Chapter 23 Maksim
MAKSIM
Two weeks later, the ride to Sergei’s is silent except for the low, steady hum of the car’s engine.
The sound vibrates through the leather seat beneath me, filling the absence of conversation. The city outside blurs past the tinted glass, gray buildings stacked like tired sentries, streetlamps flickering against the creeping dusk.
My eyes are fixed ahead through the windshield, one hand loose on the steering wheel and the other gripping the gearshift like a lifeline. Every so often, I glance over to my right, watching my passenger out of the corner of my eye.
Ivy has barely spoken since I pulled her out of Anton’s hands. The silence that hangs between us isn’t the same as before. No barbed words masking as flirtations, no defiance sparking in her gaze from denying me. It’s worse. It’s just… nothing.
The bruises mottling her face have turned the color of storm clouds, sickly purples and yellows blooming along her jaw, her cheekbone, the fragile skin beneath her eye. They’ve faded, but not enough.
Seeing them form, deepen, shift hues over the past two weeks has lit a fresh fire in my chest every time I looked at her.
I should have killed Anton slower. I should have made him choke on his own blood before I ever put a bullet through his skull. Instead, I ended it too quickly. Rage makes men sloppy, and for once, I let myself be sloppy.
My grip on the gearshift tightens until the leather creaks.
Ivy stares straight ahead, hands folded loosely in her lap, posture stiff. Her silence is a wound I can’t stitch, one I don’t even know how to mend in the first place.
I’ve tried. Simple questions, attempts at conversation, reassurances that she won’t ever have to face those same horrors ever again. But nothing works. She keeps herself locked tight, a vault slammed shut and the key tossed, long forgotten.
I’m desperate. Not because I need her to talk to me, but because I can’t stand the emptiness in her eyes that accompanies her silence.
The guilt gnaws at me. Choking me.
I should’ve done more.
I should’ve never put her in this position in the first place.
I should’ve returned her back to Sergei’s and left him to deal with her.
Because of my selfishness, I’ve broken her completely.
Sergei’s estate looms ahead. We get past the checkpoints, past the iron gates that guard his empire, and up to the front of his house where I park the car in the circular drive.
I kill the engine, the hum dying into a silence that feels thicker than the air itself.
Ivy’s fingers twitch in her lap, the first movement she’s made in miles.
Two guards step down from the front entrance, moving quickly over to my side. One of them gestures for me to lower the window. I press the button, letting the early morning air cut into the warm interior inside the car.
“Pakhan,” he says, inclining his head with a respect tinged by wariness. His gaze flicks to Ivy before snapping back to me. “We’ve been expecting you.”
I incline my head before hooking my fingers under the handle, pushing the door open.
The guards step back, giving me a wide berth of room.
Moving around the hood, I open Ivy’s door myself.
My hand hovers in front of her, not quite touching, but close enough for her to know it’s there if she needs it.
She doesn’t take it. Instead, she steps out on her own, shoulders squared, even as her legs wobble under the weight of her nerves.
As much as I hate to see her struggle, I can respect her resolve to stand on her own.
The guards don’t speak as they turn and lead us toward the doors. The warmth of Sergei’s domain spills out into the cool air, wrapping around us the moment we step through the threshold.
We’re brought to Sergei’s study soon after.
The marble floors gleam beneath our shoes, each strike of our heels echoing sharp against the vaulted ceilings.
The chandeliers overhead cast fractured light down on us from the sun now starting to peek through the windows, golden prisms dancing in front of our steps.
Once, I might have admired decor like this.
Now, it feels gaudy. Too fragile.
The walk is familiar. I have taken it dozens of times since the beginning of our partnership, passing by the same polished corridors, the same oil paintings of grim ancestors watching with hollow eyes. But this morning, every step feels heavier.
It’s the slow cadence of a death march.
Ivy walks beside me, her silence suffocating. My hand flexes at my side, wanting to reach for her, to steady her, to tell her this is almost over.
The guards stop before the heavy oak doors. One knocks twice, the sound hollow against the carved surface. A voice answers from within, low and commanding.
When the doors swing open, the study yawns before us—dark wood paneling, shelves stacked with leather-bound tomes, the faint smoke of Sergei’s cigar curling in the air. He sits behind his desk, eyes lifting to meet mine immediately.
Ivy tenses beside me.
I guide her inside with a hand at the small of her back. Her steps falter only once before she steadies herself.
His gaze sweeps over me first, then slides to Ivy. It lingers there on her face. I don’t miss the way his brow creases when he takes in the discoloration on her cheek, the faint shadows under her eyes.
He doesn’t comment. Yet.
“Antonov. I wasn’t expecting to have you arrive at my estate so early in the morning. I see you’ve finally brought Miss Bennett back to me.”
I don’t waste time with pleasantries. “Ivy is leaving. She’ll be returning to the States. Today.”
For a moment, silence reigns. The crackle of the fire in the hearth across the room hums, the faint tick of a clock somewhere on his desk loud. All of it becomes more pronounced with how still Sergei sits.
His gaze flicks back to Ivy, then to me, narrowing.
“Leaving,” he repeats. “And how is this your decision to make?”
“Her time here is finished.” My tone is final, brooking no room for argument.
Sergei exhales smoke through his nose, the plume curling upward before dissolving into the lamplight. He sets the cigar carefully in its ashtray. “That’s not up for you to decide, Antonov.”
“It is safer,” I counter. “For her. For you and your daughter.”
His eyes flicker, just enough to betray the thought that cuts through him before he reins it back. A faint crease pulls between his brows, lines etching deeper into his weathered face. He doesn’t like me reminding him of Yulia, but he doesn’t deny the truth either.
His gaze drifts back to Ivy. This time, it lingers.
“Do I get no explanation?” he asks finally, voice almost a growl.
“My Bratva’s obshchak is no longer breathing,” I tell him. “I put him in the ground for many things. Treason is one of them. Any man who has followed him will soon join him. That’s all you need to know.”
The silence stretches once again.
Sergei leans back, fingers drumming once against the edge of his desk before curling into a fist. He studies me, then Ivy again. His expression gives nothing away, but his eyes… they flicker with something I recognize instantly. Wariness.
Finally, he exhales through his nose and settles deeper into his chair, as though accepting more of the truth cannot be badgered out of me. “I see.”
For the first time since entering the room, first time since yesterday, actually, Ivy lifts her head and speaks. Her voice is soft, though it doesn’t shake. “I’d like to say goodbye to Yulia before I go. I don’t want to leave before that.”
Sergei’s jaw works slowly. His gaze lingers on Ivy a moment longer before he finally inclines his head once. A clipped nod, but permission, nonetheless. “Go. She is upstairs, still sleeping.”
Ivy exhales, so quietly I almost miss it. She doesn’t thank him. She only turns away from his desk and heads back for the door. After giving Sergei a nod of thanks of my own, I follow her.
One of Sergei’s men peels away from the wall to escort us down the hall. We’re brought up to the second floor, down the west wing where Yulia’s wildly decorated door lies. Outside it, Ivy’s hand lifts to wrap around the knob, hesitating just before she touches it.
I watch her closely, taking in the pull of her brows and the way her other hand lifts to almost brush the bruises coloring her face.
“She won’t see them,” I tell her, using two fingers to press along the inside of her wrist, pulling it away from her face. “It will still be dark in her room.”
Her eyes glance over at me, her throat bobbing when she swallows. She gives me a single, firm nod, and then twists the handle and pushes the door open. We find Yulia curled up in her bed, snuggled down deep under her covers.
I stay by the door, closing it until just a crack separates it from the jamb, giving Ivy the space she needs to say goodbye.
Ivy perches on the edge of Yulia’s small bed, the mattress dipping beneath her weight. Her hand drifts instinctively to the child’s shoulder, fingers rubbing gently through the thin fabric of her nightdress.
Yulia stirs, her face shifting against the pillow, lashes twitching before they slowly lift.
The instant recognition strikes, Yulia lurches upright with a gasp. “Ivy!”
She throws herself into Ivy’s arms with the desperation only a child can muster, her little arms banding tight around Ivy’s neck.
The force nearly topples them both off the side of the bed, but Ivy catches herself, laughing softly.
She holds Yulia, buries her face in the crook of the girl’s neck, and lets her cling.
“I missed you!” Yulia says, her voice muffled.
Ivy’s shoulders shake once before she steadies herself. I see it even from where I stand, a shudder of emotion threatening to spill over before she forces it back, iron-clad, so Yulia doesn’t catch her crying.
Yulia’s small fingers knot themselves in the fabric of Ivy’s blouse, clinging as if letting go might mean losing her forever. Her voice is muffled against Ivy’s shoulder. “Where did you go? Papa say you with Uncle Maksim.”
Ivy leans back enough to see her face, smiling with an effort I can feel from here. She tucks a few messy strands of hair behind the girl’s ear, smoothing them like it’s the most natural act in the world.
“I was with him. We were on a pretty crazy adventure,” she says softly.
Yulia studies her, her young eyes too sharp for her age. They flicker across Ivy’s features, lingering on the fading bruises. Slowly, hesitantly, her little hands rise. The tips of her fingers tremble as they hover near Ivy’s jaw before brushing with the tenderest touch.
“Who did that?” Her voice comes out small, uncertain.
Ivy’s smile falters but doesn’t vanish. She shakes her head slightly. “It doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is that I got to see you before I left.”
The word lands heavy, and Yulia’s face falls at once. Her mouth opens, confusion written plain across her features. “Left?”
Ivy swallows, her throat bobbing, before she nods. “I have to go home, Yulia. Back to the States. Back to my family.”
The girl’s lower lip wobbles violently. “No… You can’t.”
Her voice breaks into a sob, small shoulders hunching as if she could curl in on herself and stop the truth from reaching her.
“I’m sorry.” Ivy’s own voice cracks. She pulls Yulia close again, burying her against her chest, her hand cupping the back of the girl’s head. “But I have to.”
From the doorway, I watch silently, my fingers tightening around the handle until the wood creaks beneath my grip. It is an innate cruelty, this parting, this forced separation. One that there is nothing I can do to soften.
But it’s for the best.
“Keep practicing your English, okay? Keep reading and writing. I’ll send you books from America. All the ones we talked about.” Ivy’s voice is gentle but firm.
Yulia sniffs, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. She pulls away just far enough to meet Ivy’s gaze, eyes wide and wet. “You write me. Promise?”
“I promise. And one day, I’ll come back.” It’s a promise meant for comfort, rather than being truthful, though I can see the way it tears her apart even to say it.
She nods hard Her chin wobbles despite her effort. She doesn’t understand—can’t understand—why the person she loves is being taken from her. Why adults decide these things behind closed doors with no regard for the little hearts they shatter.
Her little voice breaks. “I’ll miss you, Miss Ivy.”
Ivy presses her lips together, blinking quickly, as if she can will the tears not to fall. She leans forward, wrapping Yulia up in her arms again and squeezing her tight. “I’ll miss you too. Be good, okay?”
Ivy lingers there for a moment, memorizing her face, brushing her hair behind her ear as though she can fix every detail in her memory and never let it fade. When she finally lets go, her arms drop slowly. I can see in her posture that everything in her fights to stay.
I hate to see her suffer—for either of them to, actually. Watching Ivy’s grief twist her features while Yulia tries to be brave in the face of abandonment is a punishment I never asked for.
But one I’ll carry regardless.
Because a single fact remains, unfortunate and true. With Anton’s death, his followers have scattered into the wind. Men like that don’t dissolve. They fester, regroup, sharpen their anger and hone their strategies. Hunting them down will take time. Weeks, maybe months.
In that time, they will search for weaknesses—any soft spot in my defenses, in my alliances, in the people closest to me.
Ivy is the weakest point of all.
Time is a luxury I do not have while she remains here. Every hour she spends in Moscow is another chance for someone to use her against me. And that is something I will not allow.
Not again.
So I make the only choice I can, putting her on a plane back to the States. Away from Anton’s men, and away from the long reach of this city that corrupts and poisons everything it touches.
She may hate me for forcing her hand, for cutting her ties and thrusting her onto a plane she doesn’t want to board. Or, though I doubt it, she may actually thank me for severing the chain she’s already been desperate to cut.
Either way, the outcome is the same. She will remain alive and unharmed, safe, and far, far away from the chaos that still walks these streets like a plague in waiting.
And if she never forgives me for it, so be it. I can live with her hatred. What I cannot live with is the thought of her buried in this soil.