Maksim: A Dark Mafia Romance (Akimov Bratva) Read online

  Maksim

  A Dark Mafia Romance (Akimov Bratva)

  Nicole Fox

  Copyright © 2019 by Nicole Fox

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  Also by Nicole Fox

  Heirs to the Bratva Empire

  *Can be read in any order

  Kostya

  Maksim

  Andrei (coming soon!)

  Tsezar Bratva

  Nightfall (Book 1)

  Daybreak (Book 2)

  Russian Crime Brotherhood

  *Can be read in any order

  Owned by the Mob Boss

  Unprotected with the Mob Boss

  Knocked Up by the Mob Boss

  Sold to the Mob Boss

  Stolen by the Mob Boss

  Trapped with the Mob Boss

  Volkov Bratva

  Broken Vows (Book 1)

  Broken Hope (Book 2)

  Other Standalones

  Vin: A Mafia Romance

  Contents

  Maksim

  1. Maksim

  2. Cassandra

  3. Maksim

  4. Cassandra

  5. Cassandra

  6. Cassandra

  7. Maksim

  8. Cassandra

  9. Maksim

  10. Maksim

  11. Cassandra

  12. Cassandra

  13. Maksim

  14. Cassandra

  15. Maksim

  16. Cassandra

  17. Maksim

  18. Cassandra

  19. Maksim

  20. Cassandra

  21. Cassandra

  22. Maksim

  23. Cassandra

  Epilogue

  Sneak Preview of KOSTYA

  Mailing List

  Maksim

  A Mafia Billionaire Romance (Akimov Bratva)

  He stole my wife from me. I stole his daughter from him.

  My sworn enemy murdered my wife in cold blood.

  I’ve spent years mourning what he took from me.

  Now, the time has come for revenge.

  His daughter thinks she escaped from her father’s underworld.

  But I’m coming to show Cassandra that she can never run from me.

  I’ll find her.

  I’ll claim her.

  And I’ll Make. Her. Mine.

  MAKSIM is a standalone mafia billionaire romance.

  1

  Maksim

  I stand on the terrace of my hotel, watching the lights sparkle. This territory lives and dies under my authority and mine alone. Near the edges, some other scant patches of the city lie dormant and bare. Those areas are owned by the Italians now, but they’ll be burned up soon enough.

  I plan to make them suffer while I scrub them from existence.

  In my periphery, I see the woman coming out to join me on the terrace. She has that soft smile, soft skin, and soft afterglow that draws in lesser men. But her appearance ignites a sharp irritation in me. I clench my hands on the balustrade, concentrating on the line between Akimov territory and Italian territory.

  Her arm wraps around my waist. The edge of the sheet brushes against my leg.

  “Come back inside,” she whispers seductively. Her teeth nip at the back of my shoulder.

  If I had my way, I’d kill the Balducci family, one by one, those Italian worms. I’d start with Alfio and Mirco Balducci, the brothers of Gianluigi, the don. I’d leave them both broken and bloodied on the streets. I’d go after Gioffre and Federico Jr. next, the don’s cousins. Turn them into target practice.

  “Maksim?” the woman asks. “I’m sure I can find something else to do for you.”

  “No,” I say curtly.

  “Why not?” Her hands move up to my shoulders, running over them with the lightest touch. Her lips trace the back of my ear. “With the way you took me already, I’d love to get my knees scraped up on the carpet for round two.”

  When the lesser men had been dispatched, I would go after Colombo and Romano. I’d take out their knees before leaving them dead and headless on the don’s property.

  The woman’s hand slides over my legs, over my groin. I grab her wrist, twisting around and pushing her away from me. She stumbles backwards, suddenly wary.

  “You need to get your clothes on and fuck off,” I snarl. “My waitstaff is at the door. They’ll give you your money.”

  She stares at me for several seconds. She wants to snap back, I can tell. But a girl with her experience has learned better than to mouth off in the company of powerful men. Wise. Cursing at me would not serve her well.

  “Well, you can’t blame a girl for wanting a little more from a man like you,” she finally says. All professional. I almost admire her poise. “Maybe I’ll see you again soon.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  I turn back toward the city. Turning sex into a business transaction should make these women less insecure and needy, but still, they always want more. They want me to be a crutch, but I’d rather let them stumble.

  I will walk my own path alone.

  My home stands like a mausoleum, guarded by pillars carved of stone. It glares at me as I drive up. It exudes the image I desire—stay the fuck away. But the opulence is not for bragging. It’s to keep out those who do not belong. Stone is not easily burned or shot through. Bulletproof glass turns away assassins’ bullets.

  Yet all these safety measures didn’t do shit for me when it truly mattered.

  I unlock the door and step in. Walking down the hallway, a list of tasks I need to complete scrolls through my mind. As I get closer to my conference room, I see the door is open and Ravil is standing in the threshold. His voice carries, curt but bordering on sympathetic.

  “As soon as he’s back, you’ll be able to discuss the specifics with him,” he says.

  “He’s not as focused as he used to be,” another voice says. My hotel’s CEO, Jonathan Carlson. “Not since the accident.”

  Ravil turns his head and sees me. His eyes bulge momentarily before he stands up straighter. “Mr. Akimov. Welcome back. Mr. Carlson kept insisting that he had to see you immediately, so I’ve been keeping him company.”

  He steps out of the way as I step up to the threshold. Carlson is a weasel of a man, flabby and always fidgeting.

  “Mr. Akimov, there’s an issue with the 19th Street building. I mean, less an issue and more of a complication. Complication might even be a heavy word. The electricians are claiming that we didn’t fully inform them of the scope of their work—”

  “Mr. Carlson,” I cut in. “I will deal with the electricians tomorrow. I expect you not to talk about my personal life or mental health to them. I’m not fodder for gossip.”

  His pale cheeks turn bright red. “Mr. Akimov, I didn’t mean any disrespect. I was simply expressing my concern—”

  “You were expressing sentiments that you should keep to yourself,” I say. “Better yet, bury them deep. Learn some self-control or you will find yourself searching for new employment.”

  He nods. “Of course. My apologies, sir. I will … let you get back to your night.”

  He skitters past me, rodent-like as ever. I turn to Ravil.
r />   “I don’t appreciate you entertaining slander about me, either,” I growl.

  “I was preparing to correct his assertions when you walked in, Maksim,” he says. “I truly don’t believe he meant anything malicious.”

  I sit down at the head of the conference table. Ravil joins me. He leans back in his chair.

  “If you want to fire him, we have three other men who could take over his job,” Ravil says.

  I wave my hand dismissively. “He’s fine. He just needs to watch his tongue.”

  “Of course,” Ravil assures me. I rap my fingers against the table, waiting for him to say what he needs to say. “But, to certain people, it may appear that you’re … stuck … on what happened.”

  “All that matters is that you know I’m doing what it takes to move forward,” I say. “Do you or don’t you have him, Ravil?”

  “We have him,” Ravil says. “He awaits you on the terrace. And, if I may, Maksim: he is terrified.”

  “Good.” I stand up. “Let’s go visit him.”

  Eric Clarke is sitting tensely on one of the patio chairs beside the pool while one of my lieutenants stands a few feet away. I stride over and lean against the stone table in front of him.

  “Hello, Mr. Clarke,” I say. His temples drip with sweat. He’s a middle-aged man, but he’s worked hard to hide that. His hair is dyed black and his face only has the faintest wrinkles. Botox works wonders on vain men.

  He glances at me from the corner of his eye but keeps looking away. As he should.

  “Mr. Clarke, my being here is not good news for you. My men have no doubt asked you for the address we seek, and you must have refused to give it, or else you wouldn’t be here in front of me. Let me ask you: are you a smart man?”

  I stare at him. He realizes I expect an answer, swallows past a thick knot in his throat, and nods hesitantly.

  “Verbal answers, Mr. Clarke,” I chide. “Surely, as a lawyer, you must know the importance of hearing a man speak his thoughts out loud.”

  “Y-yes.”

  I clap my hands. “So you’re a smart man. Good. That’s a good thing. This world is full of many dumb men. I prefer to deal with men such as yourself instead.” I shift my weight, but Clarke doesn’t move a muscle. He’s sweating, I see, though the night is cool. “As a smart man, you must realize that your being here is a bad sign for you and for me both. It means you have not been cooperative. I would like nothing more than to move our relationship into a more cooperative state. Do you think that will be possible tonight?”

  “Y-you have me confused with s-someone else,” he stutters. “I-I’m s-sorry. I … I don’t know what you w-want.”

  “You know exactly what I want,” I say. “And you know I’ll do what it takes to get the information out of you.”

  He’s trembling. “I … I don’t know anything. I’m sorry. God, I just don’t know w-what the address is.”

  I continue to stare at him. Torture isn’t optimal. It’s messy, to say the least. If I don’t kill him afterwards, then I have to eventually let him return home and if he has been worked over, then he’s a lot less likely to remain silent. Pain tends to loosen a man’s lips once and forever. And I don’t think Mr. Clarke has the heart to stay quiet for long.

  “Mr. Clarke,” I say. “I need some clarification. When you lie to my face, you do so aware of who I am, correct? You know what I’ve done. You know what I could do.”

  He refuses to look at me, shaking harder. There’s a stench in the air, and I wonder idly if he’s shit himself already. Christ, the poor coward.

  “I know who you are,” he mumbles.

  “Good,” I say. “Tell me what I need to know.”

  “I d-don’t know the a-address of—”

  “Mr. Clarke,” I say. “How is your wife adjusting to her life as a homemaker?”

  His head shoots up. “M-my wife? S-she—y-you know … you must know I … I can’t give you that i-information. P-please, if I … if I could, I would. But I can’t.”

  “I apologize—I don’t mean it’s new for her to be a homemaker,” I say. “She’s been doing that for six years now. However, she’s only just begun watching over your two children—both adopted from Ukraine. She must have her hands full with a ten-month-old baby and a two-year-old. If she needs support, I have men I could send over to take some of the burden off her hands.”

  He blanches. “You can’t. You wouldn’t.”

  “I know what it’s like to lose everything,” I continue. “It’s worse than you’d imagine, but the worst part is that it comes back just as bad every time you wake up and remember she’s gone, every time you move to get two plates and realize you only need one, every time you drive through the city and imagine her walking down every street. I’d say I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy, but I’m not that empathetic.”

  “I … the address is at my house. I can get my wife to look it up.”

  “I’ll send someone.” I stand up. “I don’t want you talking to her until I have the address.”

  I leave Clarke quivering on the terrace and move back into the house. Ravil is sitting at the dining table, drinking a glass of whiskey.

  “He must not have known you that well,” Ravil says. “Or else he’d know you wouldn’t hurt his children.”

  “You don’t know what I’m willing to do right now,” I say.

  “Yes. I do,” he says. “I’ve seen you cross many, many lines, but you wouldn’t break the Bratva’s rule about children. That doesn’t make you soft, Maksim. It’s just rational.”

  “Just call Turgenev. Tell him to stop at Clarke’s house and get inside. Once he’s there, we’ll have Clarke call his wife.”

  He finishes his drink. “Of course, Maksim.”

  I pour myself a drink as he calls. As the whiskey goes down, I feel how close I am to my revenge. It’s close enough to know that I could still lose it, but I’ll keep going until I’m so far under Gianluigi Balducci’s skin that he’ll tear off his own flesh to be free.

  It all comes down to flesh and blood and how fucking far people will go to suture broken ties.

  2

  Cassandra

  Riding on the subway always reminds me of my dad. He used to tell me Greek myths as bedtime stories. Gods on Olympus, always interfering with the lives of the mortals at the foot of the mountain for sheer entertainment—all that jazz. It took me a little longer than I care to admit to realize that he saw himself as Zeus, and that he thought all of us who lived in his orbit were just ants for him to play with.

  He’d take me on the subway and talk about the labyrinth, the one with the minotaur lurking at the center, hungry for human flesh. When you’re a little girl like I was back then, the subway tunnels really do seem like they could plausibly contain a monster. The whole city seemed like that back then, actually. Like you might round the wrong corner at the wrong time and accidentally end up gored by the beast.

  My father used to comfort me by saying that the brave ones, the warriors, could conquer a city and earn their way to Mt. Olympus. It seemed so certain in those days. Fight for what you want. Earn the happily-ever-after ending you deserve.

  I’m not so sure about that anymore.

  I let the thoughts of my father cut off as the subway doors swish shut behind me. I stride up the stairs, holding my bag close to me. It’s been six years away at journalism school in Chapel Hill since I last stepped foot into the labyrinth of Manhattan, but I haven’t forgotten that there really are monsters who live in this city. They might not be minotaurs, but they’ll hurt you nonetheless if you give them the chance.

  “Hey! Hey!” A man holding a brown bottle of liquor points at me. “Li’l hot mama. Look just like my daughter, don’tcha? Come sit on Papa’s lap, yeah?”

  I adjust my headphones, pretending not to hear him. He starts walking toward me. I pick up my pace, slipping between two businessmen. Bounding across the crosswalk at the tail end of the pedestrian signal’s timer, I nearly trip in my short hee
ls. I catch my footing just in time to play it off nonchalantly. Slick move, Cass, I tell myself. One day back in the city and you’re already tripping all over the place.

  “Ma’am, could I trouble you for some change?”

  I turn to see the old man tottering toward me, but keeping a couple of feet between us. His coat is tattered and one toe is peeking out from the tip of his shoes. His coat is a couple of inches too short, showing his bony wrists and hands weathered by God knows how many winters spent shivering on a park bench.

  I reach into my bag. Only tourists give cash to beggars. I’m not a New Yorker anymore, not really, but I’ll still be damned if I give away any money just to see it spent on booze or drugs. I bought a breakfast burrito near my apartment, intending to eat it once I reached my desk at the Fifth Avenue Journal. It’s still warm in the foil as I pass it to the man.

  “Here,” I say. He carefully takes it from me, his eyes turning shiny as he unwraps it.

  “It’s still warm,” he says. “And it’s all here. You don’t want none of it?”

  “I’ll be fine.” I give him a quick smile. “Have a nice day.”

  I keep my gaze steady, ignoring the leery glances of the men flowing down the sidewalk. Memories of North Carolina tug at my thoughts—woodsy air, cicadas humming, the blue ridges of mountains on the horizon—but my little personal nature montage ends abruptly as a man in jeans and a baggy white shirt steps in front of me. As I refocus my attention, I see his big, yellowed teeth. Absurdly, I think of the Big Bad Wolf. Another story from dear old Dad. I can only imagine which character he identified with in that little fable.