Chapter 8
IVY
What really throws me off, more than the fact that I nearly got shot in a goddamn cafe and more than the blood I watched pool across tile, is that Maksim himself is the one who drives us back to the Sorokin estate.
Not one of the stoic, silent men lined like statues at the door to his compound when we were leaving out the front door.
Not the man with the piercing blue eyes who watched me like I was some cockroach crawling across their floors.
Not even the woman with the long hair who had been there when we were taken, who I suspect could snap my neck like a twig and not blink doing it.
Instead, he walks Yulia and me to the same sleek black car that had taken us here, already pulled up and idling near the walkway, and opens the back door for us like some chauffeur before sliding into the driver’s seat like this is all completely normal.
Yulia curls instinctively into my side on the ride back to her family’s estate, her head against my ribs, the softest breath escaping her as she begins to drift off in my arms. Her fingers are still clenched around the hem of my coat like a lifeline.
I can't blame her. She's been through hell.
Her small body is tense even in rest, like her dreams won’t let her forget the way those gunshots rang out around us. The only thing I’m glad about is how I was able to shield her from the gory sight of that body slumped over the counter when we left.
Maksim catches my eye in the rearview a few times but doesn’t say a word.
One hand rests on the wheel, the other draped casually over the center console. His shoulders are relaxed, posture lazy. While I know virtually nothing about him, I can tell Maksim carries control effortlessly like it’s been stitched into his skin. People like him command with presence alone.
Maybe it’s the adrenaline, or the trauma of what the fuck I just went through, or the sheer wrongness of today, but I find myself staring at the back of his head wondering what a man like him would be like in a more intimate setting.
Would he still hold the power? Command the person dumb enough to allow themselves to be trapped behind a closed door with him for complete and total submission? Or would he be a surprising submissive, wanting to give up that control he seems to hold onto so dearly, just for a little while?
I try to shake the thoughts away from me as quickly as they come, nausea rolling through me.
Outside the window, Moscow rushes by in a blur. A city I barely understand, a country I can’t pretend to feel safe in anymore, all of it seems to press in around me from all sides. My fingers tighten slightly on Yulia’s back, guilt threading sharp and deep through my chest.
In the end, it had been a bad idea to bring her out into the city. Maybe this is the real reason her father keeps her locked up in the safety of their family estate. Clearly, the people in his life live dangerously. Enough that random shoot-outs on a Tuesday have any of them hardly batting an eye.
The GPS pings softly once as we take an exit and pull onto a main road, the estate coming up just a few miles ahead. Yulia stirs against me, then sighs in her sleep.
When we finally pull through the gates of the Sorokin estate, I spot another car already parked in the front circle.
Yulia wakes when we park and as I shift to pull off my seat belt. Her big, brown eyes blink against the light, a soft grunt leaving her when she sits up and rubs at her lash line. When she sees the familiar front steps out the front windshield, she sits up straighter.
I can feel the relief pouring off her even before she murmurs, “Papa…”
She scrambles out of the car and runs ahead the second she spots Sergei exiting the house, his long coat flapping behind him. He doesn’t hesitate when he bends and scoops her up in his arms, holding her close while kissing the top of her head a few times.
It’s the first time I’ve actually seen genuine emotion on the man’s face. Their reunion should feel warm and touching, but it doesn’t. Not with the way Sergei’s eyes suddenly snap to Maksim when we both exit the car and head over to them.
There is a cold fire that simmers beneath his gaze.
Maksim walks slowly beside me, stopping a few feet from him while casually shoving his hands into his pockets. The two men exchange a few terse words I can’t understand, but it’s clear that Sergei is furious.
Who could blame him?
I can’t read his body language, but I know for a fact that this isn’t some heartfelt conversation with reassurances that Yulia and I were kept safe and we made it out of that shootout alive. What I’m witnessing is a reckoning.
Sergei turns away a moment later, carrying Yulia inside with one protective arm wrapped around her and the other cupping the back of her head. I catch up behind them, pausing briefly at the top of the steps to see Maksim still standing at the base of them, watching me.
His eyes are focused, taking me in with the same unreadable look he’d given me in the rearview mirror.
It makes me swallow, not out of fear but from some strange emotion that wells up in my chest. It isn’t exactly gratitude, but… I don’t know.
Just before I slip through the doorway, I look back one last time and catch sight of him heading back for the car and climbing behind the wheel once again. My lips part to yell out a thank you, but he’s already pulling his door shut and turning over the engine again.
I sigh and close the door behind me.
It isn’t long before one of the maids finds me. Her English is hard to understand, but I try my best to. “Master Sergei will not need you this evening. Please rest.”
I nod, murmuring something polite in response, and head up to my room on autopilot. I don’t even make it to my bed. I drop into the desk chair as my legs give out and yank open my laptop.
There was something Maksim said back at that compound… something in Russian he said while explaining to me that our getting caught in that weird shootout wasn’t supposed to happen.
I try to type it phonetically. Vor-ee va zha-con-eh.
Nothing. Fuck.
Vori vuh zah conny.
Still nothing. My fingers clench together, frustration boiling in my chest.
Come on. Come on.
I try again. This time, I spell it how it sounded with what little Cyrillic I’ve picked up from spending my time with Yulia. Vory v Zakone.
Enter.
Bingo.
The search floods with results. Wikipedia, news articles, academic papers, Russian crime reports, old newspaper scans. It goes on and on. The search results are practically endless.
Vory v Zakone, Thieves-in-Law.
Not just criminals. Not just gangsters. These are the crowned elite of the Russian underworld. Of a Bratva. Men who swear an oath, who follow a brutal code, who wield power through spilled blood and loyalty.
Holy. Shit.
The pieces snap together all at once. The blackout on Sergei’s identity. The tailored shadows that follow Maksim around. The tension with the staff at this mansion. The gunfight. The compound I was held captive at for the past four hours.
I sit back, heart pounding so fast it makes me dizzy.
My skin buzzes with panic the more I read.
I feel like I’ve stepped into the middle of a political thriller.
Only, the twist in the tale isn’t that I’m secretly a spy playing for the opposite side trying to enact revenge.
I’ve somehow embroiled myself with the fucking Mafia.
“Holy shit,” I mumble.
I shove the laptop closed and stand so fast my chair knocks back and falls to the floor behind me. The panic isn’t theoretical anymore. It’s visceral. My entire body feels wired, twitchy, like I’m going to jump out of my own skin if I don’t talk to someone right now.
I snatch up my phone from the bed and scroll through my contacts. My thumb hovers over Alia for a moment, but no, she’ll panic. And if she panics, I’ll panic even more. What I need right now is someone who can actually help me escape this nightmare I’ve somehow been dropped into.
Miss Dori.
My thumb shakes as I hit the call button and raise the phone to my ear. As the other line rings, my eyes flick over to the door. I dart across the room and throw the bolt, making sure to test the hold by yanking on the handle a few times.
She picks up on the third ring. “Ivy! So good to hear from you. How’s Moscow treating you?”
I don’t waste time. My voice comes out in a rushed whisper, breathless and urgent. “Miss Dori, I think I’m living with the Russian Mafia.”
There’s a long moment of silence on the other end. I glance at the screen to make sure the call didn’t drop, my heart sinking when I see the time stamp continuing to tick away.
“I’m sorry?” she finally says, laughing.
“Miss Dori, I’m serious,” I hiss at her.
“The family I’m living with, Mr. Sergei, he’s part of the Mafia.
He’s always got these guys coming into the house to have secret meetings in the middle of the night.
There’s this other guy that comes around too, Maksim, he was…
I looked up a few words he said on Google and it’s all Mafia related.
I think he’s working for the Mafia or is involved somehow. ”
She clears her throat. “Sergei Sorokin has one of the cleanest records I’ve ever vetted, Ivy.
He’s a prominent tech investor. He had over a dozen people vouching for him when we did background checks.
You’re in safe hands, I can assure you. Perhaps you misheard what was being said? Russian can be quite tricky.”
Oh my God, there’s no way this is happening. “No, you don’t understand! One of the guys he’s working with, I think, is a prominent warlord! Or… whatever they’re called. ‘Pakmans’? You didn’t see what I saw. I swear to you. I was involved in a cafe shooting earlier today!”
“A café shooting?” she repeats slowly.
“Yes!”
“And you’re saying you think her father is… involved?”
“Miss Dori. There are men that come around with guns. Did you even Google Sergei before? Nothing comes up. It’s like he doesn’t exist!” I pull at my hand, tugging enough that it’s painful. It’s the only thing that’s grounding me right now.
“Well… I imagine there’s probably some explanation. Wealthy families abroad often value privacy when—”
“Don’t,” I snap. “Don’t do that. Don’t minimize this. You’re the one who sold me on this job, remember? You said he was respectable. ‘Private, but highly regarded in the community.’ That’s what you said.”
“Ivy, if you’re genuinely in danger, why are you calling me and not the authorities? You did that, didn’t you? If the shooting occurred?”
My mouth falls open, no words coming out.
Her voice turns gentle. “Ivy. If you don’t feel safe, I can start looking for another family.
But these contracts are binding. If you break it, your payment is forfeit.
I’m not sure what you mean about being involved in a shooting.
I haven’t seen anything on the news about that.
But whatever you overheard is probably not at all what you think. ”
I swallow around the lump forming in my throat. “You’re kidding… so you won’t give me the money to get me out of here?”
“I wish I were. But that’s the policy. These families invest a great deal in this program. We can’t have unfounded claims floating around like this. If what you’re saying is true, I would highly encourage you to go to the authorities.”
“I could’ve died!” I croak.
“Surely, you have proof of these claims? I’m turning on the news right now, and I don’t see anything about a cafe shooting.”
I hang up before I say something I’ll regret because it’s clear she’s not going to believe me no matter what the hell I say. To her, Sergei is picture perfect and not at all the ruthless businessman I’m unfortunately coming to understand is the real him.
But how the hell am I going to get out of here? How the hell am I going to prove what I’m saying is factual and still get the money I’m owed for even having to deal with this bullshit in the first place?
That’s when it hits me. The cafe.
If I can go back, ask questions, record something, then I’ll have proof to give to Miss Dory. Real proof that will get me the hell out of here and maybe a hell of a lot more money that we originally agreed on in order to keep my mouth shut.
If this is the Mafia, then it’s time I start thinking like someone who’s not going down quietly.