Chapter 12 Walk to Me
Walk to Me
—Maksym—
Iwas nine again. Curled in the corner of that shitty kitchen, ribs jutting out under a torn shirt, my face streaked with tears and snot. My fists were pressed against my temples, like maybe if I held on hard enough, I could keep the pain out. Like I could block the belt before it hit me again.
But I couldn’t.
He towered over me, red-faced and stinking of vodka, eyes wild. His voice was a roar, slurred and hateful. “You’re a curse. A fucking curse. Worthless piece of shit.”
Each word cracked through the air with leather. The belt struck again and again, across my back, my arms, my legs—anywhere it could land. My body jerked with every lash.
I didn’t fight. Didn’t even try. I just cried, the sound of it raw and broken in my throat.
I begged him to stop, begged like a child who didn’t understand cruelty had no off switch.
My words tumbled out between sobs—please stop, please, I’ll be good, I’ll be quiet, I’ll do anything. But none of it mattered.
“I’m just a kid,” I whimpered again and again, a desperate mantra. “I’m just a kid.”
It didn’t matter. He didn’t stop.
And I couldn’t do anything. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
“I’m just a kid. I’m just a kid. I’m just a kid.”
I woke with a jolt, lungs gasping for air like I’d been underwater. My sheets were damp with sweat. My fists clenched around nothing.
“Fuck off, Father,” I muttered, dragging a hand over my face.
The nightmare never changed. And it never let go.
It came nearly every night—these ghosts etched into my bones, these cursed scraps of a boyhood soaked in blood and liquor.
That was the real reason the vodka stayed on my nightstand.
Not because I liked it. Because sometimes it bought me silence.
Still, judging by the way I’d gulped half a bottle last night, it clearly hadn’t done shit.
By the time I finally dragged myself out of bed, rain was hammering against the windows, gray light leaking through the glass.
The steady drumming only made my head throb harder, like the whole sky had decided to pound straight into my skull.
At least I didn’t have a job lined up today—no one to trail, no one to bury.
Just the stale quiet of my apartment and the thick weight of last night’s memories pressing against my temples like a vice.
I pulled on my sweats and started to move.
Push-ups, pull-ups, weighted sit ups. Then I stepped up to the boxing bag and let my fists fly—bare knuckles, bone meeting leather.
Each hit bit back, skin splitting with the effort, but I didn’t give a fuck.
Strike after strike, blood smeared the bag in smudges, my breath heaving, muscles flexed to breaking.
The speakers throbbed with rock, the kind that snarled more than it sang. I needed the rage. The noise. Anything to drown out the way her name kept slithering back into my head.
Of course she was untouched.
How the fuck didn’t I realize it? She lived in a goddamn cage—locked in, groomed like some prized object her father polished and paraded for the right bidder. Passed around like fine wine, only meant to be uncorked for the right man.
And now she was being handed off to that smug fuck from Moscow.
I knew whose son he was. You didn’t grow up in this world and not know the name.
His father was practically royalty in the Russian underground—untouchable, feared, worse than Pakhan in some circles.
You didn’t fuck with that man’s bloodline unless you wanted to start a war.
And killing Felix while he was here, under Pakhan’s roof, would do just that.
I drove my fist into the bag, hard enough to make it sway. My knuckles were raw, split, and stinging, but I didn’t stop.
Still. The bastard didn’t deserve her. Not her fire. Not her temper. Not that filthy, perfect mouth. And he sure as fuck didn’t deserve her virginity.
I tried to shove the thoughts away. None of this shit was simple.
I stepped into the shower and cranked the heat until it threatened to scald. Steam curled around me as I stood under the spray, my head bowed, letting it beat down on my shoulders. The hot water ran over my split knuckles, stinging the raw skin, as thin threads of blood washing away down the drain.
I’d have to see how things unfolded before deciding what to do about that polished piece of shit. Killing him could blow up into something massive—international, maybe even fatal for me. But the problem was, I didn’t know any other way to solve things. Death was my only language.
Speaking of death—another voice from last night slithered into my thoughts and refused to leave.
The woman from the dacha. The crack in her voice. The way her eyes shattered when she realized the man she thought would help her was already cold meat. Pain. Betrayal. A flash of it sank teeth into me. It wasn’t regret. I don’t do regret. But it was close.
It wasn’t my job to ask questions. I just pull the trigger.
Still, her glassy, broken eyes wouldn’t leave my head. Not hers. Not Kira’s. All of them swirling in a fucking storm I couldn’t punch my way through.
And then I remembered.
My “initiation” test.
The last thing that cop said before I tortured him to death was that he was looking for them. I couldn’t help wondering—was he circling the truth about Pakhan’s trafficking network too?
That night, I’d grabbed a folder from his apartment. I didn’t read it. But now I had a gut feeling he and the judge might’ve been connected.
The bathroom was thick with steam by the time I shut off the water.
I stepped out into the heavy air, my skin damp and flushed from the heat.
A towel wrapped low around my hips, I took a breath—deep and steady—trying to shake the noise in my head.
It didn’t help. I had shit to do. That folder wasn’t going to open itself.
I opened the cabinet and reached for the folder inside, but the doorbell rang before my fingers could touch it.
I froze.
Nobody rang my bell. Ever.
It was midday—rain hammering against the windows, gray light leaking through the blinds—and no one should be at my door. I grabbed the gun off the counter out of habit and moved silently to the door.
Through the peephole, I saw her.
Kira. Soaked to the bone, mascara smudged, lips trembling. Her hair clung to her face in wet strands, and her eyes… fuck, her eyes were red, swollen, pleading.
I put the gun aside and opened the door. “Are you insane? Get in.”
She didn’t say anything at first. Just stepped in, dripping all over the hardwood. A small puddle gathered beneath her boots, spreading across the floorboards. Her arms were wrapped around herself, like she was trying to hold something in—or maybe keep herself from falling apart.
“Shouldn’t you be at school?” I asked, locking the door behind her.
She nodded. “Yeah.”
“Then how the fuck did you get here?”
Her voice was small. “I walked.”
I stared at her. “You what?”
“I walked.”
“Jesus Christ. Malaya, that’s a thirty-minute walk without heels—and you’re telling me you walked here in this?
” I gestured toward the ridiculous heels on her feet.
“Do you have a death wish? Do you not realize who your father is? How many people would love to snatch you off the street and use you to get to him?”
She just shook her head. “I don’t care. I had to talk to you.”
I stared at her, furious and dumbfounded. “What if I wasn’t home?”
Her voice cracked, but her eyes didn’t waver. “Then I’d wait. Right here. Outside your door. However long it took.”
Fury licked at the edges of my ribs, but it melted the second I saw the way her hands were shaking.
I sighed and ran a hand through my damp hair. “You’re going to get fucking sick. Come on.”
I walked her to the bathroom, handed her a clean towel, and then went to the closet to pull out a fresh hoodie and sweats. They’d hang off her, but they were dry, and she clearly needed something.
“Here,” I said when I knocked and opened the bathroom door a crack. “Put these on. We’ll dry your clothes.”
She took them silently, eyes avoiding mine.
I didn’t say anything else. Just walked back to the living room, heart still hammering, jaw tight.
What the fuck was she doing here?
A few minutes later, I heard the bathroom door open. She padded down the hall in my clothes—drowned in them, really. Her face was pale and drawn, and her eyes were locked on the floor.
Her usual spark was gone, that fire in her eyes snuffed out as if someone had poured cold water on it. She sat stiffly on the edge of the couch, shrinking into herself, and it struck me how empty she looked.
I gestured toward her. “Talk. What happened?”
She swallowed hard. “This morning… before I was supposed to go to school, I saw him. Felix. Moving into the guest wing. My wing.”
My jaw tightened. “He’s living with you now?”
She nodded. “Yes. He’s going to stay there until the wedding.” Her eyes filled with tears again. She dragged the sleeve of my hoodie across her face, wiping at them, but her voice still trembled as she tried to keep it together.
I didn’t like the sound of that. Not one fucking bit.
She looked up at me then. “I don’t want to marry him. He terrifies me. And now I have to live under the same roof with him.”
Her voice cracked, and the tears came. She tried to wipe them away again, but it was no use. For a second I almost knelt beside her and pulled her into my arms. I killed the thought before it could grow.
“I need your help.”
My heart kicked. “Help? How exactly do you think I can help here?”
Her voice was thick with desperation as she met my eyes. “I thought maybe you’d do something.”
I stepped closer, arms crossed. “Do something like what?”
She didn’t blink. “Like you did with Stanislav.”
I froze.
“What did you just say?”
A flicker of fire lit behind the tears. “I know it was you. I’m not stupid. You’re the only one who could’ve pulled it off. And now I’m asking you to do it again.”
“No.”