Maksim: A Dark Mafia Romance (Akimov Bratva), Nicole Fox [love letters to the dead txt] 📗

the second floor. We’re far enough away from the city that only the sliver of the moon is casting any light. It’s not a problem as my eyes adjust to the darkness of the hallway, but it makes the house feel less like a home and more like abandoned property.

I flip on the bathroom light. It’s temporarily blinding, but the white marble floor comes into view, followed by the glass-encased shower and the tub. I could have settled with the shower, but Natalie wanted a whole experience while getting clean.

I start the water for the shower and shed my clothes. When I step past the shower’s threshold, the water scalds as it hits me. I let my skin turn bright red as my body gets used to the discomfort.

I run my hands over my face. I think over my plan, going through every detail. Sooner rather than later, Cassandra Balducci will break. But that will come in its own time. For now, I just need her lithe body shaking with fear.

I picture her in front of me. Her clothes left some things to the imagination, but my mind fills in the blanks, her skin smoother than untouched snow and her breasts rising and falling with her breathing. She fears me. As she should.

I stroke my erection, gripping tightly. She’d be tight, I know that, so that I would have to push slowly until she could take my fullness.

I picture her, her hands on my shoulders, my fingers under her thighs as I fucked her against the shower wall. She’d whimper every time her back hit against the marble, but she’d still pull me closer to her. Her nails would leave imprints as she held on for dear life. She’d continue trying to say my name, but she wouldn’t be able to get the second syllable out before I rammed myself back into her.

My climax builds, my breathing becoming shallower. My balls tighten. I speed up my pace until my cock throbs, cum erupting out of me before spiraling down the drain.

I catch my breath as the tremors fade. I stare at the wall. The image of Cassandra fades away with the steam.

Shaking my head, I finish my shower then climb out. I wrap a towel around my waist and go to my room, pulling on boxer briefs and slacks.

I feel a faint pang of unease. I shouldn’t be fantasizing about a Balducci like this. She’s stunning, and I can’t blame myself for being a hot-blooded man, but I’m not some average Joe, suckered in by the beauty of a woman. Cassandra will never be more than an enemy. She is merely a means to an end.

I need to keep my eye on my priorities: destroy Gianluigi from the inside out, then take over the Balducci empire.

But if the chance arises, I will not say no to defiling Gianluigi’s precious daughter.

I turn on the TV for background noise. The image of a mountain lion bounding across a desert flashes onto the screen. A voice narrates over the scene.

“The older mountain lions have no predators other than humans, but that does not suggest that there aren’t any significant threats toward them. Human impacts on their environment—such as habitat loss, the rampant poaching of the mountain lions’ prey, or, in the state of Florida, vehicle accidents—costs some of these stunning animals their life. Some large predators who compete with the mountain lion for food can also become a threat. Yet, one of the mountain lion’s largest threats is other mountain lions. Male lions will compete for territory and if one of them refuses to submit, a fight will likely commence.”

Yes. Yes, it will.

It’s a shame that Cassandra’s child had to be involved, but I knew the girl was a pawn that I needed to play. I plan to keep her on the fringes. Children are clean slates and I’m not going to get Cassandra’s daughter dirtied for the sake of my revenge. As much as possible, I’ll keep her in the dark.

I rise and cross over to the dresser in one corner. Sliding my hand to the back of the top drawer, I find what I am looking for: a key, tucked in a specially crafted alcove, hidden from view. I retrieve it, leaving the TV on as I cross the hallway to unlock the opposing door.

When I step in, the scent of dust is strong enough that I can almost taste it. The bedroom is cluttered with things that are better off kept locked away. Better off burned and cast to the wind, actually, but I cannot bring myself to do that. I don’t know why I’ve kept everything—pictures, Natalie’s dresses, my mother’s jewelry, my father’s watch. A photo that was taken of my parents and me right before their car crash sits on the dresser, bearing witness to everything else I’ve lost.

They are mementos of the dead.

Standing in the room, there’s a faint chill, but an angry heat burns under my skin. Every item is a reminder of what once was mine and was taken from me. It’s a reminder that the universe continues to weigh my soul and decide that I deserve to be knocked down a peg. It’s a stab in the back, a theft, a cold-hearted lie that says, no matter how hard I work, no matter how much I invest in anything, the story will end the same: I will lose everything I ever loved.

My hand is on my father’s knife where it rests on the dresser, squeezing tight enough that my knuckles are white. Sighing, I slowly release it. I should not have come in here.

I walk out, locking the door again. Then I return to my room and finish getting dressed.

It’s time for dinner.

The scent of garlic and parmesan dominates Alena’s Rome, an Italian restaurant in the heart of Akimov territory that earned a Michelin three-star rating.

At the table, I receive a text.

ETA 20 minutes.

The hostess is smiling as she opens the door