Maksim: A Dark Mafia Romance (Akimov Bratva)

by Nicole Fox

  Lynna’s skin appears tan in comparison to the brightness of her dress. Her round face appears too young to be a widow. Her smile appears too optimistic to break.

  “Lynna, Ravil is gone,” I say. “He’s dead.”

  Her head tilts, her smile almost faltering before she laughs. “What? No. He’s fine. He just left a couple of days ago. He’s been with you. He said you two have been working on an important project.”

  “He died,” I say. “The Balduccis killed him. I was visiting Natalie. At some point, they put the bomb on the car. They killed him at the cemetery.”

  Her lower lip presses up, still smiling, but her eyes are confused. “No. We’re going to Mexico City this summer. I can’t go to Mexico City alone.”

  “He’s dead, Lynna. We took care of his body, but we can arrange for something more formal to occur if you’d like. I’m sorry. He deserved a lot better.”

  She takes a deep breath. She runs her hand over the skirt of her dress several times, her head bowed. Her hand touches her forehead, like she wants to make sure she is still real and not dreaming. She takes several ragged breaths.

  I step toward her—to offer what, I don’t know. A helping hand? A shoulder to cry on? A fucking hug? But she raises her hand to stop me. Somewhere in the house, a ticking clock documents the passing time.

  Tick. Tick. Tick.

  When she looks up at me again, her eyes are dry, but there is a new coldness to them.

  “Thank you,” she says calmly. She is stronger than I thought. Stoic. Fearless. She knew what Ravil did, she knew the risks, and she is taking the hardest news a person can hear far better than many of my soldiers would.

  “Your strength is admirable,” I tell her. “You know you don’t have to worry about anything. I’ll ensure that you’re taken care of.”

  I walk past her to their small chestnut bureau. I open the top drawer, taking out a pad of paper and a pencil. I jot down my private number. I rip off the paper and hand it to her. She takes it, gazing at it briefly before folding it in half.

  “That’s my private number,” I tell her. “If you need anything, feel free to call anytime.”

  “Mama!” a child’s voice yells. Five-year-old Ben runs into the room, his thin blond hair bouncing as he rushes to her. He shoves an action figure in Lynna’s direction. “Tommy broke Master Midnight!”

  “Nuh-uh!” a younger voice calls out. Ravil’s youngest son, Tommy, patters out, his face still round with baby fat and his steps a little uncertain. “No, Mommy, no I din’t!”

  I force a sad smile. “I’m sorry.”

  I take a step back before turning around and heading back toward the door.

  Those children will grow up fatherless. Ben likely won’t remember his father at all.

  Ravil would have followed me to hell, but it only led to his death. It made his wife a widow, and his children fatherless.

  I let the pain in my arm and leg plow through me. Perhaps, for now, I deserve nothing more.

  The Irish whiskey doesn’t bring any salvation, but it softens the edges of my rage. I tilt the glass until the last drops are gone, then I pour myself another glass. I finish it slowly, trying to ignore all the dead bodies that are littering my mind.

  They’re gone. There’s no point in mourning. There’s no point in thinking about what I could have done differently. I’ll move forward with my plans without Ravil. I’ll build the Bratva stronger and more expansive. I’ll humiliate Gianluigi Balducci so thoroughly that he’ll run for the hills with his tail between his legs. And then I’ll kill him and reduce the Balduccis to ash as a warning for future generations.

  I will give the fallen the best gift I can offer: vengeance.

  I take the glass to the kitchen. The house feels emptier than usual. I walk up the steps to the second floor. We’re far enough away from the city that only the sliver of the moon is casting any light. It’s not a problem as my eyes adjust to the darkness of the hallway, but it makes the house feel less like a home and more like abandoned property.

  I flip on the bathroom light. It’s temporarily blinding, but the white marble floor comes into view, followed by the glass-encased shower and the tub. I could have settled with the shower, but Natalie wanted a whole experience while getting clean.

  I start the water for the shower and shed my clothes. When I step past the shower’s threshold, the water scalds as it hits me. I let my skin turn bright red as my body gets used to the discomfort.

  I run my hands over my face. I think over my plan, going through every detail. Sooner rather than later, Cassandra Balducci will break. But that will come in its own time. For now, I just need her lithe body shaking with fear.

  I picture her in front of me. Her clothes left some things to the imagination, but my mind fills in the blanks, her skin smoother than untouched snow and her breasts rising and falling with her breathing. She fears me. As she should.

  I stroke my erection, gripping tightly. She’d be tight, I know that, so that I would have to push slowly until she could take my fullness.

  I picture her, her hands on my shoulders, my fingers under her thighs as I fucked her against the shower wall. She’d whimper every time her back hit against the marble, but she’d still pull me closer to her. Her nails would leave imprints as she held on for dear life. She’d continue trying to say my name, but she wouldn’t be able to get the second syllable out before I rammed myself back into her.

  My climax builds, my breathing becoming shallower. My balls tighten. I speed up my pace until my cock throbs, cum erupting out of me before spiraling down the drain.

  I catch my breath as the tremors fade. I stare at the wall. The image of Cassandra fades away with the steam.

  Shaking my head, I finish my shower then climb out. I wrap a towel around my waist and go to my room, pulling on boxer briefs and slacks.

  I feel a faint pang of unease. I shouldn’t be fantasizing about a Balducci like this. She’s stunning, and I can’t blame myself for being a hot-blooded man, but I’m not some average Joe, suckered in by the beauty of a woman. Cassandra will never be more than an enemy. She is merely a means to an end.

  I need to keep my eye on my priorities: destroy Gianluigi from the inside out, then take over the Balducci empire.

  But if the chance arises, I will not say no to defiling Gianluigi’s precious daughter.

  I turn on the TV for background noise. The image of a mountain lion bounding across a desert flashes onto the screen. A voice narrates over the scene.

  “The older mountain lions have no predators other than humans, but that does not suggest that there aren’t any significant threats toward them. Human impacts on their environment—such as habitat loss, the rampant poaching of the mountain lions’ prey, or, in the state of Florida, vehicle accidents—costs some of these stunning animals their life. Some large predators who compete with the mountain lion for food can also become a threat. Yet, one of the mountain lion’s largest threats is other mountain lions. Male lions will compete for territory and if one of them refuses to submit, a fight will likely commence.”

  Yes. Yes, it will.

  It’s a shame that Cassandra’s child had to be involved, but I knew the girl was a pawn that I needed to play. I plan to keep her on the fringes. Children are clean slates and I’m not going to get Cassandra’s daughter dirtied for the sake of my revenge. As much as possible, I’ll keep her in the dark.

  I rise and cross over to the dresser in one corner. Sliding my hand to the back of the top drawer, I find what I am looking for: a key, tucked in a specially crafted alcove, hidden from view. I retrieve it, leaving the TV on as I cross the hallway to unlock the opposing door.

  When I step in, the scent of dust is strong enough that I can almost taste it. The bedroom is cluttered with things that are better off kept locked away. Better off burned and cast to the wind, actually, but I cannot bring myself to do that. I don’t know why I’ve kept everything—pictures, Natalie’s dresses, my mother’s jewelry,
my father’s watch. A photo that was taken of my parents and me right before their car crash sits on the dresser, bearing witness to everything else I’ve lost.

  They are mementos of the dead.

  Standing in the room, there’s a faint chill, but an angry heat burns under my skin. Every item is a reminder of what once was mine and was taken from me. It’s a reminder that the universe continues to weigh my soul and decide that I deserve to be knocked down a peg. It’s a stab in the back, a theft, a cold-hearted lie that says, no matter how hard I work, no matter how much I invest in anything, the story will end the same: I will lose everything I ever loved.

  My hand is on my father’s knife where it rests on the dresser, squeezing tight enough that my knuckles are white. Sighing, I slowly release it. I should not have come in here.

  I walk out, locking the door again. Then I return to my room and finish getting dressed.

  It’s time for dinner.

  The scent of garlic and parmesan dominates Alena’s Rome, an Italian restaurant in the heart of Akimov territory that earned a Michelin three-star rating.

  At the table, I receive a text.

  ETA 20 minutes.

  The hostess is smiling as she opens the door for me.

  “Mr. Akimov. We’re so glad that you decided to dine with us today. The restaurant is empty, per your request, and we’ve started your favorite dish. We just poured your drink for you.”

  “Excellent. Thank you, Alicia,” I say. She leads me to the table closest to the painting of Cascata del Toce, a waterfall in Piedmont, Italy. It’s a favorite of mine. Two forces of nature clashing and merging, creating something breathtaking and relentless.

  After Alicia leaves me at the table, I take a drink and gaze at the empty seat across from me. I peer over at the painting. The waterfall is right over my head, reminding me of my time in the shower. Reminding me of Cassandra.

  The waitress comes to my table, carefully carrying a tray. She sets down the filet mignon with the linguini drenched in an olive oil and white wine reduction. She smiles at me.

  “Anything else I can do for you, sir?” she asks.

  “Leave.”

  Her smile falters, but it returns quickly. “Of course, sir.”

  She walks away. The steak is tender and succulent, the second-best carnal desire. The pasta is equally worthy of praise. As I’m about halfway through, Alicia opens the door.

  Cassandra storms in, two of my men behind her. The faint lines of the muscles in her arms are visible as she strides up to me. She slams her hand on my table.

  “Did you send your thugs to fucking kidnap me?” she demands. She’s wearing a white T-shirt and pajama bottoms. Her nipples compete for my attention.

  I glance over at my men. I indicate to the door with my head. “You two can leave.”

  They both nod, retreating outside. Cassandra’s presence is like one of her family’s car bombs, a compact package just waiting to explode.

  “You seem upset,” I remark. “You should sit down and have some wine.”

  She grabs onto the edge of the table, upending it. My glass and my plate careen onto the floor. Food, cutlery, and shattered tableware fly in all directions. I eye my steak sadly. The best bites were wasted.

  “I don’t want to sit anywhere with you,” she hisses. “I don’t want anything to do with you. Do you know how completely and utterly embarrassing it is to have two men show up at your apartment and force you to leave?”

  “Were you in the middle of something embarrassing?”

  Pink flushes into her cheeks. Her hands fold over her chest, hiding her nipples. Pity.

  “No,” she says. “I was just getting into bed. I thought something might have happened. I thought your men might have been the police. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have answered the door.”

  “It was nice of them to knock,” I say. “I didn’t tell them that was necessary.”

  We stare at each other. She is stunning in a way I haven’t noticed before. Her dark hair almost has a red tint to it, her eyes twinkle with fire, and she has a refreshing, natural authenticity to the shape of her curves. It’s worthy of discovery—uncharted territory eager to be claimed. Just another trinket for me to take from Gianluigi, but one I’ll enjoy claiming. Perhaps more than once.

  Alicia silently skirts around the two of us. She and the waitress pick up the debris from the upended table. I keep my eyes on Cassandra. She hasn’t moved.

  A fresh cloth is placed over the table before Alicia and the waitress scurry away with the broken plates and the wasted food.

  “I will …” She takes a deep breath and composes herself. “I’m willing to agree to your deal.”

  “Sit down,” I order, indicating the opposite table. Her legs twitch, fighting her desire to rebel, but she slowly sinks down into the chair. She remains angled away from me. I’d assume it’s because she’s prepared to run, but she turns toward me, her elbow resting on the table. The waitress returns from the kitchen. I indicate for her to come over.

  “Yes, Mr. Akimov?” she asks. “Would you like to change tables? We don’t want you to have to eat near the mess. We’re so sorry about what happened.”

  “It’s fine,” I say. “We’ll have two more of the filets. Let’s switch to the spicy baked potatoes.”

  A muscle twitches in Cassandra’s upper lip, but she lets the waitress leave without trying to override my decision. She may be easier to break than I thought.

  “So, tell me, what kind of man uses a child to try to get revenge on a Mafia boss?” she asks. “It seems like a coward’s approach, if you ask me. You’re using her to use me to get at my father. Too afraid to get close to big bad Gianluigi?”

  “Fear has never been the problem,” I say, as Alicia returns with a glass of whiskey.

  “Would your guest like anything to drink?” Alicia asks me.

  “She’d like red wine,” I say. “The Pomerol.”

  “Of course. Only the best,” she says.

  After she leaves, Cassandra’s lip curls up in a partial snarl. “I’m not much of a wine drinker.”

  “Drink with me,” I tell her casually. “Perhaps the alcohol will loosen my lips and you will get the answers you’re after.”

  She snarls. “Perhaps I’ll just throw the wine in your face. Maybe that’ll loosen your lips.”

  The way her mouth curves around the last word is tempting—a forbidden fruit. I smile, and she glances away from me for the first time, a deeper red touching her cheeks.

  “I’m not afraid to get close to your father,” I clarify. “If anything, I’d love to be close enough to hurt him. But you don’t need to know the politics of it all. And I don’t feel the need to justify anything to you.”

  Alicia brings over the glass of wine. Cassandra picks it up and takes a hesitant sip.

  “Still.” She sets the glass down. “You’re like a fucking Bond villain. You must have had to go through a lot of work to track down my child. A lot of money too. Why didn’t you just go straight through me?”

  “That was my original plan. I expected to hold something over you that was much more scandalous,” I admit. “But a child works perfectly fine for my plans.”

  “You’re vile.”

  “And what do you consider your father?” I counter. “For murdering people in the most cowardly way possible? I’m not the bad guy here, sweetheart. I’m the only person willing to go after your father in a way that will get everyone a modicum of justice.”

  “And if a child gets hurt, so be it?”

  “Your child is fine. I could have kidnapped her and kept her locked up in a place you’d never find, but I didn’t. I’m doing what needs to be done, so it’s in your best interest to not make it any more difficult for me to do it.”

  She drinks more of her wine. She looks up at the painting of Cascata del Toce. I drink my whiskey, trying not to stare at her. Perhaps grabbing her in her nighttime clothes was a bad plan. I don’t need lust compromising me.

  �
��What’s my daughter’s name?” she asks.

  “You don’t get to know that yet.”

  Her hand curls into a fist. “I just want her first name.”

  “I don’t give anyone what they want without getting what I want first,” I say. “So, maybe, if we finish this dinner without you throwing any more food, you might get something.”

  She grits her teeth but says nothing as she continues observing the painting. I lean back, deciding to take her in like a piece of art. If I take all the sensuality out of it, she’s still captivating. The contrast between the unique shade of her hair and the slightly embarrassed pink of her cheeks, the disparity between her toned body and the delicate fragility of her hands.

  Still, the way her body turns her bland pajamas into a temptation is difficult to ignore.

  The waitress comes by with our plates. “Thank you,” I say. She gives me a quick smile before setting down Cassandra’s plate and silverware.

  “Do either of you need anything else?” she asks. I shake my head. “Then I hope you enjoy the meal.”

  As she moves away, Cassandra drapes a napkin over her lap. I don’t move as she cuts into the steak and spears a piece with her fork. She takes her first bite. Her eyes light up until she sees me watching her. She shrugs, continuing to chew.

  “It’s decent,” she scowls. We both eat for several minutes. I’m pleasantly surprised to see she takes her time eating, savoring each bite instead of shoving it down.

  As I’m nearly finished with my steak and she’s cutting into the second half of hers, she stops to take a sip of her wine.

  “I’m curious about something,” I say. “The investigative journalism. Why are you doing it?”

  “Because the truth is important.” She slowly sets the glass back down. There’s no lipstick left on the rim. “I believe people should know as much as possible about what’s going on around them. Investigative journalism also helps the less powerful people in society see all the ugly and seedy things that the powerful people sneak past them. Money is particularly good at hiding the dirty shit. You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?”