After that, the line goes dead.
I lower the phone slowly, letting out a deep sigh.
What a fucking mess.
8
IVY
What really throws me off, more than the fact that I nearly got shot in a goddamn cafe and more than the blood I watched pool across tile, is that Maksim himself is the one who drives us back to the Sorokin estate.
Not one of the stoic, silent men lined like statues at the door to his compound when we were leaving out the front door. Not the man with the piercing blue eyes who watched me like I was some cockroach crawling across their floors. Not even the woman with the long hair who had been there when we were taken, who I suspect could snap my neck like a twig and not blink doing it.
Instead, he walks Yulia and me to the same sleek black car that had taken us here, already pulled up and idling near the walkway, and opens the back door for us like some chauffeur before sliding into the driver’s seat like this is all completely normal.
Yulia curls instinctively into my side on the ride back to her family’s estate, her head against my ribs, the softest breathescaping her as she begins to drift off in my arms. Her fingers are still clenched around the hem of my coat like a lifeline.
I can't blame her. She's been through hell.
Her small body is tense even in rest, like her dreams won’t let her forget the way those gunshots rang out around us. The only thing I’m glad about is how I was able to shield her from the gory sight of that body slumped over the counter when we left.
Maksim catches my eye in the rearview a few times but doesn’t say a word.
One hand rests on the wheel, the other draped casually over the center console. His shoulders are relaxed, posture lazy. While I know virtually nothing about him, I can tell Maksim carries control effortlessly like it’s been stitched into his skin. People like him command with presence alone.
Maybe it’s the adrenaline, or the trauma of what the fuck I just went through, or the sheer wrongness of today, but I find myself staring at the back of his head wondering what a man like him would be like in a more intimate setting.
Would he still hold the power? Command the person dumb enough to allow themselves to be trapped behind a closed door with him for complete and total submission? Or would he be a surprising submissive, wanting to give up that control he seems to hold onto so dearly, just for a little while?
I try to shake the thoughts away from me as quickly as they come, nausea rolling through me.
Outside the window, Moscow rushes by in a blur. A city I barely understand, a country I can’t pretend to feel safe in anymore, all of it seems to press in around me from all sides. My fingerstighten slightly on Yulia’s back, guilt threading sharp and deep through my chest.
In the end, it had been a bad idea to bring her out into the city. Maybe this is the real reason her father keeps her locked up in the safety of their family estate. Clearly, the people in his life live dangerously. Enough that random shoot-outs on a Tuesday have any of them hardly batting an eye.
The GPS pings softly once as we take an exit and pull onto a main road, the estate coming up just a few miles ahead. Yulia stirs against me, then sighs in her sleep.
When we finally pull through the gates of the Sorokin estate, I spot another car already parked in the front circle.
Yulia wakes when we park and as I shift to pull off my seat belt. Her big, brown eyes blink against the light, a soft grunt leaving her when she sits up and rubs at her lash line. When she sees the familiar front steps out the front windshield, she sits up straighter.
I can feel the relief pouring off her even before she murmurs, “Papa…”
She scrambles out of the car and runs ahead the second she spots Sergei exiting the house, his long coat flapping behind him. He doesn’t hesitate when he bends and scoops her up in his arms, holding her close while kissing the top of her head a few times.
It’s the first time I’ve actually seen genuine emotion on the man’s face. Their reunion should feel warm and touching, but it doesn’t. Not with the way Sergei’s eyes suddenly snap to Maksim when we both exit the car and head over to them.
There is a cold fire that simmers beneath his gaze.
Maksim walks slowly beside me, stopping a few feet from him while casually shoving his hands into his pockets. The two men exchange a few terse words I can’t understand, but it’s clear that Sergei is furious.
Who could blame him?
I can’t read his body language, but I know for a fact that this isn’t some heartfelt conversation with reassurances that Yulia and I were kept safe and we made it out of that shootout alive. What I’m witnessing is a reckoning.
Sergei turns away a moment later, carrying Yulia inside with one protective arm wrapped around her and the other cupping the back of her head. I catch up behind them, pausing briefly at the top of the steps to see Maksim still standing at the base of them, watching me.
His eyes are focused, taking me in with the same unreadable look he’d given me in the rearview mirror.
