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

I slide one of the glasses over to Cassandra. She takes a nervous sip from it. When I look back over at Gennady, he’s staring at Cassandra, his jaw set and his eyes burning. “Gennady. Step down and step away.”

“With all due respect, sir …” Gennady snarls. My hand settles over the neck of the champagne bottle, the cold glass sinking into my palm. “I ain’t Jesus. So I’m not going to dine with my enemies and I’m sure as hell not going to drink with a Balducci whore.”

Ah, Gennady. That was a mistake.

I break the champagne against the table edge. Before the shattered glass even hits the floor, I swing the neck of the broken bottle like a battle ax, cutting Gennady across the face. He hits the floor with a surprised groan.

A hush falls over the area, leaving the upbeat music in the background. Gennady clambers to his feet slowly. A thick tide of blood issues from under his right eye and across to the spot right above his jugular vein. Gennady takes a step back, touching the blood, moaning in pain.

“Bogdan.” Bogdan takes two quick steps forward. “Take care of this,” I order.

Bogdan indicates to Eduard, and the two of them seize Gennady, wrenching his arms behind him back and dragging him down the steps and out of sight. Amber runs up to the lounge, passing them as they go with a worried glance back. I can see the trail of blood glistening in the black light.

My heartbeat has remained deadly calm throughout.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Akimov. We’ll get you another bottle,” Amber says hurriedly. Another bottle girl comes to clean up the broken glass. “May I take the broken bottle, sir?”

She flinches as I hold it up for her, but she takes it and scurries away.

I turn to Cassandra. She isn’t as frightened as I expected her to be, but her arms are crossed over her body, clinging to the hem of her dress. There’s a splash of champagne on her cheek. I offer her my hand. She takes it, her fingers a little cold. I guide her to Bogdan’s booth and settle her back down. As she’s sitting in front of me, I use my thumb to wipe the champagne off her face.

I turn back to everyone else. “Proceed.”

The soldiers all turn back to the women they’re with. The women aren’t as confident as they were, but as more liquor is poured, they melt back into their roles, laughing and stroking the men. It’s as if nothing has happened.

I sit down beside Cassandra. She messes with the strap of her dress, rolling it between her fingers. Amber returns with a new bottle of champagne and two new glasses. I pour the glasses again, handing one of them to Cassandra. She gulps it down.

Neither of us says a word. We just settle back against the cushions in the booth, left alone with our respective thoughts.

Gennady is an arrogant fool, but still, I can’t escape the uneasy feeling that I made a mistake. If I wanted Cassandra to be more wary of my power, I accomplished that, but it also looks like I chose her over my own men. My men should know that Gennady disrespected my decisions and needed to be put in his place. They should know better than to think I’d put a Balducci before the Bratva. But all appearances are to the contrary.

But even more than the political repercussions of my lashing out are the emotions—or at least, whatever passes for emotions in the heart of a Bratva don. Why did I act so rashly? It was a stupid, baseless comment that Gennady made, the kind that is uttered by my men all over the city on any given night. We protect what is ours; we conquer what is not; we destroy those who oppose us. This is the way it is and the way it always has been. There is nothing wrong with that, and in fact, it is the foundation of my success.

Yet it irked me. More than that, actually. It infuriated me. It set my blood on fire, reducing the world to two things—the weapon in my hand and the man who dared cross me. It felt like he insulted my equal, my partner, rather than my property.

Make no mistake—Cassandra is my property. She is a pawn in a golden dress, and I plan only to fuck her, use her, and then dispose of her. I should attach no feelings to—what did Gennady call her?—this Balducci whore.

But I fear that it’s far too late for that.

So be it. I made a mistake. I just can’t let it happen again.

The club easily slides back into its anarchy and hedonism. Gennady’s blood is cleaned up and it’s like nothing ever happened—on the outside, at least. On the inside, my head is still churning with unwelcome thoughts.

I stay seated, drinking the champagne. I keep my eyes near the door, watching the patrons prowl in. They all want the same things—to get fucked, to get fucked up. To want and be wanted. To see and be seen. The basest of wants. The simplest of desires. None of them have a plan. None of them have a purpose.

Not like me, at least.

Cassandra abruptly shoves my shoulder. I turn to her.

“Did you need something?” I ask.

“I need to do something,” she says. “I don’t know if you brought me here just to show me that everyone else is willing to kiss your ass, but I’m going to dance. You can join me if you’re not too busy being worshipped.”

I stand up, giving her enough room to slide out of the booth. She slips out, fixing the bottom of her dress.

“Lead the way,” I say, indicating to the dance floor.

She takes my hand, pulling me toward the crowd. We trail through the other patrons until she finds enough space for both of us. She turns around, her eyes locked on me as she dances close, her hips