goddamn shield anyway.
It’s admirable.
And also a problem.
Sergei is going to lose his fucking mind.
When we formed this partnership nearly two years ago, he made one thing very clear. Yulia was completely off-limits. She would be kept safe at all cost and she would remain untouched by the shadows her father operated within.
I agreed to that because I knew what was at stake.
Not just his daughter, but the empire Sergei helped fund with legitimate money, millions in Bratva-backed real estate development, tech expansion, and clean capital snaking across half of Europe.
Money I need. Money that keeps the old guard off my back when they grumble about my modernization tactics.
This particular child comes with strings I can’t afford to sever, but it seems the universe is determined to do so anyway.
This situation with the Petrovs is spiraling faster than I can keep up with it.
By the time we pull into the compound, I’m already dreading the inevitable call.
The steel gates grind closed behind us with a metallic groan, sealing the compound shut like a fortress, swallowing us whole. Lev parks in front of the mansion’s main doors and we climb out.