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

his mouth and slides off the bed instead, frowning deeply. He pulls his boxer briefs and pants back up, then runs his hand over his hair, his sweat causing it to remain slicked back.

“You can go wherever you like during the day,” he says without looking at me. “You’re not a prisoner. But you must be home—here—at night. If I call you and you don’t pick up, my guards will find you and they won’t be as nice as they were when they took you from your apartment.”

I sit up, wiping the sweat from my forehead. The dress is nearly slipping off my body from my sweat. “So, I’m not a prisoner, but I am a captive.”

“If that is how you choose to see things,” he says. He turns and gazes at me for a few more seconds. Then he shakes his head once before walking out the door.

I cover my face with my hands as the door pulls shut behind him. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me, but I don’t feel any better now that he’s gone. I don’t feel anything except a compulsive need to bring him back.

I lean back until my body drops onto my pillow. I can smell him—that masculine odor accompanied by something woodsier, muskier. I pull the pillow farther under my head. I settle my hand between my thighs, my skin searing with the desire to feel his rough hands on it again.

9

Maksim

Everything is fucked up.

I pour myself a glass of whiskey. Down it. Pour another.

I could have easily overcome Cassandra. A goddamn Balducci whore. The plan was to demonstrate my power over her—it’s the simplest way to break her. If she learned that she’s powerless when she’s with me, she’d be easy to manipulate. I’d make her come. I’d tell her what that meant. And I’d leave.

But she took control. And I just gave into it. I should hate her so thoroughly and yet when she was on top of me, she was everything to me. She was like opening the throttle fully without any fear of death.

I’ve never been with a woman like that before.

As I pour myself another glass, Bogdan and Fedot step into the library. Bogdan is a short, stocky man, skilled with an AK-47, SKS, and a Makarov pistol. Fedot is taller and slimmer. He can handle a gun fine, but I’ve kept him around for his hand-to-hand combat skills. I chose the two of them to grab Cassandra at her apartment because of their differing skill sets. If any Balducci had tried to stop them, either Bogdan or Fedot would have been able to take him out.

But now that Cassandra knows what’s at stake and what I’m willing to do, both of them aren’t necessary.

“Bogdan, you can leave,” I say. He nods once before pivoting and walking out of the library without another word. “Fedot, you’re going to remain on Miss Balducci’s security detail. It’s important for dealing with the Balduccis. If something happens to her, we lose our leverage.”

He nods. “I understand, boss. I’ll do whatever is necessary.”

“Good. You can go.”

He turns around, walking out. I finish the glass of whiskey as I brood.

I have countless loyal men under my authority. I’ll die before I let one clueless woman escape from under my thumb.

My father worked his whole life to start a humble hotel called the Akimov Suites. A property developer kept hitting him with code violations until he could no longer afford the hotel and the fees that the city charged him. He sold the property to the developer under duress, only to see the developer knock it down to build a strip mall that rained cash from the day it opened. My parents died a few months later.

I reconstructed an old hotel. Named it the Akimov Suites in my father’s honor, just as I built the Bratva that also bears my family name. The property developer, sadly, suffered two broken knees from a random hit-and-run. At least, that was the narrative that he and I agreed to tell the authorities. There may have been some duress involved in that particular negotiation. Such is life in my city.

The fact that the Suites functions well as a place to meet, a place I know like my own house, is merely a bonus.

“It’s nice,” Andre Vasquez says, holding up one of the small containers of cocaine. He sets it back down in the suitcase with all the others, then picks up his own suitcase and hands it to me. I lay it on the bed, unzipping it to find $25,000 in cash.

I glance back at Andre. He’s the leader of the Cyclops MC, a moderately sized motorcycle club that would usually float beneath my notice, but they’ve managed to rise quickly under Andre’s leadership and have crossed over into everyone else’s territory except the Bratva’s—which means they’ve managed to pay their respects and not make idiotic decisions. They’re also willing to pay a good amount for the Bratva’s smuggled cocaine, which makes them something akin to allies.

“Do you mind if I do some bumps?” he asks, touching the glass containers.

“You can do what you like once you leave my hotel, but I’m not going to be caught leaving here with a man high on cocaine.”

He bares his teeth, a flash of anger coming over him like a mask, but it vanishes just as quickly. He takes a deep breath. “I understand,” he says. “You’re completely right. It would be irresponsible.”

My phone starts to vibrate. I slide it out of my pocket, keeping my eyes on Andre.

“Yes?” I answer.

“It’s Fedot,” the soldier says. “I’ve been tracking your girl all day and she’s up to something.”

“Elaborate,” I order. Andre’s gaze flickers over toward me for a second, but he pretends to be occupied with the cocaine.

“She spent a fair amount of time at the library. That didn’t seem too strange. But she’s been going to people’s houses. I visited a couple of them