2. Maksim
Maksim
I stare down from my throne at my kingdom below. Okay, it’s not technically a throne or a kingdom. I’m standing at the railing from the VIP section of my exclusive club.
I built this from a handshake and a favor owed to my brother by a city inspector. That was eight years ago. Now Obsidian is the hottest place in Miami. The line to get in is always long, and my people are selective. We don’t let just anyone in.
I scan the undulating figures below. As usual, women outnumber the men.
And only the most beautiful ladies are allowed through those doors.
It’s not a sex club. People often call it that because after a night here, there will definitely be sex.
It’s not a brothel, either, something else that gets mixed into the language surrounding my clubs.
Plenty of women below will provide sex for a price. I simply provide a safe environment. The women who work here, using my club as their hunting ground, are protected. They have rules. They have security. And most importantly, they have a choice.
Cinder moves up beside me. “Busy night.”
I’m not listening to her. My attention is elsewhere.
I've done this long enough to spot the typical woman offering services. She knows how to move in heels. She knows how to work a dress. She knows how to smile and flirt and draw men in like moths to a flame.
The woman who has my attention is stumbling like she's walking in heels for the first time. Her legs wobble with each step, and her knees buckle inward. She's wearing a tight red dress that's riding up her thighs. It’s too short to be decent. She keeps trying to pull it down with jerky, uncoordinated movements. Her makeup is caked on. I’ve seen that before. It’s makeup meant to conceal rather than enhance.
She looks around. Even from up here, I can see her gaze is unfocused. She's not drunk. I know drunk. This is something else. I’ve seen it too many times. She’s high as a fucking kite, and something tells me it wasn’t a choice.
"Who let the Albanians in?"
Cinder follows my gaze. "Fuck.”
"I want them out."
“I didn’t let them in.”
“Cinder.”
“Maksim.”
Cinder is my… sister? Mother? Friend. All those things.
She’s been with me for years. She can read me better than anyone, and she never puts up with my shit.
Cinder is not afraid of me. Hell, I don’t think she’s afraid of anyone.
With everything she’s been through, I’m pretty sure she believes she’s invincible.
Maybe she is.
“Who’s the woman?” I ask.
“I don’t know.”
I sigh and glance at her. “Are you trying to annoy me?”
“Nope. Comes naturally.”
Three of those assholes are surrounding the young woman.
Bekir and his two jackals. I know them by reputation.
They run girls through Miami like cattle, burning them out in weeks and then moving on to fresh meat who rarely volunteers.
Their operations are sloppy and brutal, and they leave bodies in their wake.
They don't belong in my club. They’re usually not stupid enough to bring their bullshit in here. Why are they here now? And with her? Are they setting me up? It’s clear the little thing isn’t twenty-one. I’m not even sure she’s eighteen.
The girl stumbles again, and one of them catches her by the arm, yanking her upright. She flinches. It's a small movement, instinctive, the kind that tells me everything I need to know.
"Get security. Now."
“Shit. The poor thing.”
Cinder pulls her radio and speaks rapidly into it.
She handles things in her unique way. People think she’s harsh.
Brutal. Cold. I know her heart. She’s the kindest, most loving, sensitive woman I’ve met; she just hides it very, very well.
Not from me. I’ve seen her at her darkest and lowest. I know her just like she knows me.
I watch as Bekir leans in close to the girl, his mouth near her ear. She tries to pull away, but her legs won't cooperate. She's barely standing. How much did they give her?
My hands tighten on the railing.
The girl's head lolls to the side. I catch a glimpse of her face under the harsh club lights. Her blonde hair has been styled in a way that looks unnatural on her. Even under all the makeup, she’s got an innocence about her.
She doesn't belong here.
And from the way Bekir is gripping her arm, she didn't choose to be here.
"Boss." Mike—short for Michelangelo—appears at my elbow. Sampson, because the dude could lift a building if needed, is right behind him. Both are built like brick walls and twice as intimidating. They are two of my regular security guards. They travel with me and don’t work club security. I know Cinder’s dealing with them.
She’ll also deal with the manager and get better security.
If someone is going to let the Albanians in, they won’t work for me.
"The Albanians. Get them out. Quietly." I pause, watching as the girl tries to pull away again.
Mike shifts his weight. "Bekir won’t like that."
"I don't give a fuck what Bekir likes." I finish my vodka and set the glass down. "No trafficking. Not here. Not ever."
They move without another word, disappearing down the stairs toward the main floor.
I watch as they approach. Bekir sees them coming, and his expression shifts from predatory satisfaction to annoyance. There's a brief exchange. I can't hear it, but I can read the body language. Bekir shakes his head. Sampson steps closer, and Bekir's hand suddenly moves away from the girl's arm.
Smart man.
The girl sways without his support, and Mike catches her before she hits the floor. She looks up at him with glassy, unfocused eyes, and even from here, I see the fear spike through the drugs.
I head down the stairs to handle the situation.
Bekir glares at me, with his two men flanking him like trained dogs. I look at the young woman, and my suspicions are confirmed.
"That's my property, Sokolov,” he growls.
"Nothing in my club is your property. You know the rules."
"She came willingly."
"She can barely stand."
"So? Half the women here can barely stand by midnight." He steps closer, and I can smell cigarettes and cheap cologne. "You're making a mistake."
"No, Bekir. You made the mistake when you brought trafficked meat into my establishment." I drop my smile. "You and your men are banned. If I see you here again, I won’t ask you to leave, but you will be gone.”
I turn on my heel and walk away. I'm halfway across the floor when I hear a sharp cry of pain that rings out loudly enough to break through the music.
I spin around to see the girl on the floor with her hand pressed against her cheek. One of Bekir's men is standing over her with his hand still raised.
I'm moving before I can think about it. Mike and Sampson are converging, but I get there first. I grab the Albanian by his collar and slam him against the nearest wall. His head makes a satisfying thud against the concrete.
"You just made this very simple," I say. "Touch her again, and I'll break every bone in your hand."
"Maksim." Bekir's voice carries a warning. "Walk away."
I release the jackass and turn to face him. The girl is still on the floor, pushing herself up with shaking arms. Her dress has ridden up past decency.
"How much?" I look at Bekir.
His eyes narrow. "What?"
"How much did you pay for her? I will buy her."
"She's not for sale."
"Everything's for sale. That's your philosophy, isn't it?" I stand slowly, positioning myself between him and the girl. "Name your price."
“She’s. Not. For. Sale.”
The girl is barely conscious and clearly traumatized.
"Everyone has a price." I pull out my phone. "Name it. I'll send the money right now."
One of his men shifts forward, but Bekir holds up a hand. "You don't understand. She's been purchased. Our boss made a deal years ago.”
"Then give him back his money."
"It doesn't work like that." Bekir's smile is ugly. "This one is special. Personal transaction. We're just the delivery service."
I should walk away. I can't save them all. I've learned that lesson the hard way too many times. For every girl I pull from the fire, ten more are waiting to take her place. It's an endless cycle, and I'm not a fucking hero.
"Get out of my club," I say finally. "Take your merchandise and leave. I don't want any part of this."
Bekir's smile widens. "Smart man, Sokolov. For once."
I turn and walk away. The music pounds in my ears. A brunette in a silver dress intercepts me, sliding her hand up my chest. "Maksim, baby, I haven't seen you in weeks.”
I let her talk as I climb back up to the VIP section. Cinder gives me a questioning look, and I nod once. Cinder puts her hand on the woman’s arm. “Maksim isn’t interested.”
“Back off, Cinder. You don’t get to keep him to yourself.”
I grimace because I know how Cinder reacts to anyone who insinuates we’re anything more than friends. I’m not sure why, and I should probably ask her one of these days, but she gets very offended by the suggestion that she might be sleeping with me. I think I should be offended.
“If you want to keep working here, you’ll leave him alone,” Cinder warns. “I brought you in because I was feeling charitable. This is the second time you’ve pissed me off. Three times, and you can find another house.”
I move to the railing and scan the crowd below. Cinder returns to stand beside me. Royalty, surveying the kingdom.
“You’re harsh,” I say.
“Don’t ask me to handle something if you don’t like the way I do it.”
“Do you know them?” I ask her.
“No. I avoided the Albanians. The smart girls always did.”
Cinder tells me what she wants about her past. I know what she had to do to survive. She’s battle-hardened. A Phoenix who rose from the ashes of the life she’d been dealt. I respect her.
“What’s your take?” I ask.
“Runaway. She owes them something. Drugged. They’ll turn her out until she overdoses and dies. With as much shit as she’s on, I’d say that’s not far away.”
My stomach clenches. “She’s young.”
“Yep.”
Cinder and I watch them. A few of the other women they brought into my club are trying to pick up some business before they leave. Bekir is on his phone. The girl has collapsed into one of the booths, her head lolling back against the leather. She looks like a broken doll.
I tell myself it's not my problem. I've already done more than most would by kicking them out. Whatever happens after she leaves my club isn't my responsibility.
But then Bekir ends his call and grabs her by the hair.
He yanks her up from the booth. Her scream is lost in the music. Then, he drags her across the floor like she's garbage as she claws at his grip.
Rage floods through me. I don't tolerate that shit here.
"Cinder, get Damien." I'm moving, taking the stairs two at a time.
Damien is my right hand, and Cinder is my left.
My business would not function without either of them.
Damien is never far from wherever I am. If something happens to me, Damien will know what to do.
He knows my brothers. They trust him. Sergei and Nikolai trust few people, but they trust him to keep me safe.
I hit the main floor and cut through the crowd. People automatically part for me. They know who I am. What I am.
"Bekir!"
He stops, still gripping her hair. She's whimpering, her tears cutting through the heavy makeup.
"I changed my mind."
“We’re leaving,” he says.
“I gave you a chance. Now, she’s staying with me.”
Bekir's eyes narrow. "You're making an enemy you don't want, Sokolov."
"I have plenty of enemies. What's one more? Leave her and walk away.”
"Can't do that." He reaches for her.
I shove him backward. He releases the girl, who falls to the ground. This time, the tiny skirt reveals the fact that she’s not wearing panties. I shrug off my jacket and lay it over her. I’m so fucking pissed that I can hardly see straight.
His men move in. I see the one on the left reaching for something in his jacket. A weapon.
Damien appears from nowhere and clamps his hand on the man's arm. "I wouldn't."
Sampson and Mike materialize on either side of us, forming a wall of muscle. The crowd has noticed, and phones are coming out. This is about to become a scene.
"Last chance," I say quietly. "Walk away."
Bekir looks at his men, then at mine. The math isn't in his favor. "This isn't over."
"It is for tonight."
He spits at my feet and storms toward the exit. His men follow, one of them throwing a glare over his shoulder.
I look down at the girl. She's trying to push herself up, but her arms keep giving out. The drugs are still heavy in her system.
"Get her to the back office," I tell Damien.
He gives me a look. Fair enough. There’s an unwritten rule in our world. You don’t steal other people’s property. I don’t see women as property, but they do. And what I just took is obviously a prized possession.
I watch Damien easily scoop her up. She doesn't fight. She's barely conscious. Up close, I see the bruises under the makeup. Fresh ones. Her beautiful blonde hair has a splotch of blood.
“Wait,” I tell Damien.
I carefully push aside the hair and wince. Damien slowly shakes his head. “She’s in bad shape.”
“Get her out of here. My place. I’ll get Cinder.”
Her eyes crack open. Confusion and terror stare back at me.
“Please,” she whispers.
Fuck.
I’m not giving her back.