Chapter 14
Maksim
“Stop biting your nail.”
Yuri grumbles but doesn’t take his thumb out of his mouth. His eyes are glued to the three screens in front of him. He’s been there for hours—his posture says it all. Hood pulled up to block his peripheral vision, spine twisted, shoulders tense.
Next to the keyboard sits an empty pack of gummy bears, a handful of little green ones discarded in the corner of the desk. He never eats the green ones.
“Find anything?”
“Only that the fire didn’t start in the warehouse itself, but in the office.” He points with his chin at one of the screens. “In the storage room where they kept all the paperwork.”
So it wasn’t an accident. It was obvious none of it was an accident. But this confirms it. Someone’s trying to cover their tracks.
“What were they trying to make disappear?”
“I’m trying to figure that out.” Yuri swivels his chair a few inches, faces the third screen.
“But Yegorov’s been too quiet for someone who just lost an entire warehouse.
And his cargo’s been going out on a route that doesn’t match the clients he reports to us.
Looks like the real clients are way higher up. ”
Moscow.
That’s what he means, but he doesn’t need to say it. We already know.
“I want names.”
“Give me a few hours.”
Yuri turns back to the screens, his long fingers flying across the black and red keyboard.
As I’m about to leave, my gaze drifts back to the empty candy wrapper. I was going to let it go, but I can’t. I forget too often that he’s just a kid prodigy who started working for me too early, just to escape his own pain.
“Yuri,” I call, and get a grunt in response. “Did you eat today?”
“Olga gave me soup at eleven.”
He shrugs. His posture is dismissive, but I know he gets irritated when we treat him like the youngest—which he is. I glance at my watch. Five in the afternoon.
“And since eleven?” I press.
He follows my gaze to the forgotten wrapper. Picks up a green gummy bear, pops it in his mouth, and chews while staring me down in silent challenge. As much as I want to take care of this kid, I also want to punch him in the face. It’s remarkable.
“Candy isn’t food,” I grumble.
“It’s sugar. Sugar is energy. Energy is work.”
“Go eat,” I order.
“Data first.”
“Always.”
I roll my eyes but don’t argue. Don’t order again. I pull up a chair, spin it around, and sit with my arms crossed over the back. I wait.
Two minutes. That’s how long it takes for him to give in. Always.
At first, he pretends I don’t exist. Then his fingers slow until they stop. Yuri exhales through his nose, pushes back from the desk.
“Fine.”
When he passes me on his way to the door, not looking at me as a form of childish protest, I give him a light smack on the back of the head, just like Igor does to me.
I hate it, and Yuri hates it too. But he takes it and swallows the complaint.
Not because I’m the Pakhan, but because this kid is the closest thing I have to a younger brother. The Circle is my only family, really.
And Svetlana now.
The thought dances through my mind like an intruder, forcing itself to take root.
“And you should sleep more.”
Yuri doesn’t say anything else, just heads toward the hallway, leaving the concern and care between us disguised as bickering. When he crosses the threshold, I hear him call out quietly.
“Anya.”
I turn my head fast—faster than I meant to—like some clueless civilian caught off guard.
Pathetic.
Svetlana is standing in the doorway, just watching.
I don’t know how long she’s been there. Looks like she was passing by and stumbled onto Yuri’s office by chance.
This wing of the house has basically belonged to Vladimir and Yuri for eleven years, since they moved in after Ekaterina’s death.
Knowing Olga, I doubt she gave my wife all the details, so Svetlana wouldn’t have known what she’d find here.
She stands there a moment, taking in the room, until those huge green eyes land on me.
“He’s right, you should eat.” She turns, heading back the way she came, but before disappearing completely, she glances over her shoulder, giving me a view of her profile. “And sleep too.”
Without waiting for a response, my wife leaves, leaving me rooted there with nothing to say or do.
Two more days working nonstop. Having to face Yegorov’s fake outrage over his cargo warehouse and pretend we don’t notice him sweating every time I get close. The damn traitor has no idea I’m onto his side dealings. But he’s terrified that day will come.
It will come.
Yuri is working tirelessly to track down every loose end and every connection he has to Moscow, but so far, nothing worth acting on. I keep my distance, watching. Planning my revenge.
The sun is still high in the sky when I return home. I drop the mask on the hall table, knowing Olga will return it to my office as soon as she finds it there.
The house is empty and silent, as it’s always been since I bought it and moved in. This kind of tranquility used to be exactly what I needed after days like these, but now it just feels empty.
I head up the stairs until a sound stops me.
Classical music.
My feet carry me there without conscious thought, drawn automatically by the sound of music echoing through the house. As I approach, the music grows louder, escaping through the half-open door.
Since the room was finished and I gave the key to Olga to deliver to her, I haven’t come this way. I treat this hallway as if it isn’t mine, as if it isn’t part of my house. Because I want Anya to have a space of her own here. I want her to feel at home in a place she had no choice but to come.
I peek through the door. Once again, like some damn perverted teenager.
Svetlana is in the middle of the room, her back to the mirror, facing the window that overlooks the woods. Even without seeing her face, I can tell she’s breathless, but she keeps moving as if this were her natural state, as if she were made for this.
She crosses the room on her toes as if floating. I don’t know anything about dance, but just watching her, I know it can’t be easy. When she stops and balances on her right leg to spin, her leg fails.
The injured knee fails and she falls.
I take half a step before stopping myself, my hand gripping the doorknob until my knuckles turn white. I want to help her up and ask who did this to her. Who’s responsible for taking away her only joy in life.
Rage consumes my chest. I feel my jaw tense, my teeth clench. In the middle of this mess Yegorov has caused, I haven’t been able to look more closely into this so-called accident.
As Anya gets up, shakes out her bad leg and starts over, I promise myself I won’t let this go. Whoever did this to her will pay, whether through the courts or by my own hand.
I’ve been a fucking coward lately.
The vodka swirls in the glass as I move my hand back and forth, aimlessly. Yegorov, the warehouse fire, Moscow’s interference in my business… I used all this work as an excuse to run from how out of control she makes me feel.
Every night I didn’t share her bed, I thought of her.
The taste of her skin, those damn sighs, the way Anya moved beneath me, hungry for everything I would do to her.
If it weren’t for the fucking phone I would have fucked her that night.
In all the dirtiest and most perverse ways I’ve been imagining since then.
“Blyat[17].”
I down what’s left of the vodka in one gulp and push away from the table, resolved.
I’m not a fucking coward. I promised her I’d wait until she asked for me, and I will. Anya will only know how much she desires me if I’m beside her every day reminding her of it.
I head into the hallway and march to the bedroom. When I enter, I find her lying with her back to the door. She’s still awake, despite not wanting me to know.
But I know.
I know the sound of her breathing when she sleeps. It was the only thing I had of her these last hellish days.
I leave the gun on the table near the entrance, go to the armchair in the corner and take off my clothes without ceremony. Pants, belt, shirt. When I climb into bed in just my underwear, Anya still hasn’t turned around, but her breathing changes.
The mattress gives under my weight, but the bed is too big for us to touch accidentally. I fight the urge to move closer, keeping my word. But this cold distance between us is fucking uncomfortable too.
“Did you like the room?”
I fill the void with the question to make it clear I know she’s awake. Anya may want to pull away, but I’m here.
“I did,” she responds quietly. “Thank you.”
The polite, automatic, lifeless thanks irritates me.
“I wasn’t looking for thanks, Svetlana.”
“Why did you ask, then?”
The only sound in the room is the rustle of sheets as her small body shifts. In the dim light, I watch her turn toward me and meet my gaze with fire in her eyes. I like it when she challenges me. She seems more herself and less the polite, silent girl she was forced to be.
“Is the floor right?”
“It’s professional.”
I agree with a grunt. Of course it is. I didn’t spend two nights reading about floating floors and impact cushioning to give her anything less than the best.
“You didn’t need to do all this,” she grumbles, as proud as I am when it comes to accepting expensive gifts.
“You’re my wife.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
I shift closer to her, reaching out to brush that same lock of hair that keeps falling over her eyes. With my face so close to hers that our breaths mingle, I tell her the truth:
“It means everything.”
I pull away, not prolonging the contact.
Silence hangs between us. Not as heavy as it once was, but still full of unspoken things.
“Maksim.”
I hear my name leave her lips. I like the way it sounds in her voice—more human, less monster.
“What?”
Slowly, Svetlana closes the distance between us, taking the same position I was in just seconds ago. She raises her hand this time, mirroring my movement, but not to touch my hair.
Anya gently caresses my scar, starting at the corner of my left eye and trailing down to my chin. Halfway down, she pulls her hand away and surprises me, pressing her full, warm mouth against my skin.
She’s kissing my scar. Right at the point between my eyes and mouth.
“Thank you.” Pause. “Really.”
The thanks is followed by a short, simple smile without teeth. There’s nothing formal or polite about it like her first “thank you.” This time, it came from inside her. From a place she doesn’t usually access, much less let anyone see. It was fragile and sincere.
I don’t respond. I don’t know what to say, but she knows this and doesn’t wait. She just pulls away and murmurs a soft “good night” before turning over and settling in to sleep.
Before long, her breathing changes and she finally falls asleep.
And I stay awake. But for the first time in days, it’s not Yegorov, or the warehouse, or all the shit coming from Moscow that’s keeping my eyes open.
It’s her. Sleeping a hand’s breadth away from me, with no idea that I’m losing myself over her.