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

mold, to punish. It’s something else. Something I’m not yet ready to let myself confront.

The stream of water stops. Cassandra emerges, wraps a towel around herself, and peers around the corner to check if I’m still in her room. When she sees me, her shoulders drop, but from the expression on her face, that could be either disappointment or relief.

Her body hypnotizes me as she combs out her hair, putting it into a messy bun. She pulls the towel off, laying it on the sink, then walks over to me—eyes up, chin thrust out, body taut with disdainful pride. Fuck you, her posture says. Fuck you all the way to hell.

She leans close before turning her body enough to riffle through the plastic bag I brought. Her breasts almost graze my thigh. I grit my teeth and say nothing, though my cock longs for more. Before I can give in to temptation, she stands up with the various makeup tools, grabs her dress, and walks back into the bathroom.

Goddamn.

Her body is pure fucking art.

She pulls on the dress. I’d have preferred her naked, but I must admit that the outfit looks surprisingly good for a dress that barely leaves any secrets untold. She leans against the sink as she puts her makeup on brusquely.

After she’s done, she strides out toward me.

“So, if I do this tonight, I’ll see my daughter soon?” she asks. Her voice is steely, but I can detect a slight warble of fear and uncertainty in it. She desperately wants a seat at the table. But for now, we are still playing my game, and I hold every last card.

I stare at her, trying to get the image of her bare ass out of my mind. I need to get her back under my control. I need to get myself under control.

“If you do what I say, you’ll see her again. If you don’t, you can kiss any chance of that goodbye.”

She leans over me again to grab the shoes. “Let’s get the hell out of here then.”

10

Maksim

The line outside the Pied Piper twists and turns around the warehouse building. The sidewalk is lit up by the strobe lights flashing through the window, showing the women in their skimpiest outfits and the men in their priciest ones. The owner of the Pied Piper, Jimmy Hanson, is one of the few men who didn’t need any of the standard harsh encouragement to pay off his loan to the Bratva. The success of this nightclub is the reason why.

With my hand on Cassandra’s elbow, I move around the line to reach the bouncer. A former MMA fighter, Cole Ronko, nods at me.

“Mr. Akimov.” He gestures for Cassandra and me to step past the door’s threshold. “Mr. Hanson has reserved the VIP lounge for you. Your subordinates are already here.”

I nod. Everything is as it should be.

When Cassandra and I enter the club, the world is on fire.

The walls are covered with paintings of a forest ablaze. The revolving lights swirl around the air, slicing through the darkness with beams of red and orange. The dance floor is writhing with sweaty bodies, pressing and sliding against each other, but the interior balcony—part of the VIP lounge—only holds a little more than a dozen people.

As I move with Cassandra across the club, the air is thick and dense with body heat. I move Cassandra in front of me, my hand on her back, as I guide her to the VIP lounge. It’s the perfect vantage point—to see and be seen.

Cassandra has been more compliant since our conversation in her room, but I’m still surprised at her deference. I’m almost disappointed at the abrupt change in her attitude. Part of me prefers the fighter in her.

As we step onto the interior balcony, it’s easier to see the Bratva soldiers, all of them intertwined with the models and beautiful women they’ve deemed worthy of joining us. Bogdan is the first to see me. He nearly shoves the busty brunette off him. A wave of silence falls over the VIP area as the other soldiers start to take notice.

“Evening, boss,” Bogdan says. He nods courteously at Cassandra. “The host will be back soon with some champagne for you both.”

“You know Bogdan,” I say to Cassandra, my hand still on her back. “That’s Avgar over there—he’s the newest to the family. That’s Luca. That’s Yury. Konstantin. Joseph. Ivan. Gennady. Eduard.”

“Hello.” Cassandra gives them all a small wave. An echo of greetings repeats back to her. She bows her head as if she’s embarrassed.

I guide her to the empty booth in the corner. She sits down first. When I sit down beside her, she doesn’t move any farther in to give me room. Our legs end up pressed together. Does she think she is brave? Does she think I am rattled by these petty defiances?

Does she know that part of me actually might be?

The VIP hostess—a platinum blonde with a tight skirt and a crop top—carries over a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice and two glasses.

“Would you like a party favor, Mr. Akimov?” the hostess asks with a wink.

I shake my head. I want my head clear tonight. No drugs for me. To my left, I can feel Cassandra’s thigh radiating heat and twitching with the motion of her tapping heel.

The hostess smiles. “No problem. If you need anything, just call my name. It’s Amber.”

After she leaves, I pour Cassandra and myself two glasses of champagne. Gennady steps up to the booth. He waves away a model who is trying to cling to his arm.

“Boss, could we talk privately for a moment?” he asks, irritation scratching his voice.

I glance at him. Gennady is one of the older soldiers. He should have moved up by now, but he’s impulsive, a slave to his anger, and he has a certain lack of respect for the Bratva’s social order. The only reason I’ve kept him around is because he’s deadly with a pistol.

“I’m busy.”