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

“And what about your father?” I continue. “Have you asked him about everything he’s done? Have you dug into the truth about the one and only Gianluigi Balducci?”

She presses her lips together, putting the zeppola back down. “That’s different.”

“Because you’d rather believe the lie? Or because you’d rather stay safe?”

“I know the truth,” she says. “Enough. Just not all of it. I don’t need the details.”

“You’re splitting hairs.” I finish my whiskey. “And you’re just lying to yourself, so you might as well admit that you’re wrong.”

“I’m not.” She pushes the plate away from herself. “I have no problem asking my father for the truth.”

“That’s another lie.”

“There’s nothing he could say to me that would surprise me. He’s a violent, wicked man. There’s nothing new to learn. There’s no truth to dig up. I already know it.”

I stand up and walk around to her side of the table. She eyes me as I approach, like a sheep watching a wolf in the corner of its eye. Tearing the zeppola in half, I hold it out to her. She stares at it for a couple of seconds before reaching for it.

Quick as lightning, I grab her wrist. The zeppola falls back into the bowl. She tries to yank her hand out of my grasp, but I keep a tight grip on her.

I lean towards her, faces inches apart. “Do you want to know what I’m thinking right now?” I rasp. “Do you want to hear what I want to do to you? Do you want to know the truth?”

She glares at me, the anger coming off her like smoke from a forest fire now, but she says nothing.

I grab her jaw with my free hand and press my lips against hers. We crash together like soldiers on a battlefield. Her lips move the slightest bit, a surrender to the war I’ve declared against her. I delve deeper, tongue flickering out, and—

She bites down.

It catches the edge of my bottom lip. I jerk away, pain lancing through me. My fingertips come away bloody from my mouth. I run my tongue over the cut. It tastes like old copper.

I look over at her. She looks back at me, wild and wary. Her arms are braced against the chair, ready for retaliation.

Not yet. But soon.

I smile. Confusion dances across her face.

“That was fun,” I say. She frowns, her eyes narrowing. “But it looks like you’re tired. And you’re already ready to go to bed. You can leave now.”

“Oh, can I?” she asks, her voice bordering between uncertainty and taunting.

“You will leave,” I tell her. “My men will take you back to your apartment. They’re still outside. And you’ll return to my place tomorrow, ready to move in permanently. My address is 5473—”

“I’m a fucking reporter,” she cuts me off. She stands up. “I’ll find you.”

I smile again. The fire in her is truly unquenchable. “And Cassandra …” I add. “Do not presume to test me again.”

She reaches out to grab her glass of wine, bringing it up to her lips to take one last sip. I watch her start to tilt the glass up, but rather than finish drinking, she reverses course and throws it in my face.

“Test that, motherfucker.” Then she turns and storms out with even more fury than she came in with.

I can only laugh. Cassandra will be more work than I thought.

But I know more than ever that she’ll be worth it.

8

Cassandra

I feel like I’m stepping into a Gothic cathedral as a housekeeper lets me inside Maksim’s mansion. The walls are pale stone, leading up to delicate spirals, and metal windows let in high, arcing beams of light.

“He’s got a little flair for the melodramatic, doesn’t he?” I ask the housekeeper, holding tightly to my pair of suitcases. She has shoulder-length golden hair, though her narrow face makes it seem longer. She could be an unhealthy, tired twenty-year-old or three times that old, and I wouldn’t be surprised either way. I guess I shouldn’t be too shocked that Maksim’s house staff is as mysterious as he is.

She twists her hands in front of her. “I don’t know what you mean, ma’am. He requested that I take you to your room right away. Please come with me.”

She seems to trot as she scurries down one of the branching hallways, but I take my time walking through the mansion. I have to imagine that during the daytime, the sun illuminates this place, but now, it’s almost sinister with the lack of light. It could be a good start to the article.

“Why is it so dark in here?” I ask.

She shrugs. “Like I said, Mr. Akimov ordered only that I take you to your room right away. He specifically told me not to answer any questions you might have. Please come along.”

I sigh. “Your boss is a dick.”

“Mm,” she mutters, a sliver of irritation reaching her voice. She’s either loyal to him or attracted to him. I’m not sure which emotion is less relatable.

After we get deeper into the house, light starts to expose more of the hallway, revealing an intricate Persian carpet and the entrances of various rooms. As it gets brighter, I see the light is coming from a large room in front of us. When the housekeeper steps into it, she moves to the left, so I can enter the lounge.

Through the doors is more ballroom than living space. It’s a circular room with a painted dome, though there’s a piano in the center of it, bookshelves covering the walls, and a few pieces of furniture settled around the border. There are only three breaks in the shelving—the entrance I just walked through, a doorway on the opposite side, and a staircase that seems to climb up the wall before disappearing behind the bookcase.

“This way.” The housekeeper continues toward the stairs. I follow her up, though the steepness of the steps is disorienting.

The second floor of the house is darker than the first. For nearly a