Purpose.
Because Ali wasn’t wrong to lie. He bought me time. Time I’m wasting now on the back of a man built on rage and intuition. A man who will kill me once he figures me out. The engine growls deeper, he accelerates.
Wherever we’re going… it isn’t safe.
We stop so abruptly my chest hits Maksim’s back hard.
The Ducati rumbles under us for one more second, then dies.
I look up.
An apartment building.
Maksim doesn’t look at me. Not once.
“Get off,” he says.
I slide off the bike. My legs feel unsteady, from the speed, from the shock, from Ali’s name echoing in my skull.
He rips the helmet off my head, his fingers graze my jaw; not gently, just decisive, like touching me costs him something.
Maksim walks ahead without waiting. I follow because my body knows better than to stay behind.
Inside the lobby, into the elevator. He stands beside me in absolute silence. The elevator doors open on the fourth floor. He strides out. I follow behind him checking for exits. We stop at apartment 4C.
He knocks once.
The door swings open.
Vaska.
My blood runs cold. Vaska is terrifying, maybe more so than Maksim. He’s tall, maybe a bit shorter than Gabriel, but it’s that damn knife he twirls between his fingers and his dark, unreadable eyes, not to mention his reputation as the Bratva executioner that puts me on edge.
Vaska fills the doorway, amused before he even sees me.
“Ah,” he drawls, eyes dragging over me with a slow, calculated interest. “Bakery girl.”
My spine stiffens.
Before I can speak or react or step back, Maksim’s hand finds the small of my back; hot, steady, and then he shoves me forward. Hard.
I stumble into Vaska’s apartment.
Maksim doesn’t step in. He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at Vaska with a look I haven’t seen before, then turns and walks away.
Vaska shuts the apartment door behind me with a soft click.
The sound slides down my spine like a blade.
He smirks. “Follow me.”
His voice is almost cheerful.
He leads me down a narrow hallway, casual, like this is the most normal thing in the world; taking in a girl dumped at his door.
My feet move on their own. I’m back in old instincts. Controlled stride. Breath quiet. Eyes forward. Ready. We turn into a kitchen. He drags out the metal chair. The one that already feels wrong. He gestures at it with two fingers.
“Sit.”
