He doesn't answer. Just grabs my wrist and starts moving through the crowd with purpose.
"When did you last see him?" Zakhar asks, voice tight.
"By the bar. Talking to Morrison."
We navigate between clusters of guests, Zakhar's grip on my wrist firm and urgent. The tension radiating off him sets my nerves on edge. Whatever this is, is bad.
We round a pillar and I see Maksim.
He's standing alone, champagne glass forgotten in his hand. Staring at the stage where the pianist has taken his seat. Every line of Maksim's body has gone rigid. His jaw clenches. His eyes are cold and focused with an intensity that looks nothing like appreciation.
He looks like a man watching ghosts materialize.
"Shit," Zakhar breathes.
"What's going on?" I ask. "Do you know the pianist?"
Zakhar moves to Maksim's side. I follow, hyper-aware that we're drawing attention now, that people are starting to notice Maksim frozen like a statue while everyone else settles in for the performance.
"Do you want to leave?" Zakhar asks quietly.
Maksim doesn't look at him. His voice when he speaks carries an emotion I can't identify. Raw and carefully controlled at once, like holding broken glass without letting it cut.
"In a while."
The pianist begins. The first notes are clear and deliberate, achingly beautiful. Chopin's Nocturne in E-flat major. Music that sounds like longing translated into sound.
The room goes silent except for the piano. Everyone transfixed.
I watch Maksim's face. Watch his careful mask crack at the edges, revealing pain he's trying desperately to contain. His hand tightens on the champagne flute until I worry the glass will shatter. His breathing changes, becomes measured in a way that suggests he's fighting for control.
What am I witnessing? What wound am I seeing?
The music continues, each note precise and painful. The pianist plays with the kind of technical mastery that comes from lifelong dedication.
Maksim stands utterly still. Listening. Bleeding in ways I can't see but somehow feel.
Then, without warning, he turns. Walks toward the exit with deliberate steps, leaving his champagne on a nearby table.
Zakhar and I exchange a glance. Follow without discussion.
No one tries to stop us. We're ghosts moving through the crowd, leaving the gala and its glittering performance behind.
The SUV is already waiting. The driver sees us approaching, opens doors without question.
We slide inside. Same configuration as before, Maksim and me in the back, Zakhar across from us.
But everything is different now.
The silence is heavier. Weighted with pain I don't understand. Maksim stares out the window, jaw tight, hands clenched in his lap. The scars across his knuckles stand out white against tanned skin.
Zakhar watches his brother with concern so deep it's nearly physical.
I sit between them, feeling the tension like atmospheric pressure before a storm breaks, and I don't know what to do. Don't know how to help or if help is even wanted.
The city passes beyond tinted glass. The engine hums. None of us speak.
And I realize that tonight, for the first time since this arrangement began, I've seen past Maksim Severyn's perfect control to the man beneath.
