He just says, “Stay here.”
Then he turns and follows his father out of the room.
I watch him go, broad shoulders rigid under his dark shirt, every line of him carved from rage and old hatred, and I don’t realize I’ve half-risen from the sofa until Vera’s hand touches my sleeve. Gentle.
Careful.
“Please,” she says softly.
I look up at the doorway.
Then at Maksim’s mother standing like a marble statue near the fire.
And at Vera, who asked about someone named Vasilisa like the answer mattered more than breathing.
Then back toward the doorway where Maksim disappeared.
The estate is silent again.
But now it doesn’t feel watchful.
Now it feels like a house waiting to detonate.
Chapter 35
Maksim
The hotel door shuts behind us with a soft click.
Everything tonight between us feels too soft for the kind of violence sitting under my skin.
I should’ve killed him.
The thought has been looping since the estate, since the second Nikolai leaned back in his office chair like he still owned anything of mine and told me, cold as a grave, that I had two choices.
Take the compound.
Run the Bratva from there like a proper Pakhan should.
Orstay in Russia under him and let Kostya have the Bratva.
Kostya.
Fucking useless.
Like this whole trip.
I drag both hands over my face and stand there in the middle of the suite, breathing through my nose, trying not to put my fist through the nearest solid surface just to hear something crack.
He said it like it was reasonable.
Like handing the Bratva to Kostya wasn’t the same as soaking it in gasoline and tossing in a match.
My brother can fight. Fine. He can follow orders when someone stronger is standing in front of him. He can grin through blood and act like chaos is strategy.
Butrule?
No.
