His name is Maksim. He wears Sovarin colors on the inside of his coat. He took an oath to me years ago, in a back room with the smell of cigar smoke and ink, with my ring pressed to his knuckles as he promised loyalty. Tonight, he looks at me like I’m a temporary obstacle.
I step into the room. The guard closes the door behind me. Karp remains outside. This isn’t a show. This is control.
Maksim’s eyes follow me across the room, not fearful or pleading, but confident in the way of a man who believes he placed his bet on the winning side.
I stop a few feet away. “You’ve had time to think.”
His mouth tightens. “I’ve had time to understand exactly what you’re doing.”
I let the silence sit long enough for the light to hum between us. The building makes small sounds, a faint shift in the pipes, vents adjusting airflow, and a door thudding shut somewhere above.
“You moved without authorization,” I state.
He gives a short breath through his nose, almost a laugh. “Authorization. That’s what you call it.”
“That’s what it is.”
His gaze hardens. “No. It’s what you hide behind when you don’t want to admit you’ve lost control.”
The words are meant to provoke me. He thinks I’ll react like a man with something to prove.
I take a step closer, slow enough to keep the air calm. “You gave Arkady support for a move that violated the internal structure.”
“He did what needed to happen.”
“Needed,” I echo calmly. “Explain it.”
Maksim shifts in the chair, the metal scraping quietly under him. “You’ve been distracted.”
The word strikes like a blade aimed at the softest place.
Rowan.
He doesn’t name her, but the implication is clear. Apakhanwith his attention split is apakhanwho can be pushed.
I don’t react. “Continue.”
He takes that as permission. “Arkady sees it. He sees the weakness. He sees that you let one woman become a pressure point.”
My fingers remain relaxed at my sides. “That woman has a name.”
He lifts his chin. “If she mattered more than the Bratva, then yes. Maybe I would care.”
His loyalty to Arkady has already eaten his common sense. I step closer until I can see the small capillaries broken along the edge of his right eye. “Who gave the order to enlist Ivan.”
His brows pull together briefly, as if he didn’t expect that question. He recovers quickly. “Ivan is a tool.”
“You don’t bring tools into my house without my approval.”
“You don’t own the house,” he sneers. “You inherited it.”
The insult isn’t subtle. It’s meant to remind me of my father’s shadow. That I sit where Nikolai sat. That some men think blood is the only claim.
My pulse doesn’t show. “Answer.”
He stares at me for a long moment. His nostrils flare once, then he speaks with the smug certainty of a man who believes he has a shield.
“Arkady made contact. He brought Ivan in because Ivan had access. Ivan knew how to get what Arkady needed.”
