by Bethany-Kris
Debatable.
It was the click of the door that pulled him from his thoughts, and Roman sat up in bed with a jerk, immediately reaching for the weapon he kept under the pillow. The room was dark, but light spilled in from the hallway, illuminating him in the bed. It was the shadow of her that stopped him from pulling the gun out from its hiding spot.
Karine’s petite and slender shape was outlined in the doorway. She stood there in silence, her hands clasped together, trembling—peering in on him like she was trying to discern if he was awake.
Maybe if he was a better man, then he would have told her to leave. Or he could have just pretended to be asleep. They shouldn’t indulge in nights together. He didn’t need to get more involved with her than he already was.
But ...
Well, Roman wasn’t a better man.
Goddamn.
He wasn’t even sure if he was a good one.
“Come in, but close the door behind you,” he said to her in a murmur.
Karine did as she was told.
SIX
Maxim Yazov proudly admitted to being many things, namely, an asshole. He never pretended to be anything less than exactly what and who he was because he refused to change what made him, him simply for the acceptance or pleasure of someone else. But he was more, too ... more than a monster. A man—criminal, ruthless, and cruel. Smart and quick, dangerous, many would say.
He would agree.
Maxim was aware that most people wouldn’t view those things as positive qualities. If only the opinions of others had ever been enough to sway how he felt about himself, but here he was. Nonetheless, they were qualities that were integral for a man to survive the life he lived.
Essential, even.
His position demanded it.
The world he’d claimed as his taught fatherless boys like him who hoped to one day be men bearing eight-pointed stars that sinners made their own heaven. And often, that heaven was born from someone else’s hell. That world had raised and shaped him, he could not afford to be someone else.
Never even considered it.
Perhaps the qualities that made up his person were not what an average man would take pride in, but they were the skills and the disposition that made him successful as a bratva boss with rivals on all sides.
And it bothered Maxim more than he cared to admit that, those same traits that allowed him to be untouchable, were the ones that also meant he had never been a good father. Lately, it had been more obvious and not something he could justify away with the heaven he’d created for himself in power and wealth. If there was someone who cared to listen to his secrets, he would even admit he felt shameful that his surviving child wouldn’t have many fond memories of him when he was gone.
Of course, there was a period of time when he had shown some positive qualities of a father—when he’d been foolish enough to think that a man like him could be the kind of father his children actually loved. Young, and dumb. Then, life happened and the events that unfolded led him down a path where love was weakness, and weakness was pain.
It started with the death of his wife—not the mother of his children—and the ball just kept rolling. The fatherless boy Maxim had once been assured that he’d rather be a bad father than no father at all, and so that’s what he became as he buried every mistake and heartache from his past with money and control.
He wasn’t the father his children deserved, and for that, he would always have regret.
The past was what it was, though. And he couldn’t change it. His only hope now as a father, was that he’d done something—no matter how small—to change the future. At least for one of his children.
His most precious child.
Once, a long time ago, one of the mothers of his children told him something he hadn’t been able to forget. And while he flaunted his sins without shame, he’d never been able to get her words out of his head. It had become a constant reminder that even if he didn’t care what kind of man he was, people who loved him did.
None of these babies have asked to be born into the world they live in—they didn’t ask for us, Maxim. They didn’t choose this life, but you did. Don’t they at the very least, deserve to be loved?
He’d laughed at her that night when she implored him to show even an inkling of affection towards her child. He’d just accepted his life for what it was, then—and he hoped his kids would do the same because he’d never believed there was another way. After all, everything he did was to keep him, and them, alive. He had to be a boss before he could ever be a father.
Now, regret for those choices and beliefs filled him like bricks weighing down his body as he slowly sunk to the proverbial death of his own making.
Standing in his office, only the moonlight rolling in through the windows illuminating the rest of the space he felt most at home, Maxim rolled up the sleeves of his silk shirt while a cigar burned between his teeth. He’d already spent too much time pacing, and thinking. Overthinking, maybe.
His laptop was open on his desk, spilling a glow of light across the items scattered there. He continued the strides back and forth in front of it, keeping his eye on the screen, trying to decide his next move.
Demyan Avdonin had been calling for days. He’d even sent emails, and a text, putting a record on paper in a way men like them usually wouldn’t. Maxim ignored all attempts the man made to contact him either way. He knew what his next steps for the night were going to be, but he hadn’t figured Demyan into his plans, too.
Until time ran out.
Calling him back was not a part of the program, in fact, things would be a lot cleaner on his end if he just burned that bridge without even watching it go. And yet, he couldn’t do it.
His foolish sense of duty to the only man he had actually considered a real friend kept his gaze locked on that screen, his conscience demanding him to call. Just to tie the loose ends. He owed it to Demyan, didn’t he?
The mess he must have ...
Karine, and Roman.
Surely.
He had never been the type who valued friendship—until a man who should have been his rival, and was, expected nothing except respect and good conversation whenever the two managed to get together. So, fuck it. He knew he was running short on time, and he owed Demyan a phone call.
What more did he have to lose?
He clicked on the video call link that took him to a blank screen. For a split second, he nearly ended the call. What were the chances the man would even answer? It was past two in the morning over in New York, and Demyan had always struck him as the kind of man who didn’t work late.
A family man, Leonid had once told him about Demyan. As if it was a bad thing, and at the time, Maxim might have agreed.
Maxim grunted, displeased, at the thought, just as Demyan answered. The screen filled with a view of Demyan’s office. Sitting at his desk and looking tired, his friend stared back at him as if he wasn’t at all surprised.
Maxim reduced the volume on his laptop, and immediately resumed his pacing. At least, he felt like he was doing something, then.
“Looks like we’re both working late. I’ve been waiting to hear back from you.”
“I’ve been busy,” Maxim replied, shooting a grin his friend’s way. It was a genuine excuse—there were a lot of things he needed to handle in the last few days since Roman and Karine left. “Tends to happen when you have an entire plot unfolding beneath your feet, yes? And a wedding that didn’t happen, of course.”
The bride disappearing was simply the cherry on top of an already messy cake. It certainly put a kink in the other plans that he had found out about a little too late. Heads were going to roll, and Maxim had been busy trying to keep things under control within the bratva. Well, for as long as he could.
The inevitable was still ... inevitable.
Demyan didn’t seem to care to reply to the excuse, but his gaze followed Maxim’s pacing form on his own screen.
“Something on your mind, c
omrade?” he asked.
Maxim stopped and turned to face the laptop. “Isn’t there always?”
“You could have just called me instead of this video chat nonsense. I fully intend on this being an official call. I don’t know if you’ve been reading my emails, but I even offered to fly down there and talk to you face-to-face. If you need men or—”
“You don’t need to come down, and this is not an official call,” Maxim interjected, wanting both of those things very clear between them. “I am going to delete the records of this phone call, and you should do the same once we’re done.”
Demyan dragged in a heavy breath, exhaling loudly. He didn’t commit to Maxim’s demand, but he doubted the man would risk the blowback he might face otherwise.
Then, Demyan said, “If you called to start this conversation with anything except exactly what’s going on there, I don’t care to hear it, Maxim. When we first spoke about Roman’s situation, we didn’t decide on him returning to New York with an unstable girl in tow.”
Maxim showed great self-control by not flinching when he heard his daughter described as unstable. He really had no right to be pissed about the way others portrayed Karine since he had never treated her with the respect she deserved, but it still stung. And she had never been so lost that she didn’t know what she was missing in her father, either.
“That’s my daughter,” he said in a murmur. “My last living child, Demyan.”
Still.
He had to.
Demyan remained silent, but the way his features softened briefly said that he wasn’t opposed to the idea that there was more to Karine.
“I’m sure since you’ve met her, you know this already, but Karine is much more than just an unstable girl. She’s confused, troubled, sure—but none of it is her fault. She’s a very fragile flower in the meadow of giants, and it’s very difficult to keep someone like her safe in a world like ours.”
As Maxim finished, Demyan nodded. He had never offered his friend a true look at his personal life or the feelings he had for the people in it, but the lack of judgement staring back at him on the screen encouraged him to continue.
“And there are a great many things I have to apologize for,” he said, shrugging. “To you, I mean.”
“How so?” Demyan asked.
Maxim sighed, his gaze traveling back to the windows where he could see the inky sky—the picture-perfect backdrop to his life. Black. Nothingness. Soulless.
“I should apologize to you for not showing you the same respect you showed me,” Maxim said, glancing back to the laptop and the man on the screen. “You shared a lot with me over the years. About your family and such. You even opened up your home and welcomed me into it—I sat at your table, and ate with your wife. I never did the same to you, and for that I’m sorry. I just didn’t have the same things to offer, Demyan. The life you have doesn’t exist in mine.”
Demyan took a sip of drink from the glass that was by his side, seconds ticking by in silence before he finally replied, “There’s still time for that. Maybe this is just the start.”
Maxim nearly laughed at that, but instead, only a dry chuckle escaped him. “Actually I don’t have much time at all,” he replied, glancing at the other frames that were open on the laptop screen.
There, the feed from the security cameras showed that one by one, they were starting to flicker off. Pitch black squares dotted the grid of cameras now, and it didn’t surprise him. He expected it to happen, and knew exactly what it meant, too.
Even though people assumed he didn’t have security cameras—no criminal wanted their crimes recorded by their own hand, after all—he did have a few. A very select few that were not easily noticed by guests. Only a handful of people knew the cameras existed.
Maxim reached for the glass on his desk, lifting the golden-hued liquid to take a whiff of it. Harsh and strong, the scent filled his lungs, but he didn’t take a sip. That was not what he needed tonight. Instead, he put the glass back down and took a long drag of his cigar, letting the smoke fill his lungs.
If the snakes in his grass didn’t kill him, cancer surely would someday.
“Chicago’s on fire,” he finally said.
Demyan, quietly waiting for whatever Maxim decided to surprise him with next, only narrowed his eyes at that statement. A boss didn’t need an explanation for that kind of observation.
Chicago was on fire, and his whole world was collapsing around him. Because this was his world. Or it was supposed to be.
“About your boy,” he added before Dmeyan could comment, “I would have given him the time to grow into his role—if I could have—but he’ll just have to do it himself, now. It’ll probably be quicker than you would have liked. Expect that he’s going to stumble a bit because of it, those growing pains hurt, Demyan.”
Demyan opened his mouth to reply, but Maxim was too fast to interrupt with, “And my girl—the thing is, I never did right by her. Not when I had the chance, you understand? So, I had to do it now. I had to do something that could help her, but I was trying to keep my word to you, too. I wanted to return your boy to you in one piece. A lot of my years have been spent being selfish. Turns out, it’s not so hard to do the right thing.”
“Max—”
“Not that I know what the right thing is,” Maxim uttered under his breath.
Demyan grunted, falling back into his chair on the screen as he absorbed the rambling that even Maxim didn’t truly understand. He didn’t have the time to edit his words or thoughts, but if the man honestly wanted to know ... there it was.
Everything that was important, anyway.
Narrowing his eyes, Demyan leaned closer to the screen. “You realize very little of this makes sense to me, right?”
“I know,” Maxim replied.
More cameras had turned off in the open security frame. Simultaneously, he could also now hear the footsteps approaching his office doors through the long hall. Each step echoed in the darkness.
“I could help if you would just tell me what’s happening there,” Demyan muttered, unaware.
Maxim ignored him. Those were answers that Demyan wouldn’t get from him.
“Do me a favor, comrade,” Maxim murmured, a hint of a smile curving the edges of his lips when he glanced back to the screen. “Tell my daughter I did love her ... I just wasn’t very good at it.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Demyan stood from his seat on the screen, but Maxim was already reaching for the end call button. “Maxim, what are you—”
He smirked at Demyan, and nodded once. “It’s a good night to die, old friend.”
That was all he said before he took another puff of his cigar, and ended the call. Automatically, the settings would delete its record.
At the office doors, the shadow of a figure fell on the frosted glass. He knew exactly who it was and why they were coming. He also planned to make them work for it, too.
Maxim tipped the glass filled with gasoline at the edge, spilling the caustic liquid across his desk, drenching everything it could touch in its spread. He couldn’t make mistakes, he didn’t want to leave any evidence or a chance of survival.
“Maxim!”
The voice echoed as the door opened, but it was already too late. He dropped the cigar with the brightly-burning ash on the desk, sparks igniting the first licks of hot flames.
It spread fast, and brilliant. The fire reached high enough to touch the chandelier hanging overtop the desk in seconds. Enthralled, he couldn’t look away.
Maybe that was his only mistake.
It was through the flames that he saw the gun.
Pointed right at him.
SEVEN
The loudest voice in Karine’s mind made herself known with a sharp hiss—what are you doing?
She recognized the voice well, now—Katina no longer cared when interrupting Karine’s reality—always putting her on edge. That was filled with anxiety and panic every time Karine dared to make any decisi
on on her own.
She didn’t trust her choices. Didn’t believe she could make the right ones, and smothered her with the fear of falling, crashing, and burning.
Yet, she ignored the hissed question, and the loud Karine! Pretending she didn’t hear it at all spurred on the courage she had only experienced once before—the night she asked Roman to come to her room.
“Karine.”
That time, the voice wasn’t in her head. Roman’s murmur of her name also didn’t feel like a question—he wasn’t asking, not again, but he also wasn’t telling her, either.
Karine stepped into the room, and shut the door behind her.
The only light in the room came from what the moon provided in the windows. It wasn’t much. Her eyes didn’t adjust well to the darkness, so she focused on only the shadow of his form lounging in the bed.
Her courage had been enough to lead her into the room, but she couldn’t actually step any closer to him once the door was closed. The war raged inside her head. A battle between the urge to just leave—run out of the room again—and the desire to stay because she wanted to be close to him.
This time, it was only herself she fought with, though. Karine was starting to learn those were actually the hardest fights for her.
Roman was far too quiet for Karine’s liking, and the silence started to get to her in the worst way. She resisted the compulsion to twist her fingers together to ease the anxiety. If he would just say something, then she wouldn’t have to, and she might know what he was thinking.
“Nightmares?” he asked suddenly, and Karine breathed her relief out in a whoosh. “Have you been having them a lot recently?”
Forcing the lump down that had formed in her throat to keep her quiet, she finally found her own voice again. .
“Yeah, I think so,” Karine whispered.
She couldn’t be sure because she never remembered what happened in the nightmares. Instead, she often woke up with a racing heart, airless as she gasped to catch her breath, and a heaviness weighing down her very soul. Still, with absolute certainty, she knew that she had seen something in her sleep that had made her afraid.