Chapter Two
Maksim
The border checkpoint fades behind me like a bad dream I'm finally waking from. Six years, two months, and seventeen days since I last stood on Russian soil. I've counted every single one of them.
My boots hit the frozen ground, and something in my chest—something I thought died in that Georgian hellhole—lurches back to life.
Home.
I'm actually home.
The word feels foreign. Dangerous. Like if I say it out loud, someone will rip it away again.
I pull the collar of my stolen coat higher against the wind and start walking. The safe house is three miles north, tucked away in a forgotten corner where questions aren't asked, and memories are short.
I've had weeks to plan this moment—weeks of careful intelligence gathering from across the border, bribing guards for newspapers, trading cigarettes for information about my old life, piecing together what Moscow has become in my absence.
What she has become.
Kira Markov. The Ice Queen. The woman who rose from my ashes and built an empire on my grave.
The woman I loved more than my own life.
The woman who had me killed.
My hands curl into fists inside my pockets.
I feel the pull of scar tissue across my knuckles.
The Georgians were creative with their torture—I'll give them that.
Every mark on my body tells a story of a different day, a different method and another lesson in exactly how much pain a human being can endure before breaking.
They never broke me.
But they came close.
I know these streets. Walked them a thousand times when I was the golden prince of the Barinov bratva. Back when my future was golden and certain. Back when I believed I was untouchable because of who my father was.
I believed them. Believed in destiny and love and all the pretty lies people tell themselves.
Never again.
Semyon's building is exactly where I remember it. I don’t know if he’ll remember me. The crumbling apartment complex looks abandoned but isn't. Third floor, corner unit. That was where we always said to meet if shit went sideways.
I take the stairs two at a time, my body protesting every movement. Six years of prison rations and torture haven't been kind, but I've spent the past three months rebuilding my strength. Getting ready.Planning my revenge.
I knock. Three times, pause, twice more. The old signal.
Silence. Then footsteps, cautious and slow. The peephole darkens.
The door doesn't open. I count the seconds. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty.
"Semyon." My voice comes out rougher than I expect. I haven’t spoken much in the last few years. It was pointless. I refused to scream when they tortured me. I barely recognize my own voice. "It's me."
More silence. “You’re dead."
"Clearly not." I lean closer to the door. "Remember Prague? The job that went sideways, and you ended up in that bathtub with the Austrian diplomat's wife?"
The locks click. All five of them.
The door opens, and Semyon stands there looking like he's seen a ghost. Which, I suppose, he has.
He's aged. There are new lines around his eyes. But it's still him. My best friend. The man who was supposed to be my second-in-command when I took over the bratva.
"Maksim?" His voice cracks. "It's really... fuck, I think I'm having a heart attack."
He sways, and I catch him before he hits the floor. The contact—human touch that isn't designed to cause pain—nearly undoes me. I hold him steady, and his hands come up to grip my arms like he needs to confirm I'm real.
"I knew it," he whispers. "I knew you weren't dead. Everyone said I was crazy, but I knew. I fucking knew."
Then he pulls me into a hug that would crush a smaller man, and for the first time in six years, two months, and seventeen days, I let myself feel something other than rage. There’s no pain in his touch. Something else that will take me a long time to get used to.
It lasts approximately three seconds before the armor slams back into place.
"Inside," I mutter, pushing past him into the apartment. "Before someone sees me."
Semyon closes the door and just stares at me. I know what he's seeing—a man who looks like Maksim Barinov but harder, colder, carved into something sharp enough to cut. The scars are visible even through my clothes. The ones on my face are impossible to hide.
"Jesus Christ." He reaches out like he wants to touch me, then thinks better of it. "What did they do to you?"
"Nothing I won't return tenfold." I move deeper into the apartment, cataloging everything with the paranoia that's kept me alive. One exit. Windows face north. Good sightlines. "You alone?"
"Yeah. Always." He's still watching me like I might disappear. "Maksim, where have you been? What happened? How the fuck are you here? We buried you. We mourned you. You have a fucking headstone!"
The memories try to surface—the warehouse, the ambush, the bag over my head, the first taste of what would become six years of systematic brutality. I shove them down. Later. First, I need to know what I'm walking into.
"Georgia," I say flatly. "A private prison outside Tbilisi. Very exclusive clientele. Very creative interrogation methods." I pull off my coat, and Semyon's face goes white at the scars visible through my thin shirt. "But we can discuss my travel itinerary later. Right now, I need information."
"Information." He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "You've been gone for six years, and you want—Christ, sit down. You look like you're about to collapse."
He's not wrong. The adrenaline that got me across the border is fading, and exhaustion is crashing over me in waves. But I can't afford weakness. Not yet.
"Food first," I say. "Then we talk."
Semyon moves to the kitchen without argument. Smart man. He's always been smart—one of the few people in my father's organization who understood that loyalty meant more than fear.
I sink into the chair at his kitchen table and watch him work. He pulls out bread, cheese, some kind of soup that smells like heaven after six years of prison gruel. My stomach growls so loudly he hears it from across the room.
"When did you last eat?" he asks."Yesterday. Maybe the day before." Time gets slippery when you're running on pure hatred and determination.
He sets a bowl in front of me. I have to force myself not to fall on it like an animal.
The first spoonful nearly makes me groan—real food, prepared with actual care, still warm.
I eat slowly, methodically, while Semyon sits across from me and processes the fact that I'm alive.
"They told us you were dead," he says finally.
"Your uncle Roman came back from identifying the body himself.
Said it was bad. That whoever killed you wanted to make a point. "
Roman. The man who stepped into my father's shoes when grief supposedly killed him six months after my disappearance.
That tidbit of information was a surprise. I only learned about his death six months ago. All that time, I kept waiting for him to find me. I believed he was searching for me.
When I found out he was dead, I knew I had to save myself.
And now Roman runs the Barinov bratva with an iron fist.
"There was no body," I say. "Because I wasn't dead. Someone sold me to the Georgians—sold information about my location, my security, everything they needed to grab me clean." I look up from my soup. "Someone in my own organization betrayed me."
Semyon's jaw tightens. "Who?"
"That's what I'm going to find out." I push the empty bowl away. "But first, tell me about Moscow. Tell me what I've missed."
For the next hour, Semyon talks, and I listen. He tells me about the power vacuum after my disappearance. My father's death—heart attack, they said, brought on by grief. Roman's ascension to power. The investigation into my ‘murder’ that led straight to the Markov family.
“Kira.”
He shakes his head. "Kira didn't know. Or if she did, she's the best liar I've ever seen.
She was devastated, Maksim. For months, she was a ghost. Then something changed.
She pushed her father out, took over their organization, and spent the next six years building it into something that actually matters. "
"The Ice Queen," I say. The name tastes like poison.
"That's what they call her now." He meets my eyes. "She's not the girl you knew."
"Good." I lean back in my chair. "Because I'm not the man she knew either."
Semyon studies me. "What are you planning?"
"Revenge." The word comes out simple. "Against everyone who betrayed me. Starting with the woman who sold me out."
"Maksim—"
"She knew." I cut him off, and my voice could freeze blood. "Her family was in debt. They needed money and power. Getting rid of me cleared the way for them to—"
"To what?" Semyon interrupts. "Think about this logically. What did she gain from your death? She was going to be your wife—the future queen of the Barinov bratva. Why would she throw that away?"
Only Semyon and a few other people knew about my relationship with Kira. Our families were at war, but we believed we could bring them together. I know now that was never going to be allowed.
"Because she wanted more."
Semyon doesn’t look convinced.
"I need a shower," I say finally. "Real clothes. And about twelve hours of sleep."
"I'll find you something to wear. We're about the same size still, even if you're..." He doesn't finish.
Even if I'm twenty pounds lighter and carved into something harder than I used to be.
The shower is scalding hot despite the rundown appearance from the outside. That’s all by design. I know Semyon doesn’t live here full time. It’s his hideaway, but my friend enjoys the finer things in life—like hot showers, comfortable furniture and good food.
I stand under the spray until my skin turns red. Six years of cold water and occasional hose-downs in Georgian winter don't prepare you for the luxury of temperature control. I watch the water circle the drain and try not to think about all the blood I've washed off in prison.
All the blood I'm going to spill now that I'm free.
When I emerge, Semyon has laid out clothes on the bed in the spare room.
Real clothes—jeans, a sweater, and socks.
My God—socks. I will never take such things for granted again.
I dress slowly, my body protesting each movement.
The scars pull tight across my back, my shoulders, and my chest. A roadmap of torture written in raised tissue.
I look at myself in the mirror and barely recognize the man staring back. Harder. Older. Eyes that have seen things no one should see.
Semyon is waiting in the kitchen with a bottle of vodka and two glasses. He pours without asking.
"To survival," he says, raising his glass.
"To revenge," I counter.
And then we drink.