CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Even her rage is beautiful.
Maxsim
The headlights of the Maserati sweep across the towering iron gates as they slide open, spilling light over the long, curved driveway. The estate stands ahead, the dim glow of the sconces casting deep shadows against the pale stone walls.
I kill the engine and step out, the humid night air brushing against my face. My body is sore from the day’s events, every muscle tight with exhaustion, but my mind won’t stop racing. The adrenaline is still coursing through me, and the weight of my gun feels heavier than it has in a long time.
I cross the threshold of the house and notice the usual sterility of the place—is absent. It smells different. Warm. Like someone’s claimed it. There’s a faint scent of garlic and roasted tomatoes hanging in the air, mingling with the sharp tang of lemon polish from the floors.
I shrug off my jacket and toss it onto the back of a chair, my eyes sweeping over the space. Ari’s small touches are everywhere. Flowers from the garden fill the vases, soft blankets are draped over the couch, and pictures from our wedding stand proudly on the side table.
It is starting to feel like a home. Something I haven’t had since my mother was killed.
Wiping the picture from my mind, I stride over to the bar and hear my wife storm in, her presence like a blade cutting through the quiet.
Ari is dressed in a loose sweater and leggings, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her hair is loose, dark waves falling over her shoulders, and her green eyes are locked on me with a glare sharp enough to draw blood.
“You’re late,” she snaps, her voice slicing through the stillness. “Long night at work? Or did your ‘business’ include someone with better legs than mine?”
Her gaze drops, slow and deliberate, taking in the suit I changed into after washing the blood off my hands and face. “That’s not what you had on this morning,” she observes, the accusation dripping from her tone.
I raise an eyebrow, shrugging off her words like I would a weak punch. “You’ve been waiting up for me? How thoughtful.”
Her glare deepens, and she steps closer, her posture tense, coiled. “Don’t flatter yourself. I made dinner, but apparently, one of your playthings was more important.”
I let the jab land, watching her, noting how her shoulders rise and fall with the force of her breathing. Even when she’s angry, she’s captivating. The way her green eyes burn, daring me to falter.
“I thought you would wait a month before returning to your life in the city.” Her chest deflates. “But then again, why would you deny yourself anything?”
I take a measured step toward the bar, my movements deliberate, controlled. The polished wood gleams under the low light as I pour myself a drink, the amber liquid catching the glow. “You’ve already decided the worst about me,” I reply, my voice sharp. “Why should I bother explaining?”
She lets out a bitter laugh, the sound ricocheting off the walls. “Oh, don’t worry, Maxsim. You don’t need to explain. I’m familiar with men like you—liars wrapped in suits, thinking rules don’t apply to them.”
I set the glass down harder than I mean to, the sound loud against the silence. “And you?” I turn to face her fully, my gaze locking onto hers. “You think this is about you? Your ego can’t be that fragile.”
Her eyes flash, and she takes another step toward me, her defiance blazing. “Fragile? You’re deflecting because you can’t admit I’m right.”
“Right?” I scoff, the word heavy with disbelief. “You’ve made up your mind without knowing a damn thing.”
She steps closer, her chin tilting up, her voice dropping to something low and dangerous. “Then tell me, Maxsim. Where were you?”
Her challenge hangs between us, sharp and unyielding.
I let the silence stretch, watching her, waiting. She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch.
I cross the room slowly, each step deliberate, until I’m standing directly in front of her. “You want to know where I was?” I say, my voice low, controlled. “I was in the city. Washing the blood of Cartel soldiers off my hands.”
Her bravado falters. Just for a second, but I see it—the flicker of something softer beneath the anger.
“Blood?” she asks, the word barely above a whisper.
I nod, the images flashing behind my eyes as if burned into my mind. “They ambushed us. Three men, heavily armed, waiting just outside our office. They weren’t amateurs.”
Her arms fall to her sides, her earlier bravado faltering. I press on, the words coming out clipped, each one laced with the weight of the night.
“They knew the layout—knew exactly where to wait. But they underestimated us. Anton spotted them just in time. The first man went down before he could fire a shot.”
I pause, the memory playing out in vivid, brutal detail. The muffled grunt of the Cartel soldier as Anton’s knife found his throat. The way his body crumpled silently to the pavement. The other two weren’t as easy.
“The second man got off a shot,” I say, my hand tightening around the glass. “It grazed Vlad’s shoulder. Just a flesh wound, but it was close. Too close.”
I don’t tell her about the split second when I thought Anton was gone. How the sound of the shot had rung in my ears, louder than it should have been.
“The third man…” I trail off, letting the weight of the words fill the space. “He was different. Military training, maybe. He didn’t hesitate—used one of his own men as a shield. But he wasn’t quick enough.”
I remember the way the blood sprayed across the sidewalk, the sound of his body hitting the ground. The adrenaline had been a roar in my ears, drowning out everything else.
The room’s silence presses down like a weight. Ari’s anger has shifted into something quieter, more uncertain.
“Casualties?” she asks, her voice softer now.
I shake my head. “None on our side. But barely.”
Her eyes search mine with concern. Tonight wasn’t just a skirmish. It was a warning. “They weren’t there to win,” I say, more to myself than to her. “They were there to send a message.”
Ari tilts her head, her gaze sharp again. “What message?”
“That they know where to hit us,” I reply, my tone cold. “And that they’re not afraid to escalate.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks. “You should’ve called me,” she says finally, her voice quiet but steady.
“Would it have changed anything?” I counter, my eyes locking onto hers. “Would you feel better knowing someone wants us dead?”
Her silence is answer enough.
I take her hand and clasp our fingers together. “This is the world we live in, Ari. Threats don’t disappear just because you see them coming. They only get closer.”
She opens her mouth as if to say something, then closes it again, her jaw tightening. “You better not get yourself killed, Maxsim.”
Surprised by the vehemence behind her words, I press our clasped hands against my chest. “Fallen in love me with, already?”
“Hardly.” Her mouth twitches. “I just don’t want to end up with a second husband who’s bald and humorless.”
I nod slowly. “Good to know.” My tone is light, almost casual. “Dinner smells good. We could keep arguing, or we could eat. Your choice.”
She blinks, caught off guard by the shift in my tone. “Your moods are impossible to keep up with.”
“So I’ve been told,” I reply, smirking.
Her lips twitch, and for a moment, I think she might actually smile. It doesn’t happen, but the tension between us eases just enough to breathe.
I lead her into the dimly lit alcove beside the kitchen, noticing the table is set simply but thoughtfully. The bottle of wine she chose sits unopened, its deep red label a quiet testament to the thought she’s put into the meal.
We sit across from each other, the air between us still heavy but no longer hostile. She serves us and then picks at her food, her gaze flicking toward me every so often. I keep my movements measured, deliberate, refusing to be the first to break the silence.
I watch her, the way she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the way her fingers grip the fork just a little too tightly. She’s not angry anymore—at least, not entirely.
“I should apologize,” she says suddenly, her voice low, hesitant.
I set my fork down, leaning back slightly. “But you won’t.”
Her eyes snap to mine, sharp but conflicted. “No,” she admits. “I won’t.”
I let a small smile tug at the corner of my lips, just enough to let her know I’m not offended. “Fair enough.”
The silence stretches again, but this time, it feels different. Not resolved, but… manageable.
The faint echo of the door opening cuts through the quiet, and I set my wineglass down with a measured sigh. I don’t need to check the time to know it’s late—too late for anything good. Footsteps follow, heavy and deliberate, and then Nikolai steps into the room, followed by Anton.
Nikolai’s energy fills the room like a storm cloud—tense, charged, and faintly unsteady. His hand clenches the back of the chair in front of him, his knuckles whitening before he releases it, only to repeat the motion seconds later. He avoids my eyes, his focus darting between the wine bottle on the table and some distant point over my shoulder. Anton, on the other hand, is his usual calm self, his expression betraying nothing but quiet vigilance.
“Sorry to interrupt your dinner,” Nikolai says, his tone clipped, rehearsed.
“Interruptions are only irritating when they’re unnecessary,” I reply, leaning back in my chair. My gaze fixes on Nikolai, sharp and unwavering. “Is this one?”
He shifts his weight from foot to foot, the slight scrape of his shoes against the hardwood grating on my nerves. “The Cartel is handled,” he says finally. “For now.”
I arch an eyebrow, my fingers drumming once against the edge of the table. “For now isn’t good enough.”
Anton glances at Nikolai, his brow lifting ever so slightly, and I can see it—he’s noticed, too. The tension, the fidgeting, the cracks in Nikolai’s usually solid composure. My instincts stir, whispers of suspicion creeping into my mind.
Ari, of course, notices it as well. She leans back, her head tilting just enough to convey both curiosity and challenge. “You seem jumpy for someone who’s won,” she says, her tone light but cutting.
Nikolai’s jaw tightens, his eyes finally flicking to her. “The Cartel is disorganized and not a threat.”
It’s the way he says it—too quickly, too polished. Like he’s memorized the line and repeated it in his head a dozen times before walking into this room. “Nikolai,” I say, my tone flat but carrying the weight of authority. “Stay close. I’ll want an update in the morning.”
His nod is curt, almost robotic, and he doesn’t so much leave the room as bolt from it. His footsteps echo down the hall, fading quickly, leaving Anton standing by the doorway with his usual composed presence. He catches my eye, his expression unreadable but deliberate. It’s a silent message, one I don’t need spelled out: We’ll talk later.
I give him the barest of nods, dismissing him. He follows Nikolai, his stride slow and steady, the exact opposite of the man he’s trailing.
Ari’s voice slices through the quiet. “That wasn’t suspicious at all.”
I glance at her, arching an eyebrow. “You think everything is suspicious.”
“Only when people act guilty,” she shoots back, not missing a beat. Her gaze is locked on me, unflinching, as if daring me to deny what we both just witnessed.
I don’t respond immediately. Instead, I take another sip of my wine, letting the weight of her words settle. She’s not wrong, and that’s what irritates me most. Nikolai’s behavior isn’t just suspicious—it’s dangerous.
I stand and collect our plates, carrying them to the sideboard. The movement isn’t rushed, and I can feel her eyes on me the entire time. She doesn’t say anything, but when I glance at her over my shoulder, there’s a flicker of surprise in her expression.
I reach for the wine bottle, refilling our glasses before returning to the table. I hand her the glass, watching as her fingers curl around the stem, her lips curving—not quite a smile, but close enough.
I watch her for a moment, the light catching in her dark hair, the delicate slope of her neck. Her shoulders are less rigid, and I realize how much I like her this way. The music shifts in the background, something slow and sultry weaving through the air.
I cross the space between us. “Come,” I say calmly, gesturing toward the family room. “If we’re going to insult each other, we might as well do it comfortably.”
She huffs a quiet laugh, standing and following me out of the dining room. “You must be an imposter.”
“I’m the new and improved AI version,” I reply, watching her steps falter for half a second. “Let me know if you like the changes.”
She brushes past me, but I can see the faintest trace of a smile beginning to form. We sit across from one another, and the day’s weight slowly peels off me as Ari’s posture relaxes.
She’s a puzzle that fights back when you try to solve it, but right now... she’s different. Softer, maybe.
“So, what now?” she asks, her voice light but with an edge of curiosity. “Are we going to sit here and glare at each other all night, or do you have some other plan, husband?”
I swirl the wine in my glass. “Well, glaring at each other is a time-honored tradition, but I’m open to suggestions.”
Her lips curve into a faint smile. “How generous of you.”
For a moment, we sit in comfortable silence, the tension from earlier fading into something else. The music playing softly in the background catches my attention—a slow, sultry melody that I barely notice most nights. But tonight, it feels like a challenge.
“Dance with me,” I say, the words out before I can think them through.
Ari’s brows shoot up. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” I set my glass down and rise, holding out a hand to her. “Let’s live dangerously.”
She blinks, caught off guard. “You want to dance. With me.”
“Are you afraid, Mrs. Volkov?” I keep my tone teasing, but there’s an undercurrent of sincerity I can’t quite hide. “Or do you only fight battles you know you can win?”
Her eyes narrow, the fire in them sparking to life. “Afraid? Hardly.” She takes my hand, her grip firm, and stands. “But if you step on my toes, I’m calling this whole marriage off.”
“Noted.”
I lead her to the open space in the middle of the room, where the soft glow of the overhead lights creates an almost intimate atmosphere. The music shifts into a slower rhythm, the kind that forces one to move closer. I place a hand at her waist, and she doesn’t pull away.
Her steps are hesitant initially, like she’s trying to find her footing in unfamiliar territory. But then she meets my gaze, and something shifts. Her movements become more fluid, her body relaxing into mine. “For the record…I like your jealousy.” My grip on her waist tightens slightly as I guide her into a gentle spin.
“It was hardly that.” She smirks. “I simply like to understand the playing field.”
I pull her tighter and accept that whatever is happening between us is as messy as it is magnetic. “I will be faithful.”
Her brows furrow. My promise is rare in our world, but I mean it.
She tilts her head, her gaze locking onto mine. “What would your men think if they knew you made such a declaration?” Scoffing, she shakes her head. “Wouldn’t it make you a tiny bit less fearsome?”
I lean in slightly, my lips brushing close to her ear. “No. The opposite would be true because there would be no question of how far I will go to protect you.”
The smile that tugs at her generous mouth is soft and genuine. For the first time, I realize how rare it is to see her like this—unguarded, unarmored. And I can’t help but want more.
The music picks up tempo, and I guide her into a turn, but my foot brushes against hers in the process. She stumbles slightly, her hand tightening on my shoulder to steady herself.
“Well, that was graceful,” she says, her tone dry but her cheeks faintly pink.
“That was your fault,” I reply smoothly, though I know damn well it wasn’t.
Her eyes narrow. “My fault? You’re the one leading.”
“And you’re the one who’s supposed to follow.”
She glares at me, but there’s a spark of humor in her expression. “If you’re trying to start another fight, Max, you’re doing an excellent job.”
“Maybe I just like your fire,” I admit, the words slipping out before I can stop them. Her eyes widen slightly, and for a moment, I wonder if I’ve said too much.
“Careful,” she murmurs, her voice lower now, almost teasing. “Because I’ve got a whole lot of matches.”
I hold her gaze and feel off-kilter. Like she’s shifting the ground beneath my feet without even trying.
The music fades into the background as we slow to a stop, still standing close enough that I can feel the heat of her skin through the fabric of her clothes. She looks at me with a soft expression that surprises me. “What?”
She tilts her head, studying me with a look I can’t quite decipher. “You’re smiling.”
“Am I?”
“You are,” she says, her tone almost accusing. “Why?”
I consider her question for a moment, the answer slipping through my grasp like sand. “You bring it out of me.”
Her eyes widen slightly. “That almost sounded like a compliment.” She shakes her head. “Careful, Max. I might start thinking you like me.”
I lean in, close enough that our breaths mingle. “Maybe I do.”
Her sharp intake of breath is the only response I get, but it’s enough. It’s more than enough.
I step back, creating just enough space to keep the moment from tipping into something neither of us is ready for.
Her gaze lingers on mine, conflicted but not hostile, and I know we’ve crossed some invisible line tonight. A line that feels less like a barrier and more like a beginning.
“We should do this again sometime,” I say, my tone light but sincere.
“Dance?” she asks, one brow arching in skepticism.
“Not necessarily,” I reply, a faint smirk tugging at my lips. “But this... whatever this is.”
She doesn’t answer immediately, her fingers brushing against mine as she steps back. “It’s a start,” she says finally, her voice softer now.
I watch her collect our glasses, the flicker of contentment burning a little brighter. She’s unpredictable, volatile... but she’s here. And for now, that’s enough.