Chapter 27
Blonde Ones Fetch Double
—Maksym—
It took days to clean the house.
Pakhan brought in professionals—the kind that didn’t ask questions and didn’t leave stains. Walls were repainted, carpets replaced, glass reforged. By the end of the week, you could walk through the mansion and almost believe that no one had died screaming there.
Almost.
Moscow had gone quiet. Too quiet. They were licking their wounds, counting their losses, planning how to answer.
By the time they were ready to strike again, Pakhan would already be a corpse. Not buried. Not mourned. Just rotting in the ground—put there by my own hands.
After the attack, Pakhan was in one of his fucking excellent moods. Because he won, while the rest of us did the dying. So of course he demanded a celebration. Which meant we all had to sit there smiling, drinking, and pretending we weren’t enduring him.
He summoned the entire inner circle. Family. Lieutenants. The great dining hall buzzed with low conversation until he stepped forward, silencing the room with a single glance. He stood at the head of the table, heavy rings flashing as he raised a glass of dark liquor halfway.
“You were brave,” he said, voice measured. “You didn’t run. You held the line. We defended our home. We bled, and we fucking won.”
Approval murmured through the room. He let the silence stretch a moment longer.
“And as for Felix?” He paused, then chuckled, low and cold. “Honestly? Let the worms have him. I don’t care anymore. Moscow can grieve him if they want.”
Laughter rippled across the table.
Then he sobered. “But that victory wouldn’t have happened without one man.”
His gaze landed on me. “I watched the footage,” he said. “From the safe room.”
I didn’t react.
“You moved like a predator. Precise. Unshakable.” He leaned forward, smiling. “I’ve made my decision. From this day forward, Maksym stands as my right hand.”
I hadn’t seen it coming. Right hand. What a fucking honor.
The room approved, politely. Applause, nods, forced admiration. A show of respect, maybe, but all I felt was the noose tightening around my throat.
Once the circus act ended, he motioned for me to follow. We slipped into the corridor, where the air was cooler, quieter—just the two of us and the echo of clinking glasses behind closed doors.
He rested his hand on my shoulder like we were old friends. “It’s time you moved into the estate.”
I hesitated. “I’ve got my apartment. It’s more than enough—”
He smiled, but there was nothing friendly behind it. “You’ve earned your place here. I want you close.”
“Pakhan—”
He raised a finger like he was blessing me. “I wasn’t asking.”
Honestly, it was hilarious. If he had even the faintest idea that his daughter had been riding me every night under his own roof—moaning my name while he slept like some oblivious patriarch—maybe he’d have skipped the whole dramatic speech.
But no. He stood there assigning me a room like he was doing me a fucking favor.
As if I hadn’t already claimed the one thing in this house he still thought he controlled.
But what really pissed me off was the ownership in his voice—telling me where I’d live, where I’d sleep, like I was something he could put on a shelf. This house wasn’t mine. It was just temporary shelter before I turned it into a smoking grave.
I nodded. “Fine.”
They gave me the same room Felix used to stay in. Poetic, in a fucked-up kind of way.
It put me closer to Kira—close enough that temptation stopped being hypothetical and started becoming routine. We didn’t even try to resist. We perfected the art of slipping into each other’s beds without a sound, locking doors before anyone could follow.
We fucked like maniacs—in my bed, in hers, in the shower. We were never gentle. Never quiet. And I couldn’t get enough.
One night, I was fucking her from behind, hips slamming into her hard enough to leave bruises. She twisted around, wild-eyed and breathless.
“Come inside me,” she begged. “I want to feel it. Please.”
I stilled. “Kira, I’d love nothing more than to fill you to the brim. But we already talked about this. I’m not risking knocking you up.”
“I’m on the pill now,” she whispered, voice wrecked. “Please, Maksym—just come inside me. I want it badly.”
Those words snapped the last thread of control I had.
“That mouth better be honest, Malaya, because I am very bad at self-control when properly motivated.”
I grabbed her hips harder and slammed into her, rough and relentless. She cried out, her voice a broken prayer, begging me not to stop.
I emptied inside her with a groan torn from the pit of my chest, hips jerking, vision going white as I spilled every drop deep inside her. It felt endless. Like I was giving her everything—my cum, my breath, my fucking soul.
When I pulled out, she whimpered at the loss.
I watched it drip out of her, trailing down the soft skin of her thighs.
She was still trembling, dazed from the high, her body arched.
I grabbed her ass and spread her wider just to watch it leak more.
The sight alone made my cock twitch. I was already getting hard again, needing to shove it back inside, to keep filling her until she couldn’t take it anymore—until she was wrecked under me, still begging for more.
Whatever this was, whatever spell she had over me—I didn’t want it broken. I wanted to live in it. Drown in it. Die in it.
At dinners, she was worse.
If she sat across from me, her foot would slide between my legs, rubbing slow, teasing circles up my calf until I was biting the inside of my cheek just to stay sane.
If she sat beside me, her fingers would rest on my thigh, light and casual, before drifting higher—until her pinky brushed the hard outline of my cock through my slacks.
Once, while Pakhan droned on about supply chains or executions, she slipped her hand into my pants under the table and started stroking me with the kind of innocent face that could win a jury. I almost came in my seat.
She just smiled and sipped her wine like she hadn’t just ruined me.
It was obsession. Worship. Something feral and addictive. Love.
I started forgetting why I’d come here. Forgetting the war I’d started. Forgetting that Pakhan was already dead—I just hadn’t killed him yet.
I thought I was the one teaching her—to be rough, to take, to survive. But she was the one teaching me how to stay. How to touch without breaking. How to hold without fear. How to wake up next to someone and not reach for a weapon.
Meanwhile, being Pakhan’s newly named right hand dragged me deeper into his operations.
Bigger jobs. Cleaner suits. Dirtier work.
And access.
He wanted to show off—wanted me impressed, loyal, shaped into whatever version of him he thought I could become. So he started handing me pieces of his empire like trophies.
Ledgers. Contacts. Routes.
I took them.
I read everything.
But I didn’t flinch. Didn’t react. I kept my face stone-cold, swallowing the rage even as it burned like gasoline in my veins.
The first ledger looked harmless enough.
Numbers. Codes. Neat little notes in the margins.
Then I turned the page.
Name: Kirill Truscov
Age: 6
Rate: Standard
Status: Processed
Notes: Quiet. Compliant.
My fingers tightened on the paper until it creased.
I kept reading.
Another page.
Name: Elizaveta Kirienko
Age: 4
Rate: Premium
Status: Awaiting transfer
Notes: Good condition
My jaw locked.
I flipped faster.
Pages blurred together. Countries. Dates. Payments routed through ghost companies. Shipments labeled “humanitarian aid,” “medical supplies,” “tech components.”
I stopped on a message clipped to the file.
“New batch arrived. Untouched.”
I stared at it.
Didn’t blink.
Turned the page.
“Blonde ones fetch double.”
My hand twitched hard.
Mila was blonde.
The realization didn’t explode into rage. No heat. No roar in my blood. Just a sick, hollow plunge in my chest—like my heart had been carved out and the cavity left gaping.
For a second, the entire room narrowed to a ringing silence.
I kept going.
“She cried too much. Got rid of her.”
Something hot crawled up my throat.
I swallowed it.
The deeper I went, the more I saw. Children listed like fucking inventory. Routes. Buyers. Prices.
Pakhan kept talking, pouring himself another drink like this was just another Tuesday afternoon.
“Started small,” he said. “No one notices a few shipments here and there.”
Ice clinked in his glass.
“Then you scale. That’s where the money is.”
He smiled.
Proud. Like the sick fuck had invented something brilliant. His little secret empire, built right under the old Pakhan’s nose.
“And now?” He gave a low, satisfied chuckle, swirling the glass lazily. “Now the world does half the work for you. You’d be surprised how easy it is to make someone disappear when everyone’s already too busy surviving.”
I didn’t look up.
If I did, I’d put a bullet between his eyes right then and there.
That was how he climbed—money first, then influence, then the throne. He’d been orchestrating it long before he ever claimed the title. Long enough to take Mila. Decades of children turned into inventory, and the bastard still sleeping soundly at night. If karma exists, it’s clearly on vacation.
I started watching the men around me. If I was going to take down this entire operation, I needed allies. Not many. Just a few I could trust not to stab me the second things got bloody.
I hated talking to people. Hated pretending. I’d never wanted to be a leader.
But I didn’t have a choice. When the day came—when I’d finally burn this place to the ground—I needed shooters beside me who wouldn’t flinch.
So I watched. I listened.
Some were just in it for the money. Ruthless, but not lost.
Others? Already gone.
The ones who knew about the trafficking—the ones who helped run it—they were monsters. The way they talked about kids made me want to gut them on the spot. Calling them “units,” “inventory,” or “fresh meat.”
They laughed. Joked. One even said, “Only thing worse than a crying kid is a dead one, ’cause then you can’t sell it.”
I stared at him for ten seconds straight, wondering if I should kill him right there.
And here I thought I was the monster.
But I wasn’t. Not compared to them.
They were evil. They weren’t just soulless—they were ravenous decay, maggots in suits, feeding on pain like it was pleasure.
They’d be my opening act—screaming, bleeding, begging before the real war even began.