Chapter 12 Maksim
MAKSIM
By the time Ivy’s locked safely inside the guest suite, I can already feel the headache forming behind my eyes.
The click of the reinforced lock echoes louder than it should. I linger in the hallway for half a second longer than I should. Strangely, it feels wrong trapping her in a room she isn’t familiar with, but then again, where else would I put her?
Lev posts two of our best men at her door, both handpicked and too professional to get distracted by her pretty eyes and English-accented begging.
I don’t bother pretending she’s going to sit quietly and wait for this to blow over while Matvey and I go through her digital footprint for the next few hours.
She’s not the type.
If I know Ivy—and I’m beginning to know her better than I’d like—she’s already cataloging the room for objects she can weaponize against us.
Planning how she’ll be able to rig a lamp with a power cord and a loose floorboard like she’s in a prison break movie, just for the chance to do some real damage and get the last word in once someone comes knocking.
It’s almost charming in a fucked up way.
Unfortunately, I don’t have time for charming. Not when the hit at the cafe and the Petrovs’ deaths are still fresh and somehow connected. The streets are teeming with whispers, half-truths, and rats too clever to be caught.
I’ve got a dead contact and a half-finished trail of questions. And now a civilian witness who doesn’t know when to keep her damn nose out of things.
I’ve danced this line before. Managed worse. But something about this, about the way Ivy looked at me like I was some monster pulled straight from the mouth of hell inside that car when we were talking, sits wrong in my chest.
For some inexplicable reason, I hated that look in her.
Why?
Before the thought has a hold to take route and derail me for the rest of the day, I shake it off. There’s too much work to be done to get distracted.
“Call the sovet,” I tell Lev when I get back down to the main level. “Now.”
Ten minutes later, we’re all gathered in the west wing of the estate inside the long council room reserved only for high-level operations and decision-making.
No one else is allowed past the doors. No waitstaff, no low-level security, just my inner circle. The ones who have bled for this family more times than they can count. The ones who make the decisions that ensure not one sacrifice is in vain.
The room itself is cold and dark, lit by wall sconces that circle the large table in the center. The table is an intimidating stretch of carved oak, older than most of us. It smells faintly of wax and wood from a fresh cleaning and shines like it’s new.
Katya is the first to arrive. As always.
She’s dressed in black—tailored, elegant, and absolutely no-nonsense.
Her dark eyes sweep the room with clinical detachment before she folds herself into the chair nearest mine like a dagger being sheathed.
Her fingers steeple in front of her mouth, blood-red nails gleaming in the low light.
She doesn’t speak, but her eyes talk enough for her.
Her twin brother, Roman, follows in a moment later, his scowl arriving three seconds before he does.
There’s the faint aroma of woodsy cologne clinging to his coat and hands, along with the telltale whisper of gun residue.
I don’t bother asking what the latest hit he’s had to take out in the field is.
I’ll see the report come across my desk soon enough.
For Roman, violence is a second skin worn comfortably.
He slumps into a chair across from his sister, arms crossed loosely over his chest.
Matvey appears next, his tablet already in hand, lit up and streaming intel before he even sits.
His round face is slightly flushed, glasses pushed back on top of his head where a few of his messy curls escape from around the thick frames.
He flashes the rest of us a tired smile before taking the seat next to Katya, his fingers flying over the tablet’s keyboard as he answers whatever slew of emails has just dropped into his inbox.
Luka, Anton, and Alisa come together, but none of them speak to each other.
Luka takes his usual seat near the middle, silent and sharp-eyed while eyeing the siblings.
He shoots Katya a look that is all heat, none of which is reciprocated.
His tall, lanky limbs are stuffed under the table, with his upper half practically hunched over the surface.
Alisa sits two chairs down, straight-backed, her long braided hair looped tight behind her head and draping well past her lower back.
Her intense gaze is fixated on Matvey, a dark scowl deepening the longer his fingers bang against the tablet.
She lets out a long, annoyed sigh before pinching the bridge of her nose, the wrinkles around her eyes more prominent today than usual.
My eyes latch onto Anton closely as he slinks into place at the far end of the table, directly opposite to me.
A power play that’s obvious to the entire room, including me.
His usual motive. His smirk is mild, easily passed off for polite, but I see the glint in his eye, the gears turning.
It always strikes me as odd how he seems like he’s constantly waiting for an opportunity to start something.
I always keep my attention on him when he’s in the same room. Maybe that’s what he likes. Craves, even, the attention I’m forced to give him. He was my father’s general back in the day, a fact he never, ever allows me to forget.
Andrey’s the last to arrive, one cheek already blooming freshly purple from a fight he clearly just got done taking care of.
Not at all a surprise, considering he’s in the midst of training a fresh wave of shestyorka.
He brushes a hand through his long, dirty blond hair, pushing it out of his eyes before dropping into the only seat left, directly next to Katya.
Her eyes snap to him, narrowing instantly.
He lounges back, one arm raising to drape over the back of her chair.
I straighten at the head of the table, feeling Lev shifting behind me, keeping to the shadow where he prefers to be, and sweep my gaze across the room one last time. Everyone is finally accounted for.
Seven pairs of eyes lock on mine.
I don’t waste time getting into it. “Roman’s contact to the Petrov family is dead. The cafe he owned was targeted in a drive-by attack three days ago and he was taken out in the crossfire before answers could be given about what happened with the Petrovs.”
That gets a ripple of energy moving through the room.
Katya’s eyes flick to her brother instantly.
Roman’s jaw clenches tightly as the spotlight is suddenly turned to him. “I was in the back when it started. Owner and I barely got out two sentences before we heard the gunshots. He moved before I could tell him to hang back and got shot the second he stepped into the lobby.”
“Fuck,” Andrey mutters under his breath. “That blows.”
“Any leads on who did it?” Luka asks.
Roman shakes his head. “Not yet. Matvey’s still combing through the footage and matching the partial plate we got.
Whoever it was knew exactly how to drive him out from the back.
Took out the employee in the front. To me, it seemed more targeted than something random.
Someone knew we’d be in the back for a while and didn’t bother coming in through the front door to make a commotion and potentially get caught by me. ”
“Which means we’ve got a leak,” Katya says coolly. Her voice is soft, but the implication cuts deep.
“It seems,” I say. “This wasn’t some random hit like it’s being made to look like. Someone knew Roman was going to be there, judging by how quickly and efficiently the hit was carried out. Clearly professional. If that’s the case, then we need to start looking at the contacts closest to us.”
“Any witnesses who survived that we can interrogate?” Anton drawls across the table.
My jaw tightens unconsciously. “Sergei Sorokin’s daughter was on site. She had her English tutor with her.”
Luka curses under his breath. Matvey stops tapping his tablet and looks up, blinking a few times to clear his vision. Katya leans back ever so slightly, lips thinning. Alisa doesn’t move, but her fingers tighten on the edge of the table.
Anton’s smirk twitches upward, like he’s just been handed a gift. “Forgive me, Pakhan, but that seems a little strange to me how his daughter could be at the same place as a hit. That can’t be a coincidence. Right? Perhaps he’s taken a life insurance policy out on her and is ready to cash in.”
“I don’t think this came from the Sorokins,” I reply evenly. “But someone did pull the tutor’s background off the dark web weeks ago, before she even arrived. That was not Sergei’s doing.”
“Then who did? It wasn’t us. Who would give a fuck about some American?” Katya asks.
Matvey clears his throat, his voice soft. “Still digging, but the trail’s been scrubbed pretty cleanly. Whoever pulled it used a secure network with rotating proxies. They knew what they were doing.”
“Which means they wanted to keep her arrival quiet. Or keep tabs on her without anyone knowing,” Roman adds.
“Again,” Katya drawls. “Who the fuck cares about a random American?”
“Either way,” I say, cutting her off, “she’s clearly a variable. One we’re not equipped to ignore anymore.”
Alisa speaks for the first time since sitting down. “Is she still at Sorokin’s?”
“No,” I reply. “She’s here. She’s been kept in a locked guest room upstairs.”
There is a long pause.
Then Anton snorts. “You kidnapped the tutor? That’s one way to run a syndicate.”
“I secured a civilian witness in a criminal investigation,” I say flatly.
“Of course. Much more legal,” he drawls again.
Katya cuts him a glare sharp enough to flay him. “You implying something, Sidrov? If you are, out with it.”
He holds his hands up in mock surrender.
“We’ll hold her here,” I continue, ignoring the smirk Anton tosses in my direction, “until we can confirm she hasn’t passed any information along and learn why her data has been pulled.”
“What about the girl? Sergei’s daughter?” Luka asks.
“She’s been delivered and is back under protection at the Sorokin estate,” Lev says from behind me, all eyes snapping to him in an instant. “Unharmed.”
“Good. We can’t afford him pulling out of our development projects. Not with the Italians sniffing around again,” Luka murmurs.
And there it is, another storm cloud brewing on the horizon.
But one crisis at a time.
“We’re tightening our perimeter. Roman, keep the streets clean.
Katya, double up on internal checks. I want every member of our ranks vetted again.
If we do have a leak, I want to make sure it isn’t internal.
No one slips through. Alisa, Luka, and Andrey, I want details on our contacts and who they’ve been communicating with.
Matvey, continue with your record pulls on the American.
Anton, I need you to focus on the new recruits.
See if any of them are acting strangely since we brought them in,” I say.
I don’t bother assigning Lev to anything. It’s unspoken between us, and the rest of the sovet, that he will be running the Bratva in my absence while I pick up the legwork dealing with this mess.
“Who’s going to be handling talking to the American?” Anton asks, his voice featherlight with a playful smile.
I level my gaze on him. “When she talks, I’ll handle it.”