I don’t bother looking up from the security feed. Third floor, east wing. Clara’s door hasn’t moved in six hours.
“Blyat.” Maksim’s chair creaks as he leans forward. “You know what your problem is? You’re thinking too much. Should’ve seen your face when Aleksei started screaming. The moment Ludis pulled out that skinning knife—” He whistles low. “Heart attack did us a favor, really. Saved on cleanup.”
The crystal tumbler cracks in my grip. “Zatknis.”
“What? Too soon?” He grins, all teeth. “Come on, boss. Two weeks of watching you pace like a kicked puppy. It’s painful. Even Golubka’s stressed—tried to eat my favorite boots yesterday.”
“Your boots were already garbage.”
“They were Italian leather!”
“They were knockoffs.” I set the cracked glass down. “And my python has better taste.”
Maksim clutches his chest. “You wound me. Also, she’s getting fat. Maybe ease up on the comfort rats?”
The security feed flickers. Movement. Clara’s door opening a crack, then closing. My shoulders tighten.
“Ah.” Maksim’s voice shifts. “Still not eating?”
“Kayla leaves food. It disappears.” Sometimes. When Elijah visits with drawings of him and that damn snake.
“Better than week one.” His boots drop to the floor with a thud. “Remember when she threw that vase at your head? Good aim for someone running on grief and rage.”
I trace the scar on my temple. “You found that funny.”
“Found it hilarious. Also found it interesting.” He pauses, studying me with unusual intensity. “You let her.”
“What?”
“The vase. You saw it coming. Could’ve dodged.” His eyes narrow. “But you didn’t.”
I reach for the scotch again, but Maksim’s next words freeze my hand in mid-air.
“Blyat, never knew you had this side to you, boss.” His voice carries an edge of wonder. “The greatPakhan, taking ceramic to the face because he thinks he deserves it.”
“One more word—”
“What? You’ll feed me to Golubka?” He snorts. “She likes me better, anyway. I don’t make her fat.”
The urge to punch his smirking face wars with the truth in his words. The same truth I’ve been drowning in scotch for two weeks.
Clara’s sobs echo through the walls at night. Maxwell’s words before he left—“Take care of her. Please.”—hang like smoke in every room. The weight of Stephan’s lies crushes what’s left of her world while I sit here, uselessly watching security feeds.
“You did what needed doing.” Maksim’s hand lands on my shoulder, startling me. His usual sarcasm gone. “Truth’s like surgery, boss. Hurts like hell, but infection’s worse.”
“When did you get wise,mudak?”
“Please.” He rolls his eyes. “I’ve always been wise. You just never listen.” He squeezes once, then steps back. “Now, about those knockoff boots…”
“Out.”
“Fine, fine. But, boss?” He pauses at the door. “Maybe try talking to her instead of watching cameras all day? Just a thought.”
The door clicks shut behind him. On screen, Clara’s room stays dark and silent.
Maksim’s words echo in my head.Talk to her.
As if it’s that fucking simple.
