Chapter 19
Maksim
This meeting should have ended an hour ago.
Yelena stands on the other side of the table, arms crossed, wearing that stubborn look of hers.
“We’re going to monitor our own,” I say for the third time. “Every man who’s had contact with Demidov and Yegorov in the last six months. You’ll coordinate from here.”
“We won’t get anywhere that matters from here, Maksim. Everything’s in Moscow. Let me in, damn it!” Yelena retorts.
“No.”
“I’ve got the right look for this. I’ve been watching an art gallery for sale there. Most of the clients are high-level and connected to the mafia and…”
“I said no.” My tone is emphatic. “Moscow is Orlov’s territory. The Moscow and St. Petersburg Bratvas have been rivals for decades—do I need to remind you what happened to your father?”
I’m harsh. Maybe too harsh, but Yelena’s insistence is wearing down my patience. She wants to charge in hot-headed, driven by personal revenge, but this isn’t the time.
“If you go, you’ll end up as a message hanging from a bridge the moment they discover you. Enough, Lena. You’re not going.”
She clenches her jaw, irritated, but keeps her mouth shut. She has much more to say, much more to complain about, but she understands the subject is closed. Yelena is my cousin and I treat her like family, but I’m also her Pakhan and my word is final.
“Yegorov?” I turn to Igor.
“Gone.” He’s stretched out in an office armchair, legs extended. “He heard about the Muscovite we erased at the Canal House and ran for some hole before we could get to him.”
“I want him tied up in a warehouse by tomorrow! Every hour that traitor breathes is another hour Demidov knows we’re onto him.” I squeeze the vodka glass tighter, feeling the hard glass press against my palm. “Find him. Turn the city upside down if you have to.”
“Da.”
Sitting in an armchair opposite Igor’s, Vladimir says nothing, just observes.
He gave his assessment earlier: Demidov is acting alone, the Moscow Pakhan and the most powerful brigadiers aren’t involved—otherwise this would’ve already become an all-out war.
I agree with him, but I don’t want to leave loose ends. Not anymore.
My patience is gone.
When I finally stand to adjourn, Igor opens his mouth just to irritate me, of course.
“You look like you haven’t slept in days, Malysh.” He flashes me a mocking smile. “Is married life weighing on you? They say that’s how it goes. We think we’re in charge at home and then find out who really is.”
“Poshyol ty[20].”
“Wow.” He laughs loudly, stands up, and grabs his coat. “Besides checking the clock, he also curses. Anya needs to train you better.”
Rage surges up my throat. It’s not the idiotic teasing or the suggestion that I’m being trained like a dog.
It’s her damn nickname coming out of someone else’s mouth.
I weigh whether to throw a punch straight at his nose or shove my gun against his forehead.
As tempting as both options are, I do nothing.
“Go to work, Igor. Yegorov still isn’t in that warehouse.”
I walk past him without another word, letting the anger dissolve. Showing any kind of emotion, especially jealousy, in front of Vladimir is asking for that stupidly irritating look that says “I told you it was a complication.”
I don’t speak to Yelena when I leave either. I leave them all there and head down the stairs to the first floor.
With each step toward the bedroom, I think about how we avoided each other all day. I left before she woke up, stayed buried in work until now on purpose, because after yesterday the last thing I need is to be inches away from her in bed. Self-control has its limits, and I exhausted mine yesterday.
I cross the hallway determined to slip in quietly, lie on my side, pretend to sleep until I actually drift off. But when I reach the bedroom, the door is ajar. That’s not normal—Anya always sleeps with the door closed.
I approach the crack slowly, alert to any sign of danger. The light spilling from inside is dim and yellow—only the lamp is on. I touch the wood gently, easing the door open a bit more.
The sound that escapes is soft, but it hits me like lightning.
Fast, ragged breathing mixed with stifled murmurs. The rustle of sheets against skin, a body moving, and a short, surprised gasp from someone who tried to hold back and couldn’t.
I freeze in the doorway, furious, before I even see the scene forming in my mind.
My fucking wife is masturbating with the door open.
Anyone could have walked by and heard. Anyone could have seen! The Circle knows to respect my personal space, but the few men on property security sometimes come inside for routine sweeps. If one of them heard even a single sigh escape my wife's lips, I swear I'll be collecting ears.
No one but me can hear her.
No one but me can see her like this.
She's mine.
I throw the door open and step inside.
Svetlana is in the middle of the bed, the dim lamplight tracing every curve of her body. The second she sees me standing there, she freezes. Her babydoll top is hiked up almost to her breasts, her hand shoved inside simple gray cotton panties with a dark, wet spot at the center.
My pulse races and my mouth waters. Wide green eyes meet mine, her face flushed, her lips parted around a breath she just swallowed.
For a second, Svetlana looks embarrassed at being caught. She presses her knees together, glances toward the pajama shorts tossed on my pillow, but then her eyes come back to me. In that instant, I know I'm fucked. I watch the embarrassment turn to determination.
Her chin lifts slowly, with that same petulant, stubborn defiance from last night. I breathe slowly and say nothing, just wait to see what her next move will be.
With her eyes locked on mine, she spreads her legs a little wider, keeps her hand right where it is inside her panties, and parts those full lips with a soft sigh. My cock swells and strains against my zipper at the mere thought of what's about to happen.
She's not going to stop. No. Anya is inviting me to watch, so I'll know exactly what I refused last night.
Infernal woman.
And God help me, because I love this game.
The corner of my mouth twitches up into a half-smile I can't contain. I close the door slowly behind me, never taking my eyes off her. The soft click of the lock echoes through the room, and I watch a shiver race across her skin.
“Don't stop on my account.”
“Maks.”
I like how the nickname sounds in her voice. Half breathless, half surprised, and full of desire.
“I told you to continue,” I say, raising an eyebrow.
She doesn't obey, of course. She just lies there with that fiery gaze measuring me until I start taking off my clothes.
I undo the buttons of my shirt slowly, one by one, because she doesn't need to know how eager I am for this.
The shirt slides off my shoulders and drops to the floor, the belt following.
I pop the button on my pants under the weight of her stare, her eyes tracking my every move.
I'm left in just my underwear, my erection straining against the black fabric.
I like that she stares longer than she did the first night.
This time, Anya doesn't look away—she just swallows hard.
I like that.
I don't go to the bed like she's expecting. Instead, I pull the leather armchair from the corner and drag it until it faces her. I sit with my legs spread wide, rest my elbow on the armrest, and settle in.
That's right, Solnyshko. I can watch you all night.
“Continue, Svetlana,” I order in a low, hoarse voice. “I want to see.”
She hesitates half a second longer. Then she settles in, just like I did. She leans back against the pillows, and the hand inside her panties slides lower, her fingers finding her slick entrance.
Anya doesn't take her eyes off me as she moves her slender fingers up and down, spreading her wetness all over her pussy.
Sometimes I catch a glimpse of skin beneath the panties, but it's so brief it frustrates me.
My cock is harder than ever, and a shiver runs down my spine the moment her free hand caresses her smooth belly and slides up to cup her breast through the silk.
It's the most erotic thing I've ever seen in my life, and I've seen a hell of a lot.
That full, delicious mouth I tasted last night falls open, and she lets out a sigh as her fingertips circle her clit. Her eyelids grow heavy, but she doesn't give in. She keeps her focus on me, challenging me, touching herself until the sighs become soft moans.
“Take it all off.” I indicate her clothes with a slight jerk of my chin.
She obeys without arguing, for the first time.
My stubborn wife who always talks back, always has an answer for everything, is so receptive to my orders that it's driving me crazy.
She pulls off the top first, tosses it to the floor, then plants her feet and lifts her hips to slide her panties down, kicking the damp fabric in my direction.
I catch them midair and bring them to my face, inhaling her addictive scent.
“Good girl.” My wife sighs. “Now lie down and follow my orders, okay?”
Anya nods and lies back down without a word. Her hand returns between her legs, and this time there's no hesitation. Her fingers circle her clit, then dip lower, the wet sounds echoing through the room. I grip the armrest hard, as if it's the only thing keeping me here, away from her.
The shine of her arousal is visible from here, and I have to take a deep breath to keep myself from crossing this room and dropping this idiotic game. All I want right now is to fuck Svetlana until this obsession passes.
“Slower,” I say when she speeds up. “There's no rush. I'm not going anywhere.”
A frustrated moan escapes her lips, but she still obeys. She slows the rhythm, trailing her index finger down to her entrance and slipping it inside. Just one. Her spine arches and her hips rock toward the finger.
Shit, she must be so tight.
Without thinking, I bring my hand to my cock. I palm myself through my underwear and squeeze the base, trying to relieve some of the tension.