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

legs locking together from his movement. As I start to fall asleep, I feel his arms slip around me, pulling me closer. I rest my head near his heart, listening to it beat.

Only then can I fall asleep.

13

Maksim

In the two and a half days since Cassandra and I fell asleep together, I haven’t seen her.

I see traces of her in the house like she’s a ghost—the smell of slightly burnt toast, the coffee mug drying in the dish rack, the sound of the shower running—but every time I see some semblance of her, I go the other direction.

It’s a reminder of vulnerability I thought I had banished from my soul the day Natalie died. It’s a reminder that the Bratva is in a war and Cassandra is a wolf in the chicken coop.

And even within the small possibility that she isn’t, she could be something worse. Not just a spy, but a virus. Here to infect me. Consume me from within.

I’d rather be dead than weak.

So, I let her exist in the background. Out of sight, out of mind.

The only vulnerable person in the house now is the Balducci lieutenant in my basement.

The handcuffs on the lieutenant clatter as Fedot presses his foot against the man’s shattered knee. The man’s screams rip through my house’s basement. I loosened his gag after Cassandra left, but I still look up at the ceiling like she might hear and interrupt us.

That’s the thing I’ve learned about ghosts—they come and go as they please.

“Do you know how long you’ve been down here?” I ask the lieutenant. Fedot steps out of the way. I squat down in front of our prisoner. The man’s name is Joe Biagini, but I don’t use it. He’s no better than a stray dog to me, and I wouldn’t name a stray, either. Besides, I intend to break him down until there is little left in him that resembles the spirit of a man.

“It’s been three days since the club shooting,” I continue. “Your people haven’t come looking for you. I haven’t heard a single whisper that they’re looking for you. Best-case scenario, they assume you died in the shooting. Worst-case scenario, they’re preparing to kill off your loved ones because they assume you’re a squealer. Either way, it’s not worth all this pain. Just tell me who planted the bomb that killed Ravil. This will all stop. I’ll let you leave intact. You can run. I know you won’t be able to return to your men after being gone so long. Paranoia is good for the clan but bad for the stragglers. Isn’t that right, Fedot?”

“Yes, boss,” Fedot says. “Every Bratva member knows that if they disappear for more than a couple of days, we won’t take chances on them. We know they’ve either been with the police or another enemy.”

My father was a good man, but even as a good man, he had the Akimov temper. All the Akimov men have it. My great-grandfather fought against bears in the bitter cold of the Russian wilderness.

My grandfather took enemy scalps in both World Wars, and never met a commanding officer he didn’t insult to the man’s face.

One died on the battlefield, the other in a blizzard. Both victims of their own fury.

My father tried to forewarn me about the Akimov temper—that it could become a trait of strength and lead to glory, but it could also become a death sentence.

But he was killed in a car accident, so his advice seems pointless in retrospect. His self-control didn’t save him. I will not restrain myself now, as the temper barges through me like a stampede.

The Balducci lieutenant won’t look me in the eye. His eyes shift back and forth, so I know his eardrums haven’t been ruptured yet and he can hear me just fine. He’s just a piece of shit that thinks I’m too wary of Balducci retaliation to not take this to its inevitable, violent end.

I grab him by his face, my thumb pushing into a gash across his face. He squirms, his mouth gaping open as he makes a pathetic whining noise. I press my thumb down harder.

“Listen, you worthless shit,” I hiss. “There are three ways out of this. I kill you, they kill you, or I help you disappear. And you should know that, if I am the one to kill you, it’s going to take a long time. I’m not going to risk taking a whole body out of here, so I’ll cut you apart inch by inch while you’re still breathing. I will throw you out beside my steak bones and my spoiled takeout. Every day. One inch at a time. I’ll start with the extremities, so you’ll live through it longer.”

I keep staring at him. His eyes finally meet mine.

“Okay,” he rasps. “I’ll … I’ll talk.”

I take my hands off his face and step back, trying to rein in the anger burning in my veins. I can hear my father’s voice in my ear. Calm down, Maksim. Breathe. Do not be a victim to your own hatred.

But his voice is too weak and distant to change my mind.

The man adjusts his weight in the chair. He eyes me warily.

“Gianluigi knew it would get under your skin,” he mutters. “First, your wife, then your right-hand man. He knew—”

“He’s not as knowledgeable as you and his other rats pretend to be,” I cut in. “Tell me who planted the bomb. I’d like to pay him a visit before I deal with Gianluigi.”

“They’d all be fine if it weren’t for you,” the lieutenant continues to ramble. “You’re the reason that they died. They stuck around you and—”

I yank my gun out of its holster. I pull the trigger three times in quick succession. The chair topples over. The lieutenant is dead before he hits the floor.

“Boss—” Fedot says. “He was going to talk.”

“No. He was going to monologue,” I say. The truth is a lot more ambiguous. “It was a waste of time.