Chapter 33
Maksim
Dritan Berisha drinks coffee like a man who’s never been in a hurry in his life.
He’s been sitting across from me at the casino office desk for forty minutes, wearing an impeccable gray suit with understated silver cufflinks, and every expression of his seems precisely calculated.
I like him, and that bothers me.
Even with his push to strengthen our ties, I chose to receive him here, same as any of my business allies. No man who hasn’t bled for my Bratva knows where I sleep, and after the week I’ve had, that stopped being a rule and became religion.
“So we understand each other,” he says in careful, polite Russian, though with a heavy accent. “My men, my routes, and my ports at your disposal, should Moscow decide to cross into your territory.”
“Defense,” I confirm. “Only for defense.”
“Only defense.” He sets his cup on the saucer. “Though my offer for more still stands. You know as well as I do that this war is going to happen, and wars are expensive.”
“Maybe.” I lean back in my chair, resting one ankle on my knee. “But when I attack Moscow, it’ll be on my time, on my ground, and for my reasons. An offensive alliance would force me to fight other people’s wars, and I have no appetite for that.”
Dritan smiles genuinely. It’s bizarre.
“You’re more careful than they say.”
“You’re the one saying it.”
“The Man in the Mask handles things with his own hands.” He shrugs elegantly, repeating the rumors. “Personally, I prefer what I’m seeing. I like people who work with their heads—there’s already plenty of brute force out there.”
Vladimir, standing behind my chair, remains silent the entire time. But I sense something shift—a sharper breath, maybe, or the slightest change in his posture. I don’t know what, but I notice.
“Come back in three months to finalize the operational details.” I end it there.
“Three months.” Dritan stands and extends his hand. “In my land, we call this besa[29]. A word given is worth more than a signed contract.”
I know what he’s talking about. Albanians are known for following their code of honor to the letter, and when they give someone their besa, that person is bound to honor the agreement even if it costs them their life. I’m not interested in that kind of eternal debt.
“In my land, we prefer contracts.”
He laughs, soft and polite, as he adjusts his jacket. When he reaches the door, hand on the handle, he stops. He turns just enough to look at me over his shoulder.
“Ah,” he begins, as if just remembering something. “I’m sorry about the recent troubles at your property, Pakhan.” The tone is courteous, measured, and calibrated. “I hope no one in your household was seriously injured.”
The air in the office changes. Everyone seems to freeze, waiting for my reaction, but I show nothing.
“Very kind of you.”
“Custom of my land.” He inclines his head, almost a bow. “Good evening, Pakhan.”
And then he leaves.
The door closes behind him. I hear his footsteps and his men’s fading away until they’re too far to be heard. Or to hear us. Vladimir walks slowly around the desk and sits in the chair the Albanian just vacated.
“I don’t trust him.”
“Neither do I.”
“How does he know, Maksim?” Vladimir rests his elbows on the table, clasping his hands together.
His expression is so hard it’s frightening.
“We didn’t let it leak. No police, no press…
The soldiers have kept their mouths shut since Yegorov.
And this guy from the other side of Europe shows up to offer his condolences at the last second? I don’t trust it.”
“I thought the same thing.”
“He doesn’t even know where the house is.” Vladimir taps a finger on the table, just once. “Or rather, he shouldn’t know. But he knows what happened there.”
I stay silent.
The list of people who could have told him is short, and every name on it belongs to someone I trust with my life or someone I’ve already buried. There’s a third possibility, the most likely one: Dritan Berisha may have sources on the other side—the Moscow Bratva’s side.
An ally who knows too much about my enemy is useful. But also dangerous.
“Leave it for now,” I say finally. “Three months is enough time to find out where his information comes from. But we won’t receive him at the property.”
“And if he asks why he never received an invitation?”
“He won’t. Men like Dritan Berisha don’t speak openly about what they really want.”
Vladimir nods slowly but stays seated even after I’ve risen and moved toward the door. He thinks and rethinks, doing what he always does—analyzing moves ahead like plays on a chessboard, calculating every possibility.
He's so absorbed, spinning his wedding ring on his finger, that he doesn't even notice me leave.
Yuri meets me at the front entrance and doesn't waste a second:
“The dacha is empty.”
I stop.
“What do you mean empty?”
“Empty, Maks.” He turns the tablet toward me, showing updated satellite images of the dacha. No cars, no movement. “The house was shut down yesterday, the two caretakers were let go on Tuesday, and his car left Moscow the night before last—headed somewhere we couldn't track.”
“He moved.”
My words echo through the empty space.
I stare at the image for too long, my mind running through only two plausible explanations. I don't like either of them.
The first is the simplest: Demidov changed his mind. Men like him change course all the time, cancel trips without warning. He wouldn't need a reason not to go.
But that's too naive. Especially after he's been dodging me for so long.
“Yuri, where exactly did the information about the dacha come from?”
“From Lena's network. A guy in his accounting department who sold the schedule thinking he was selling to a thief.”
“And what if that schedule was written to be sold?”
That makes a lot more sense. A house registered under a front man's name, a specific date, a clear window of opportunity, and the man we want with reduced security far from Moscow. It was too easy, too good.
That dacha was probably just bait—Demidov's way of finding out if we're watching him.
Vladimir asked this very question last week, and I let Yelena answer because her answer was good—still is—but not good enough. Her source doesn't know they work for us, I believe that, but other people could.
“He tried to test us, but he didn't find out anything. We didn't make any moves. If he threw out bait, nobody bit.”
What bothers me most isn't whether we have a traitor, or whether Demidov knows about our plans or just abandoned the bait halfway through. What makes bile rise in my throat is that I've lost track of the bastard.
For weeks, I've known where this asshole has been. And today, suddenly, the man vanished off the map—days before we could confirm his own planted information. He could have ambushed us at that dacha, finished me off once and for all. But he didn't.
He has another plan. Something bigger.
I think and rethink everything he knows, all the information he's managed to gather about me over the years. One piece is new—very recent. And it's already paid off for him: a failed attack on my house.
Demidov knows I have a wife. And he knows her name is Svetlana Voronova—the same girl he had run over five years ago to collect on a drunk's debt.
“Igor.”
I call out, knowing he's nearby.
“Is the old man in Vysotsk still talking?”
He nods once.
“More than before,” he responds. “I sent two men to keep an eye on him.
He spent all afternoon yesterday at the same highway bar, drinking on credit, telling anyone who'd sit next to him that his daughter married the Pakhan of St. Petersburg.
The Nikiforov Bratva owes him, and nobody there has any idea who they're dealing with.”
I grit my teeth.
“Did he mention where she lives?”
“He doesn't know where she lives.” Igor tilts his head a millimeter. “But he says her name. All the time.”
When Aleksei Voronov opens his mouth in a roadside bar, every man at that counter becomes a potential informant. No need for a spy or an infiltrator, much less large sums of money. All it takes is one ungrateful, vain drunk.
“When this is over,” I say, and my voice comes out so calm that Yuri looks away, “I'm going to Vysotsk personally. Keep your men watching him.”
Igor nods. He knows what's going to happen when I set foot in that shithole of a city again. And it will be the last time.
The biggest problem, however, isn't dealing with that old bum.
I'll do that with the greatest pleasure.
The real problem will be the moment I have to sit down in front of Svetlana and tell her, in so many words, that I'm going to kill her father.
I can't do something like that behind her back.
And then she'll look at me with that face she makes when I cross a line she didn't even know she'd drawn, and she'll ask me if there's another way.
There isn't.
She won't want to hear me say that sparing Aleksei's life that first day could cost her hers now. She can't show mercy this time. I know I won't.
But that will come later.
First, Demidov.
“Yuri, I want you to find the car Demidov was using. Igor, double the security, keep everyone on alert. Every corner of the property perimeter needs to be covered. He might try to get in again.”
Yuri's eyes widen. He wasn't here the night we were attacked, but he arrived shortly after and saw what the garden looked like. Men down, shot, blood splashed and pooled everywhere, bullet holes in the walls, shell casings scattered all over.
“Da, Pakhan.”
Igor’s gruff voice snaps him to attention, and he quickly composes himself and nods.
I dismiss them both and head toward the winter garden—the same path I’ve taken every day for the past three days, the moment I get home. When I step inside, warm air and the smell of damp earth fill my nostrils.
For the first time in days, Ivan lifts his head when I enter. The bear looks at me with those small, dark eyes, lets out a low huff through his snout, and lays his head back down on the blankets, as if to say my presence isn’t anything special.
“Lazy,” I murmur.
I sit on the floor beside him, lean against the glass wall, and stroke the thick fur on his neck. The bandage is clean, he’s breathing well, and I don’t need the vet to reassure me again that he’ll survive.
I stay there for a while, not thinking about anything, petting the bear who’s been my companion for most of my life. I lose myself in the hours until I notice it’s getting late. I check my watch.
Five twenty.
Svetlana’s appointment was at three in the afternoon. Even with tests and the chaotic traffic getting out of St. Petersburg, she should have been home almost an hour ago.
I pull out my phone and find nothing. No messages, no missed calls.
I call her.
It rings.
Rings.
Rings.
Goes to voicemail, and her recorded voice—cheerful and distant—tells me to leave a message and she’ll get back to me as soon as possible.
I stare at the screen, brow furrowed, my heart beating faster by the second. I get up from the floor, already calling Grisha.
Like hers, Grisha’s phone rings until it goes to voicemail. He never fails to answer me.
I leave the winter garden quickly, my hurried steps disturbing Ivan, who lifts his head and huffs once more. I don’t care. I just want the third person to answer.
And to have answers.
On the second ring, Vladimir answers, and I don’t even let him speak before I snap:
“Where is Svetlana?”