Chapter 11 Ivy
IVY
Istare at him.
I’m the Antonov Bratva’s Pakhan.
It takes a full second—maybe longer—before I remember how to breathe again. My lungs seize, and I suck in air like I’ve just been yanked from underwater. The heat from the car vents is suffocating, pressing down around me until I feel like I might throw up.
He said it so casually.
So goddamn calmly.
Like he’s sharing a detail from his LinkedIn profile. Hi, I’m Maksim Antonov, fluent in Russian, excellent leadership skills, responsible for managing an entire criminal empire. As if being the head of the most dangerous gang in the country is just a bullet point under “relevant experience”.
My brain stalls, refuses to compute. There’s a loud, roaring silence in my ears that blocks out everything but the echo of that one word. That one title.
Pakhan.
I know that word.
I read it. I researched it while curled up in bed, half-listening to Alia monologue over the phone about Sergei’s potential investments while I quietly scrolled through articles about Russian organized crime, trying to understand who the man I’ve been working for is.
Trying to make sense of the quiet danger I kept sensing around the estate.
All the while, it’s been here, right in front of me.
The head.
The boss.
The king.
The man you don’t cross, don’t question, don’t offend if you know what’s good for you.
I don’t know what I thought Maksim was. Maybe some sketchy guy working with the Mob just like Sergei, with too much power and not enough oversight.
Some morally bankrupt middleman, maybe. A fixer.
A rich man with blood on his hands and expensive taste.
Someone whose connections veered toward the illegal.
A guy who is completely fine with a few lives taken as long as whatever deal he’s involved in doesn’t derail.
But this?
This is something else entirely.
He’ s not just a piece on the board. He’s the one who moves them around.
The one everyone answers to. The one whose name doesn’t get whispered unless you want to end up in the ground.
The man behind the curtain, not the hitman with blood on his hands.
The one who decides who lives, who dies, and who disappears without a trace.
A chill rips down my spine like ice water’s been poured down my back. I go completely numb, breath locked in my throat, limbs stiff with panic while my brain fights to catch up, to think of some way out of this mess I’ve stumbled into.
My fingers scrabble instinctively at the door handle until they hit the resistance of the child lock once again.
Right. Locked in. Trapped in his car on his turf.
Fuck.
There’s nowhere to run. No alley to duck into, no crowd to vanish between. Only the cool leather seat beneath me and the silent weight of Maksim Antonov sitting in the front seat like the final boss in a video game no one survives.
My heart pounds so hard I feel it in my ears, my throat, behind my eyes like a drumbeat of dread. I don’t know what to do, I don’t know where to look, I don’t even know how to exist in this moment.
And when my eyes finally rise, I find his own already fixed on me.
“So,” he says, his casual tone returning. Two fingers drum on the back of his seat in a steady rhythm. “Shall we go inside without a fight this time?”
My teeth clench. The gall.
The fucking nerve of this man.
My fear flips in my chest like a coin, coming down as rage, hot and wild. “What the hell is wrong with you? You say that like it’s a badge of honor!”
He blinks once, slowly. One brow arches in quiet surprise.
“There were children in that cafe! Yulia was there. She could’ve died! And you sit there talking about owning the city for—what? Because you want to make it look like you’ve got a big dick? Oh, my God, I’m so sick of assholes like you playing with people’s lives like they’re nothing!”
For a second, he looks genuinely caught off guard.
His lips part slightly, enough that I catch the tip of his tongue pressing against the back of his teeth briefly. “I’m not bragging, if that’s what you’re implying. I was merely stating a fact.”
“Oh, my God.” I rake both hands through my hair and slam my shoulder against the door like I can outrun the madness.
Maybe if I knock my head a few times against this window, I’ll suddenly wake up from whatever hellish nightmare this is.
“Do you even hear yourself right now? You endangered the daughter of someone you supposedly do business with. What kind of loyalty is that, huh? You don’t vet your jobs?
You don’t check the locations for who’s there before you go blasting holes in the walls? ”
That gets a reaction.
It’s subtle, but I see it.
The tic in his jaw is enough to tell me I’ve gotten under his skin, that I’ve hit a sore spot.
The flicker of his temper is being tested, hard and restrained behind his eyes.
There’s a slight movement of his fingers curling around the edge of the seat next to him, like he needs something solid to hold onto or else he’s going to start throwing punches.
Maybe he’s not used to people yelling at him.
Too bad I don’t give a fuck.
I lean forward slightly, every nerve in my body buzzing.
I’m close enough to him that I can see small flecks of green in his dark eyes.
“Well? Is that what your Mafia is? Just a gang of thugs with bad aim taking out people enjoying a nice cup of tea and a pastry on a Tuesday afternoon? That’s fucking lame as hell. ”
He turns fully now, arm stretching over the seat, and he fixes me with a stare so cold and sharp it nearly cuts my breath short. “It wasn’t us who carried out the hit, Ivy. It was someone else targeting our contact.”
“Yeah, because that makes things so much better. You weren’t the one pulling the trigger, just the one ending it. Isn’t that how it always goes with you guys? I didn’t start it, but I certainly finished it.” I bark a hollow, humorless laugh.
His voice drops an octave. “Ivy. Watch it. I’m not in the mood to debate this with you.”
“And I’m not in the mood to be kidnapped, Maksim, but here we are!
You drag me out of that cafe like I’m some co-conspirator.
Then you throw me into your car to take me back to your murder palace, and then you threaten me?
For what! For asking questions? I should’ve just let that bullet hit me in the cafe.
It would’ve been less traumatic than dealing with you. ”
My words make something flicker in his expression again, though this time, it’s far from anger. It’s not regret or guilt, per se. He’s far too selfish for something like that, but it’s the closest thing I’ve seen to remorse since all of this started.
He breathes out slowly, as if pulling back a sharp reply.
I stare at him, wanting to scream again because I’m not done laying into him, but at this point, there isn’t much more I can say to get my point across. There’s nothing else I can say that’ll make him see. We come from two entirely different worlds, separated by more than language and circumstance.
No amount of shouting will ever build a bridge wide enough to span that distance. He’s right in his own twisted, brutal way, and that might be the most unbearable part of all.
I want to cry. I want to throw open the car door and run until my lungs collapse. But I can’t, because the worst part? There’s no telling how deep it goes. Who the hell can I trust? Miss Dori didn’t even believe me.
Hell, she could even be in on this too. What if I was never just a tutor to begin with? What if I was handpicked, served up on a silver platter to the Sorokins because the money was good enough and I was expendable enough?
The betrayal tastes bitter on my mouth.
“I didn’t ask for this.” My voice catches, growing tight. “I just wanted to teach English.”
Maksim doesn’t even blink. “I understand that. However, whether you like it or not, you were involved in this world the second you decided to work for Sergei Sorokin.”
My hands fist tightly in my lap again. “That’s not fair. I didn’t know he had anything to do with the Mafia. How the hell can you sit there and blame me when I thought I was just getting a normal teaching job?”
“You knew from the start that something was off, don’t play dumb. I saw the moment we met weeks ago that you knew. I saw it in your eyes,” he says, cool and detached.
I flinch. The words hit me like a slap, cold and merciless. “I thought I was just being overdramatic…”
“Then you were naive not to listen to your intuition,” he replies without hesitation. “And naive people don’t live long in this city.”
That’s what makes it worse. He’s so calm, so sure, in his opinion.
Like this is all just a foregone conclusion because I’m the one who should’ve known better.
That’s the problem with men like him—they believe the burden of survival is always on you.
Your instincts, your decisions. Your fault if you didn’t run soon enough.
No accountability for all the fucked up shit they pulled to put you in that predicament.
Tears sting the backs of my eyes. I blink them back fast, so fast it makes my vision go spotty, but I won’t cry in front of him. If he’s waiting for that, he’ll die disappointed. The only emotions he’s getting from me are anger and pure, white-hot resentment.
“I didn’t sign up to be a witness to a crime ring,” I say.
His gaze doesn’t waver. “Then answer me this. If you were so afraid, so traumatized by what you saw, as you claim, why did you go back?”
I blink. “What?”
“To the cafe,” he says slowly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the whole world. “The crime scene. The moment Sergei let you off the estate, you ran straight to it instead of the airport. Why?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
Because I needed something solid. Something real. Something I could take to someone who would believe me. I thought if I could just find one person to validate what I saw, to say I wasn’t crazy or overreacting, I could run. I could blow the whole thing open and escape with my life still mine.
But now even that feels foolish.
What did I think I was going to find? Evidence that wouldn’t already be swept clean? A crowd of onlookers eager to confirm my story and risk their lives in the process?
“I…” I start, then stop. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.
“Your curiosity is what’s going to put you in more danger. Keep feeding into it and you’ll continue to run into me. I can promise you that, Milaya,” he says.
The implication hangs heavy in the air like a promise. I know what he’s really saying. I can still make a choice. I can play nice, stay quiet, keep my head down. Or I can keep pulling at the threads and watch everything unravel, including me.
My fingers dig into my coat sleeves. “I want to go back. To Sergei’s.”
“No.”
My stomach drops. The word echoes like a death sentence. “No?”
“You’re not going anywhere,” he says, turning back around to face the steering wheel. He slips the keys out of the ignition. “Not yet. I need to make sure you haven’t passed along any of what you’ve learned to anyone.”
“I haven’t.”
“And I hope that’s true. Because if you have, Ivy, things are going to get very difficult for you. For everyone you’ve involved.”
“I didn’t tell anyone.”
“Then you have nothing to worry about. So I suggest you cooperate. The sooner you do, the sooner I can confirm you haven’t compromised us. And once I do, you’ll be returned to Sergei.”
I slump against the backseat, defeated.
The guest room they lock me in is stunning.
I absolutely hate it.
High ceilings, a four-poster bed so soft I might drown in it if I ever get the courage to lie down and nap while Maksim and his men go through my phone. Velvet curtains and crystal light fixtures. A view of the backyard beyond the estate that’s snow-dusted.
There’s a soaking tub in the bathroom and white marble floors. A silk robe hangs on the hook behind the door like this is some five-star suite and not a temporary prison.
The door is locked from the outside.
I pace until the carpet is printed permanently with my footsteps. I try the window even though I already know it’s pointless since I’m on the second floor and the sheer drop alone will break my legs if the camera mounted above my window doesn’t catch me first.
No way to escape.
Nowhere to run.
I’m a sitting duck until they finally call me down for my interrogation. Or my execution.
God, I’m so fucked.