Page 5 of The Pakhan’s Debt by Leona White

The men around us don’t move much, but the tension pulls tighter, as if the mere idea that anyone could refuse the boss is inadmissible. Maksim doesn’t stop smiling as he glances lazily at the guard on my right. “Is she steady enough to walk?”

I lift my chin. “I’m standing right here.”

“I can see that.” His gaze drifts over me once, quick and blunt. “Whether you’ll still be standing in five minutes is a different question.”

This would be the right time to show fear, and I am afraid. But I also know he’s going to do what he wants to regardless of what I say or feel or do, so I’m damn well not going down without a fight. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

Maksim chuckles, and his voice washes over me, making me shiver involuntarily before I can even hope he didn’t see it. “You’re already here, moya devochka.”

Yes, that’s definitely condescending. Fuck him and his dark eyes and that infuriating smile.

My mouth opens and shuts again, and something in his expression narrows just slightly, as if he appreciates a clean point more than a loud one. Then he turns and walks into the house without looking back.

He assumes I’ll follow. That specific kind of arrogance makes me want to throw one of his own guards at him. The man beside me clears his throat. “Miss Sokolov.”

I look at him. “Don’t ‘Miss Sokolov’ me like you’re a butler.”

He says nothing, which is smart. I stand there for a second with cold needling through my coat and rage stacking up so fast inside me that I briefly consider doing something dramatic, like screaming, breaking a lamp, or launching myself at the nearest expensive object in reach. None of those plans gets me very far.

Running would be worse. I know it, he knows it, and the guards definitely know it. I’d make it halfway down the drive if I got lucky, then someone would haul me back inside by the arm, and all I’d have to show for it would be ruined tights and a bruised ego.

Still, I turn to the guard beside me and give him my sweetest smile. “If anyone grabs me again, I’m going for the eyes first. Tell your boss I’m trying to be polite.”

He actually shifts back half a step, which is so satisfying I almost feel human again.

Maksim hasn’t killed me, and in my current circumstances that counts as useful information. If my father has managed to turn me into somebody’s problem, then there are worse men than this one looking for me. Of all the wolves circling tonight, this one looks like the kind who at least keeps records. So I square my shoulders, fix my coat, and walk inside on my own.

The entrance hall is all stone floors and dark wood. It doesn’t take me a minute to realize this family is built with old money, and the history tracks. The Volkovs were making money back when half the city was still killing for corners and fuel coupons, first through prison routes, then diesel, then metals moving out through rail and port corridors nobody touched without permission.

By the time other Bratva families were still acting like street crews in expensive coats, the Volkovs had already moved into trucking, bonded warehouses, shipping contracts, and private security fronts clean enough to sit under government noses without setting them off.

There’s a long table against one wall under a shaded lamp, a red runner, oil portraits on the stair landing, and the kind of silence that only exists in houses where everyone knows who holds power.

This isn’t some rich criminal’s fantasy, but a family seat.

Maksim angles his head just enough so he can see me coming, and that smile of his grows a notch. I resist the urge to smack it clean off his face and follow as he leads me down a corridor and into a study that somehow manages to be colder than the night outside, even with a fire lit in the black marble hearth.

He gestures to a chair. “Sit.”

“No.”

He takes off his gloves slowly, one finger at a time, and sets them down on the table. “You’re going to.”

I fist my hands into tight little balls. “Try asking prettier.”

His eyes come back to mine, and I almost lose my breath with how deep they are. “Sit down, Elena.”

Nothing about his voice rises and that makes it harder to resist his command even when I want to attack him. I stay upright for another second on principle, then my balance tips, and I grab the back of the chair before my knees make a public statement.

His gaze drops to my hand, then back to my face. “Good girl.”

I bare my teeth. “Go to hell.”

He raises a brow. “I live here.”

The answer is so dry I almost laugh, which is deeply offensive.

I sit because fainting in front of him would be humiliating and I’ve had enough humiliation for one night. He sits across from me, opens his coat, and slides a thick file onto the table.