Chapter 27
Maksim
Nothing caught my attention as I rushed through the house, focused on grabbing some documents from the safe and getting out.
Simple. Fast. Easy.
I wouldn't even have time to look for Svetlana before heading back to the casino office. The arms deal with the Italians is proving more trouble than it should be. That old man who calls himself the Don is just a piece of shit like my father was.
I drag my hand over my face to shake off the irritation when a message from Yelena comes in—we've hit another dead end with Demidov. The son of a bitch has been slipperier than an eel. But I'll find him—it's just a matter of waiting for the right moment.
My patience will be rewarded.
I tell myself, imagining all the brutal things I'll do to that piece of trash when I get my hands on him.
The office door is ajar, and I assume Olga came through to clean, so I walk in without a second thought—after all, my office is basically forbidden territory.
I push the door open, and the scene doesn't make sense.
Svetlana is sitting on the carpet, her back against my desk, her legs folded to the side. Papers are scattered all around her. The folder with her name is there, but I didn't need to see it to know what it was. Anya's desolate expression says it all.
My chest tightens as I curse myself for leaving this information so exposed.
Fuck. Svetlana didn't have to see any of this.
I call her name once. Twice. When I think she won't answer, she lifts her face. And those beautiful green eyes now hold a coldness that's unlike her. No tears or desperation. Just disappointment and anger.
“When were you going to tell me?”
Her voice is low, cutting, and controlled. She wants to know, demands to know, and it's clear she won't accept anything less than the truth.
“Svetlana, get up.”
As soon as I speak, I regret it. My voice came out too harsh, like an order, and that awakens something in her. Anya rises in fury, not obeying my order, but ready to face me head-on.
“You don't give me orders!” she shouts. “I'm not one of your men. You're not my Pakhan.”
I clench my jaw at the affront. Even knowing she's right, it's been years since anyone confronted me like this. Not a soul dares speak to me this way.
“When were you going to tell me?”
She presses, and deciding to soften things, I answer curtly.
“When I had the name of who ordered it.”
“You already have it.” She lifts one of the sheets and reads aloud as if I didn't know every line by heart.
“Driver: Volkov. Order from Pavel Demidov.
It's all here, Maksim. Everything.” She drops the sheet carelessly on the floor beside her and meets my eyes again, disappointment and anger written on her face.
“So explain to me, why didn't you tell me?”
I could lie. I should.
But the way she stares at me, so angry, so hurt, stops me. In just a few months, this woman arrived and turned my life upside down, and now I can't even make things simpler by telling a half-truth.
“I wanted to give you peace.” I take a step toward her.
“You just relaxed for the first time in your life, Svetlana.
I saw it. You don't sleep curled up and muttering anymore. You crack jokes with Olga, even with her scowl, and you smile at Ivan every day. Damn, you started dancing again and found purpose in teaching those girls. Tell me why I would throw that away by dragging a skeleton out of the closet that would only make you suffer?”
“Because it's my skeleton, Maksim!” she shouts, louder than I've ever heard her. “I died that day. My career, everything I loved most and valued most in life. I have the right to know.”
She takes a deep breath, looks away, probably searching for some control or patience to continue. Something flickers across her face, and she almost laughs—humorlessly—before continuing.
“You think peace is not knowing what happened that day? I lived five years without knowing, Maksim. Five shitty years. A terrible truth would've brought me more peace than living like an idiot wondering why that happened to me.”
The silence stretches, heavy between us. I have no answer. Not when I've decided I can't lie to her. So I stand there, letting her vent all her anger at me while I keep my expression as neutral as I can manage.
“Demidov. Moscow. Orlov.”
She repeats the names on that paper without even looking at it, as if they're already branded in her mind. I clench my jaw.
“Do these names mean something to you?”
“Ask what you want to know, Svetlana.”
“I want to know how much you know. Who is Demidov? Is this Orlov the Pakhan who killed Yelena's father?”
The question surprises me. Yelena never talks about her father, but she's the only one who could have told Anya—no one else would go near that subject. But the mention of those names infuriates me even more. None of them should be coming out of her mouth.
“Orlov is none of your business.” The answer comes out too harsh, too final.
There are things I’ll never let her carry, and the revenge I’m planning is one of them.
“Demidov is the man who gave the order to the driver. He reports to people bigger than him in Moscow. And that…” I speak slowly. “…is my problem, not yours.”
“Your problem?” she asks with a mocking laugh.
“I’m handling it.” I take another step. Even though I know I should keep my distance, I can’t stay away from her.
Not when she’s like this. “I’ve been preparing an attack for weeks.
Demidov will pay for what he did, Anya, I promise you that.
I’m going to break this man the way he broke you.
He’ll feel every bone you felt break, every wound you had to endure. And it will be worse. Much worse.”
My voice, so low, serious, and cold, is threatening even to me, but Anya doesn’t flinch. She just looks at me as if I’ve said the wrong thing once again.
“You don’t owe me anything, Maksim. You’re not obligated to avenge some shit that happened to me over five years ago. You didn’t even know me! Don’t treat me like I’m an idiot.”
“I’m not doing that.”
“Yes, you are! Because it makes no sense for you to throw yourself into some crazy vendetta for me. There has to be something else, and I want to know what it is.”
“There’s nothing.”
This is where I draw the line—the limit of what I’ll tell her. Anya doesn’t need to know anything more. Not about the betrayals, about Demidov’s interference in my territory, or about the rumors that I’m losing respect.
“Then why would you do this, damn it?”
“Because I…”
The words come out louder and faster than I can process. I stop at the last second to think before saying it, swallowing the realization that’s been lurking in my mind for weeks.
I’m in love with her, fuck.
But I can’t say it like that. Not now. So I take the coward’s way out.
“You’re my wife, damn it. It’s my duty to protect you.”
For half a second, she seems to waver, as if she knew exactly what I was going to say. But then the fury returns.
“I didn’t choose to be your wife, Maksim.
I was sold! By my own father, who ruined my life!
I came here because I had no choice, so don’t give me this concerned husband duty bullshit.
You bought me and decided to marry me without even asking my opinion, and you did it again when you chose not to tell me something so important about my own life. ”
“I didn’t tell you because I know this world and you don’t!
” Now it’s my turn to raise my voice, shouting into the emptiness of the office.
“Do you have any idea what I do, Svetlana? What these people are capable of? What I’m capable of?
I’ve spent my entire life swimming in this filth—I was born in it.
I’m not dragging you down here with me.”
“You already dragged me in, Maksim! When you bought me. You brought me into your house, under your protection, and gave me a damn bodyguard because you know how dangerous it is to be your wife.”
Our shouts grow louder and louder. Anyone could hear us, and yet the only thing that matters to me is that I don’t want to accept that she’s right.
“I’m already sunk in this filth. Thinking I’m so fragile I’ll break from knowing the truth is just hypocritical.”
“I don’t think you’re made of porcelain.”
“Yes, you do. You think I could shatter at any moment, but you want to know something? I’m already broken.
They broke me in an alley behind the Bolshoi Theater five years ago, and I put myself back together alone.
ALONE! Without your help, without anyone.
I don’t need you to take care of the pieces that are left. ”
Even though she insists over and over that she’s not fragile, fragility is all I see in her now. Svetlana is a warrior, yes. Stubborn, proud, resilient, and capable of anything. But she’s fragile too.
“It’s not an insult to let yourself be cared for, Anya,” I say more quietly.
“You know a lot about that subject, don’t you, Muzhchina v Maske?”
She throws the truth in my face like a dirty rag. Anya and I are so alike it’s a mystery we haven’t killed each other yet.
Silence reigns for a moment until she speaks again.
“I want to go with you,” she says, quieter now, but no less firm. “When you go after Demidov. I want to be there.”
“No.”
“Maksim.”
“No,” I roar. “That’s out of the question. What do you think you’re going to do there, Anya? Walk into a warehouse with an AK-47 in your hand and shoot him in the head? You’re not getting anywhere near Demidov or Moscow. I’ll make sure of that, even if I have to lock you in the vault.”
“Wow.” She laughs again, humorlessly. “Finally showing your true colors. So that’s what I am to you. An expensive item you can lock in a vault whenever you want.”
“Don’t twist what I said,” I growl low.
“I didn’t twist anything, I just saw the truth for what it is.” She steps back, putting distance between us. “You don’t trust me. If you did, you would have told me. The truth is you see me as an ornament.”
“Svetlana…”
“No.” She shakes her head, looking away. “I’ve had enough.”
Without looking at me, she walks past me toward the door. She doesn’t even bother to stop or turn around when she tells me:
“I’m sleeping in the guest room.”
Her footsteps fade down the hallway until a door closes in the distance.
And after that, nothing.
I stand frozen in the middle of the office, surrounded by the papers that caused all this chaos, unable to even remember what I came here to do in the first place. And the worst part is that my conscience turns against me, screaming at me, condemning me.
I should have told her I was in love.
She deserves to know.