Chapter 17
Maksim
I should have gone upstairs an hour ago.
I told her I had things to take care of, and it wasn't a lie. But I finished the urgent work a while ago, and still, I didn't go to the bedroom. Getting dinner out of my head was proving harder than I'd expected.
She laughed, and it caught me off guard.
When I told her about Igor getting beaten by his mother with a wooden spoon, I didn't think it was that great a story, yet she laughed anyway.
Svetlana laughed so loud, without holding back, without worrying about how I might react, and it was like I was seeing her for the first time.
I think I caught a glimpse of the woman she was before everything.
Before the accident and moving back in with her useless parents.
I feel a stab of pain radiating through my jaw from clenching my teeth. This woman throws me off balance in a way I haven't felt in years. No woman has ever made me feel like this—exposed, reactive, ready to do anything to hear that laugh one more time.
I remember my mother's smile, how she'd show it to me even with tears streaming down her face after hearing my father's insults.
That sadist made her cry as easily as he granted her every request. I touch my eyebrow, where the scar he gave me begins, and I can't shake the intrusive thought that Anya's parents deserve the same fate as my father.
Killing is too quick, she said.
But I could make it slow.
The thought slips away when a sharp knock on the door echoes through the room.
“Come in.”
Yuri enters without ceremony. His hood is pushed back and he has a tablet tucked under his arm. The dark circles under his eyes tell me he's been sleeping even less than I have, but I'll leave it to his father to reprimand him. Or Olga.
“You asked me to look into something a while ago,” he says, standing in front of my desk. “The thing with Yegorov and the warehouse ended up delaying me, but I didn't forget.”
He holds out the tablet. I take it but don't look yet, waiting for his explanation.
“Your wife's accident,” he continues, and my attention sharpens. There's no way he could know I was just thinking about this. But I can't help wondering if Yuri's presence here is some kind of divine intervention. “The hit-and-run in Moscow five years ago that ended her career.”
The room goes quieter than it already was. The sound of my heavy breathing becomes more evident.
“Talk.”
“It wasn't an accident.” I grit my teeth again, irritated by the confirmation of what I'd already suspected.
“The sedan that hit her wasn't just passing by. It sat parked three blocks away for forty minutes and pulled out the exact moment she was crossing. Then it vanished, avoiding almost all the security cameras from local businesses. Cold plates, unregistered car. The driver knew what he was doing. And he was doing it on purpose.”
“Professional,” I state.
Yuri just nods in confirmation.
“Neighborhood loan sharks don't do this, Maks. You know that. They break legs and arms and send messages. This was perfectly planned to look like bad luck, except to whoever was involved.”
“Aleksei.”
“Old Voronov's money trail runs up from Vysotsk, passes through St. Petersburg, and disappears into an operation connected to Moscow. Same direction as always. He gets involved with anyone who'll give him money. I haven't found the Moscow man's name yet, but I'm getting there.”
Moscow.
This shit again. Everything points there.
Yegorov, the fire, the siege of casinos in Tallinn, and now this. Too many pieces in the air for me to grab hold of just one, and if everything is interconnected like the information suggests, any hasty move could be a problem.
“Are you sure?” I ask, still trying to understand how shit like this could happen.
“The data doesn't lie.”
I stare at the fire burning lazily in the fireplace.
Five years ago, a woman I didn't yet know crossed a street in Moscow and was hit by a car that destroyed her knee and her entire future. There was a message in that hit-and-run, but she never knew.
Anya never knew.
She simply went back to her parents' house with her life as broken as her knee and had to put up with those two pieces of human garbage without knowing it was their fault. Killing them might be too quick, but I don't think a lifetime of suffering would be enough to pay for what they caused her.
What would she do if she knew?
Curiosity tickles the back of my mind. Svetlana is an extraordinary woman, always surprising me with responses and gestures I never see coming. I summon the memory of her fingers' warmth touching my scar, then her warm lips kissing it.
She deserves justice. My kind of justice.
“Finish it. I want a name, Yuri. He's going to pay.”
The kid nods, and I see in his eyes a rare kind of determination. I hold back a smile. My sweet, broken wife is winning all of us over without even realizing it.
“Don't tell her.”
He nods again without asking why, and I'm grateful for that. Because I wouldn't know how to answer without lying.
I keep telling myself it's just to protect her. Svetlana doesn't need to carry this burden, especially when there's nothing she can do with this information.
Yet.
My mind screams with fury. The violent, merciless monster beneath my skin stirs restlessly. I want to make someone bleed for every minute of suffering she endured.
And as if he knows exactly what I need, Igor calls.
“We caught one of Moscow's men trying to get into Canal House.”
His voice is direct, but there's an edge to it. Canal House is one of our most profitable legitimate casinos and one of our biggest money laundering operations. If a Muscovite was trying to infiltrate, it means they're ramping up their aggression.
“Is he secured?”
“Gave the Canal House guys some trouble. I managed to knock him out. We're heading to the basement.”
Good.
A combative Muscovite will help satisfy some of the monster's fury inside me.
“I'll be there in half an hour.”
Canal House is packed tonight. The tables are piled high with chips from wealthy clients who like their alcohol expensive. They think this is a respectable place, and it is—to a point.
I enter through the back, masked, moving with quick, long strides. The corridors clear for me. No employee gets in my way, let alone dares to look in my direction as I head to the special room in the basement where we handle problems.
The man is tied to a simple chair. He's in his early thirties and tried to pass himself off as a beverage deliveryman.
Amateur move—wearing a jacket that's too nice, an expensive watch, and no calluses on his hands.
He's not a cheap thug. He's not used to the dirty work that comes with infiltration.
Igor is leaning against the wall, arms crossed, sleeves buttoned at the cuff as always. When I enter, the Muscovite glances my way, surprise flickering across his face.
“Muzhchina v maske.”
I ignore the murmur and turn to Igor.
“Did he say anything?”
“Gave a fake name and a bullshit story. Said he's just a guy trying to land a job.” Igor pushes off the wall. “The job part is actually true. He just didn't mention the employer.”
I pull up a chair, spin it around, and sit facing the man, close enough for him to feel there's nowhere to run. Beneath the mask, I keep my face impassive, as if that could somehow show through.
But no. The black skull only conveys fear and intimidation.
“You entered one of my houses pretending to be a deliveryman,” I begin, my voice low. “I don't want to know your name. I don't need to know it. You're nothing but a sewer rat, and I don't like dealing with scum.”
I hold out my hand without taking my eyes off the Moscow boyevik in front of me. Igor places the knife from his calf holster into my palm. I don't need to look at him to know there's a friendly smile on his lips. That habit is as much a part of him as never letting blood splatter on his tattoos.
The man has willpower. He controls himself, doesn't let anything slip when I drag the sharp blade across his chest. The skin yields and parts, blood streaming along the entire length of the cut.
He has no star tattoos or anything that would mark a high rank in the Moscow mafia, but it's obvious he knows more than some kid doing dirty work.
Grumbles. Grumbles and groans of pain. This isn't productive.
I raise the knife high and bring it down hard, burying it in his knee. His scream echoes through the room. The guy cries, his head lolling like he's about to pass out, but Igor grabs his hair and slaps his cheeks lightly.
“Don't fall asleep on me, tchel[19].”
“What's your job here?” I ask.
The bastard just cries and grumbles, giving me nothing, until I grip the knife handle again and twist.
Fuck, I think I'm hitting bone.
“Mapping!” he spits out between sobs. “It was just mapping, fuck! Cameras, shift change schedules, how much cash comes in per night, where it goes out. I had to pass it up the chain.”
“Up where?”
He hesitates, and I twist the knife in his knee a little more.
“Demidov! My payment comes through an intermediary, but it all comes from Pavel Demidov—everyone knows that back there!”
Demidov.
The name lands with a thud in the room and hangs there.
“Continue.” I yank out the knife, making him hiss and think I'm being merciful.
“It's been going on a long time.” His voice is already thin, but the words come out quick and clumsy now.
“He's been on top of you guys for years.
He laughs at you while he dominates Tallinn and the entire border with St. Petersburg.
He's telling everyone that the Man in the Mask is asleep.
That he's lost his edge. Anyone can walk into St. Petersburg through the front door and steal right under your nose.”
Igor stares at me, and his gaze says it all.
I told you. That’s what his eyes scream, not in a smug way, but with concern. We knew Demidov’s silence wasn’t retreat. It was preparation. The loud brigadier who complained too much went quiet because he stopped wanting recognition and started seizing it.
And I let him. Held back, patient, waiting for Yuri to map out the entire network before cutting a single thread. It seemed right—knowing exactly the path connecting Yegorov to Moscow—but I was careless. I took too long.
Patience against a stationary enemy is strategy, but when the enemy is attacking you, it’s weakness.
Years.
He said “years.” How did I let this slip by?
While I sat studying the board, putting out small fires, piecing together the complete map of this territorial war looming over us, Demidov was slipping across the line.
I’m furious at what this means. Wars are expensive, and sometimes the price is people’s lives. If Demidov is confident enough to crow about victory for anyone to hear, it means I’ve failed.
Before, the rumor was true: the Pakhan has nothing to lose. I could afford cold patience because, deep down, it made no difference. If Demidov got close, he’d find territory, men, money—things that can be recovered.
Now there’s a woman sleeping in my house. Someone who, after so much suffering, is allowing herself to smile. I can no longer afford patience if it means risking that smile, that spark of life that appears in her green eyes when she’s at ease.
“Who else knew about this operation?” I ask. “On this side. Who passed along the casino blueprints?”
“No one! I swear, it was external, it was all from outside…”
“Yegorov?”
The man freezes for half a second.
“I don’t know that name,” he says too quickly.
I shoot to my feet, the chair toppling sideways from my weight. I raise my fist and drive the first punch into the filthy Muscovite’s mouth. Igor steps back, releasing the man’s head, and I watch it loll loosely as my fist keeps pounding his face.
The wedding ring digs into my finger with the impact, causing a very welcome stab of pain. I’m furious at everything I let slip by, at all the negligence and betrayals happening right under my nose.
The man starts talking again, or tries to. The blood streaming from his nose and mouth keeps him from forming coherent sentences, along with the daze from the beating. He wants to give me more—more information, more names—but I don’t need to hear it. He’s already given me everything I needed.
Yegorov, one of my oldest brigadiers, is working with Demidov and the Moscow scum.
I’m getting breathless from the effort, and my knuckles are scraped raw. When I pause, the Muscovite babbles nonsense and Igor offers me the gun he pulled from his waistband. I shake my head.
I circle the chair, place my hands on either side of the man’s head, and with a sharp, trained motion, twist his neck. I feel the snap of it breaking at the same moment I hear the subtle crack.
And then, the body goes limp in the chair.
I stand motionless for a second, hands still raised, catching my breath.
It’s been years since I’ve felt remorse for killing someone.
Things are what they are, and in the Bratva, deaths are part of the job.
But now, all I feel is focus and cold calculation—all the pieces have fallen into place and point to Moscow.
“Clean this up,” I say to one of Igor’s boyeviks who’s been standing at the back of the room in silence the whole time.
“Da.”
“Send a message.” I turn to Igor. “No one’s sleeping here anymore.”
He just nods, as involved in this settling of accounts as I am.
When I pass him on my way to the exit, I pause beside him. As much as Igor trusts his team, you can never be too careful.
“Bring Yegorov to me.”
I don’t need any more words. Igor knows what that means, and the smile on his face means only one thing:
Finally.