Chapter 10
Maksim
I have three things to handle before noon.
The first is the port. Yegorov keeps moving cargo he shouldn’t be, and his name came out of Konstantin’s mouth before he became fish food. The fact that one of my men’s names is linked to Demidov, a man from Moscow, is a problem I need to deal with soon. Before it comes back to haunt me.
The second is money. Some decisions and signatures on documents from one of the construction companies are necessary to keep the money laundering running smoothly.
The third… I don’t even remember what it was.
I’ve been staring out the damn window for almost forty minutes.
My office is on the second floor, in one of the corners of the house, and the window overlooks the back courtyard. The area is paved, with a few tables scattered around before the garden starts and gives way to the woods.
Svetlana is dancing there.
Performing a series of movements I couldn’t name, but I know they’re beautiful when she does them.
She raises one leg in a line that shouldn’t be possible, holds the position, and lowers herself slowly, as if the air were thick and needed to be pushed aside.
She spins and stops mid-movement without stumbling.
It’s quite a feat for someone who sometimes limps. I’ve noticed how her right leg falters from time to time, especially at the end of the day. Svetlana may not have seen me, but I’ve seen her and watched her every move.
Just like now. I can’t stop looking at her.
This is a problem. I know it is, but knowing that doesn’t change anything.
This morning I woke up before her. Half dazed from actually sleeping so much and so well. Sleeping well isn’t common for me—I’ve lived with terrible insomnia for years—but last night was different. There was a woman in my bed. One who’d never been there before.
My wife.
And truth be told: no woman has ever been in this bed. I’ve never had a relationship serious enough to bring her to my house. This place is my fortress, and the women who came through my life were just easy sex and distraction.
Not Svetlana.
I slept better than I ever have beside her, wrapped in her soft, sweet scent, and when I woke up, I found myself wanting to stay there longer. Especially after what I saw when I looked over.
She was sleeping with her back to me, the comforter bunched at her waist and one leg uncovered.
I mean, besides the pajamas themselves, which were the most modest she could find in the closet, I’m sure.
Still, the thin, striped fabric hugged all the right places.
Her toned thigh ended in the subtle curve of a perfectly shaped ass.
Small, like the rest of her, but delicious.
I’m sure it would fit perfectly in my hands.
That was my first thought. And the most alarming one. Even so, I stayed there for a while, lying still, looking at her.
The wife I bought. The same one I made a point of telling we’d have a real marriage, while my cock hardened well past a morning erection just from looking at an ass covered by thin fabric.
I got out of bed slowly so I wouldn’t get caught when she started to stir.
In the shower, I jerked off thinking about all the things I could do with that delicious ass until I came in my hand.
The climax was followed by a moment of clarity.
I don’t know anything about her. I don’t know how many men she’s had in her life.
The thought of other men taking what’s mine infuriates me. And once again, it shows me just how complicated this situation has become.
Now I’m standing in front of the window, watching her dance in the courtyard in clothes too thin for the biting cold outside.
I should be working, but I want my wife in a way I’ve never experienced before.
Desire alone is simple, easy to manage, but this…
With each passing second, I want Svetlana with an intensity that borders on madness, and I fight the urge to grab her and hide her somewhere no one else can reach.
The door opens unceremoniously, and Vladimir enters without knocking. I don’t need to turn around to know it’s him. My advisor is the only one in the world who walks in without announcing himself. Internally, I’m grateful for the distraction.
“The port numbers,” he says, folder in hand. “You asked for them today.”
“Leave it on the desk.”
He doesn’t. Instead, he crosses the office and stops beside me. It’s unusual for me to be glued to the window, I know that, but it’s hard to pull away when her movements are so beautiful, so fluid.
Hypnotizing.
“Ah!” I hear him exclaim.
“Don’t say anything.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You said ‘ah.’ And I know your ‘ah.’”
Vladimir doesn’t respond immediately. He stands beside me, watching her spin and spin, as if the world around her didn’t exist.
“You know this is a problem,” he says finally.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I deny it in the most absurd way possible.
“This.” He jerks his chin toward the window, hands still clasped behind his back. “You, standing here at the window, for what? About twenty minutes?”
“Forty,” I mutter, and I don’t know why.
“I was trying to be polite. I stopped by earlier, and you were already at it.”
“Now you're lying.”
“I came at nine. It's almost ten.”
I glance at the clock, finally turning away from the window. He's right, and I hate that he's right. The fact that I didn't notice a whole hour slip by is exactly what he came to point out.
“I was thinking about Yegorov,” I lie.
“About Yegorov...” Vladimir repeats slowly, tasting the lie and finding it sour. “Does Yegorov dance ballet now?”
I don't respond.
“Maksim.”
His voice changes. Less mockery, more the tone of a counselor who's known me practically my whole life.
In many ways, Vladimir was a father figure to me, filling the void my own father couldn't. I realize he still confuses the roles sometimes, even thirteen years after I became Pakhan.
Hell, even I get confused sometimes, but Vladimir needs to understand that I've grown up. He can't treat me like a kid forever.
“You getting attached is a problem. You know the rule. The thing you love is the same thing the enemy uses against you. Ekaterina taught me that in the worst way possible, and I don't want to see you go through the same.”
Silence fills the office for a moment. Ekaterina. Vladimir doesn't say his late wife's name out loud. The fact that he's saying it now shows how serious he is.
“I'm not attached,” I say firmly, and he just stares at me. “And I don't love her. That's ridiculous. We've known each other less than a week.”
I scoff, because the truth is Vladimir is making this into something it's not. My relationship with Anya has nothing to do with what he had with his wife. He loved Ekaterina. They married young and started building a family. That's not what I have with my wife. And it's not what I'm going to have.
He looks at me a while longer. Then shrugs.
“All right.”
That's all he says before turning to leave. But there's something in his expression that unsettles me. He leaves the papers on the desk and heads toward the door.
“Vladimir.”
I call out, but he doesn't turn around. Just stops and waits.
“The port numbers. Let's go over them after lunch.”
“Sure.”
And his “sure” carries the same weight as an “ah,” and I know that he knows, and he knows that I know that he knows. That's exactly why he's part of the Circle. He reads me and never uses any of it against me.
Besides the fact that I've never felt the urge to kill him. That counts too.
The door closes behind him, and I return to the window.
Anya has stopped dancing and now stands in the middle of the courtyard, breathing hard, arms wrapped around herself, trying to get warm. The cold has won, even with all the heat the dancing must have generated.
She looks toward the woods but doesn't dare get close.
She stopped exactly where the courtyard ends and the garden begins.
Not one step beyond. I imagine it's because Olga said the woods are dangerous, and she listened, calculated, and obeyed her own judgment—not the order.
Svetlana isn't stupid. She doesn't run toward danger.
She just observes it from a distance, hugging herself, shivering, wearing a blouse far too thin.
I wonder if this is just a silly act of rebellion or if she simply didn't realize how cold it would be outside.
Must be the second. Senseless acts of rebellion don't seem like her style.
The closet is full of clothes I had bought the moment I decided she'd be mine, and she hasn't refused to wear any of them. She just forgot.
I grab my phone and select the number from my favorites.
I'm not going down there. That would be admitting that maybe Vladimir's fanciful theory is real, and I'm not doing that. Because I know he's worrying over nothing.
“Sir?” Olga answers.
“Take her a coat.”
I don't say anything else. Just hang up. She understood and will do what I ordered.
There's nothing unusual about this. I just don't want my new wife catching pneumonia and dying. That would be an inconvenience.
I stay at the window, waiting for Olga to appear with the coat. When she emerges and drapes the heavy garment over Anya's shoulders, my wife looks up, surprised. Not at Olga, who brought the coat to warm her. At me. At the window.
She'd already seen me up here, watching her dance like some damn pervert, and knew the moment Olga appeared that I'd given the order. Anya held my gaze a few seconds longer. Not with a smile or a wave, but with a slight nod, so subtle it was almost imperceptible. Still, I noticed.
I noticed everything about her.
The way her hair, pulled back in a bun, now had loose strands from the biting wind. Her wide eyes studying me from below, her cheeks flushed pink from the cold and exertion.
Vladimir wasn't right, but I was.
Her beauty was, indeed, a problem.