Chapter 28
No One Keeps Me Waiting
—Maksym—
Ididn’t need to sneak around anymore. Pakhan had handed me the keys, convinced I’d guard his kingdom like it was mine. He had no idea what I was really doing—what I’d already begun.
I went looking for Mila.
I combed through records no one had touched in years—paper folders yellowed with time, digital files buried on old drives protected by passwords so outdated they barely needed cracking. I went back nearly two decades, chasing shadows and fragments.
And then I found her.
Her name. The year. The coded initials alongside her real ones in parentheses. The port where she was loaded. The container number. The route.
New York. They had sent her to fucking New York.
I stared at the file, lungs locked tight. It felt like someone had poured ice straight into my spine. The document didn’t confirm anything I hadn’t already feared, but seeing it laid out so clinically, so precisely, hit me like a freight train.
That was my sister. Three years old. Barely out of diapers. And someone had written her down like freight. Labeled. Tracked. Shipped.
I remembered her laugh. The way her tiny fingers used to grab my shirt when she got scared. Her favorite pink bunny she carried everywhere she went. Her soft hair. Her voice.
She must have been so terrified.
My throat burned. My hands trembled. I wanted to reach into the past, rip open that shipping container, and pull her into my arms. Tell her she was safe. That I was sorry. That I’d never let her go again.
But I was twenty fucking years too late.
Everything was there—organized like some Nazi archive. Every horrifying detail except one.
The trail ended there.
For other children, the files kept going. Follow-up reports. Payment logs. Transfer summaries. Death certificates.
But not for Mila.
Just that single entry.
And then—nothing.
I stared at the screen, seething. It made no sense. Why was there no record of where she ended up? No buyer listed. No confirmation. No final transaction. Nothing that said whether she was alive or dead.
I punched the desk hard enough to split my knuckles. Blood welled up, but I barely felt it. My vision blurred, not from pain—but from the sheer helpless rage crawling under my skin.
I needed answers.
So I called someone I hadn’t spoken to in years.
Rothman.
An American. A hacker. Crooked as hell.
We met in Kyiv, back when I was still building my reputation. He was tangled up in some Interpol mess—embezzlement, identity theft, leaking classified intel. The kind of man who would sell his soul if it meant staying off a watchlist.
He’d needed someone eliminated. I made it happen.
He told me if I ever needed a favor—really needed one—he’d deliver.
So I called it in.
Rothman picked up on the second ring. I told him everything. What I’d found. What I hadn’t. What I needed.
He didn’t interrupt. He just listened.
“Send me everything,” he said. “Photos. Records. Every scrap you’ve got.”
I kept every photo of her. Dozens. Small, worn at the edges, creased from being folded and unfolded too many times.
They followed me from the orphanage to the streets, through gangs, safehouses, wars, and flames.
Everything else in my life burned or broke.
Those didn’t. They were my evidence that she had existed—and that I hadn’t gone insane.
I sent them all.
Then I waited.
And waited.
And tried not to fall apart.
Every night, going to bed with Kira wrapped around me like a second skin—my mind spun itself to pieces. Her father had destroyed entire generations, and I was lying next to the proof of it.
Kira. Mila. Me. Thousands of kids who never had a chance.
I kept my mask on—cold, obedient, lethal.
But it was slipping. I’d done unspeakable things and lived with it.
I thought I’d already crossed every line there was.
Then I saw those files. Saw the system. Saw the scale of it.
That was worse than any battlefield. Worse than any blood on my hands.
I thought my heart was dead. Turns out it was just buried.
And now it was clawing its way out, screaming.
I couldn’t afford to break down.
But I was close.
Closer than I’d been in years.
Kira was the only thing keeping me upright.
If not for her, I might’ve already snapped and shot everyone in that house just to make the noise stop. She didn’t know it—didn’t see how every night with her stitched something back together inside me.
One night after a day that scraped me raw, I went to her door and knocked like I owned the place.
“I brought you milk,” I announced solemnly while opening the door. “For my little girl.”
The look she gave me could’ve drawn blood.
“Say something like that again,” she said sweetly, eyes narrowing, “and I won’t hesitate to use the gun you gave me.”
I grinned, voice low and cocky. “You signed up for this, Malaya—big dick, filthy mouth, and a terrible sense of humor.”
She rolled her eyes, but the smile tugging at her lips gave her away.
I revealed what I’d been hiding behind my back—a bottle of wine and a single glass. “This is what I actually brought.”
She snorted. “Who are you and what have you done with Maksym?”
With a crooked smile curling at the corner of my mouth, I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out a small bottle of vodka, letting it dangle from two fingers like a secret I was proud of.
She laughed, shaking her head, and climbed back onto the bed as I followed. “God, you’re ridiculous. I love it.”
We sat there like that—her with her wine, me with my vodka.
I was leaned back against the wall while she stretched along my chest, her head resting just under my chin.
My hand slid into her hair, fingers threading through the strands as I slowly massaged her scalp the way I knew she loved.
She made that soft little sound again, a soft murmur against my chest, almost like a kitten purring.
“One day,” I said, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head, “I’ll take you on a real date.”
She lifted herself up to face me, her eyes going wide with shock as her mouth fell open. “The Reaper? A date?”
I shrugged. “You broke me.”
Her smile was soft, disbelieving. “I did?”
“Yeah,” I said, pressing my forehead to hers. “You made me soft. Don’t tell anyone.”
Her grin curved slow and dangerous. “Okay… so what would we do on our date, Mr. Soft?”
I leaned back, took a swig from the vodka, and gave it a beat. “We could go kill someone together. I’ll show you how to do it right.”
She narrowed her eyes, as a smile tugged at her lips. “Weirdly… I’m not opposed.”
I shrugged. “Or we could go to the movies. That works too.”
She blinked at me. “The movies?”
“Yeah.” I lifted one shoulder. “Why not?”
She studied me for a second, lips pursed thoughtfully. “Alright. Important question then. What’s your favorite movie or TV show?”
“I don’t watch TV,” I said automatically.
“Come on,” she groaned, nudging my chest with her knee. “Stop being so tough. There has to be something you like. I know there’s a real you under all that brooding.”
I exhaled slowly, pretending to consider whether this information was classified. “If I tell you,” I said, narrowing my eyes at her, “you don’t get to laugh.”
Her grin widened instantly. “Oh, I’m absolutely going to laugh.”
I hesitated just long enough to make it dramatic. “Peaky Blinders.”
She stared at me for a beat—then burst out laughing. “Of course. You are so predictable.”
I scowled lightly. “Predictable?”
“You’re basically Tommy Shelby with a Ukrainian passport,” she said, tapping my chest. “Broody eyes, violent tendencies, tragic backstory. All you’re missing is the flat cap.”
I dragged a hand over my face. “I knew you’d mock me.”
“I’m not mocking you,” she said, still smiling. “I’m just saying it tracks.”
I leaned closer, lowering my voice. “You tell anyone, and I’ll deny everything.”
She laughed again and tucked herself against me. “Relax, Shelby.”
I shook my head, but I was smiling. “Fine. What about you?”
She lifted her chin. “What about me?”
“Your favorite. And don’t you dare say Barbie.”
She gasped in offense. “Excuse me?”
“I’m serious,” I said, pointing at her with the vodka bottle. “If you say Barbie, I’m reconsidering this whole date.”
She shoved my shoulder, laughing, and the sound of it settled something deep in my chest.
“Okay, fine,” she said, still grinning. “My favorite isn’t Barbie.”
“Oh?” I raised a brow. “Should I be afraid?”
She hesitated for half a second—then blurted it out. “Dexter.”
I stared at her.
“Dexter?”
Her cheeks went pink instantly. “Yes. Stop looking at me like that.”
I didn’t move. Just watched her.
She hid her face in her hands for a heartbeat, then peeked out, embarrassed. “I swear I didn’t realize how completely unhinged that sounds until I said it out loud.”
I let the grin come slow and sharp. “Malaya.”
She swallowed. “What?”
I leaned in, mouth grazing her ear, voice dropping low. “I fucking love unhinged.”
We laughed and stole lazy kisses between sips, her wine staining her lips, my vodka burning my throat. For once the violence stayed outside the door. This—her, us, tangled and easy—felt dangerously close to peace.
She thought I was joking.
But I meant it.
I wanted to take her on a date. I never thought I’d ever want something like that, not in this life—not with who I was—but with her, I did. I wanted to see her laugh in daylight. To hold her hand in public. To make her feel spoiled and wanted in the simplest ways. I wanted to be normal. For her.
I was tired of sneaking around like we were doing something dirty. Tired of keeping her in the shadows when all I wanted was to drag her into my light—if I had any left.
One day, I would do it.
After I killed her father.
If she ever forgave me for that.
The next week was hell.