18. Maksim

18

MAKSIM

E lira leans slightly out her open window, staring out at the lights and chaos on the strip. Her hair waves in the light breeze, and I crane my neck to peek at her curious, wanderlust face, a smile curving my lips.

This isn't the way to Hugh's place. In fact, this adds at least an extra twenty minutes onto the drive, but something pulled me here anyway. I remembered the first night we met, wondering what she thought of the Vegas lights even as I was slowly bleeding out, and all at once I had to know.

"What are you thinking?" I ask as we pass the mini Eiffel tower, going at a snail's pace behind traffic.

She sits back in her seat to peer at me. "You Americans are flashy as hell."

I laugh, but it grates my ears when she calls me an American. As if she's stripping me of my Russian identity, yanking me from my home all over again.

But I know what she means.

She turns back to the window. "Is Chicago like this?"

"Chicago?"

She nods. "One of your cities. Am I saying it right?"

Chicago. So many memories in Chicago. I spent nine years of my childhood only two hours away from the Windy City but didn't set foot in it until Anya and I ultimately called it home at age eighteen, her a tiny three-year-old. My first home as a free man, but freedom came with the brutal price of poverty and the unknown territory of surrogate fatherhood.

But the memories that assail me aren't all bad. Some are good.

"Yeah, I know Chicago. I'm just wondering why you care."

She glances at me a moment, something indiscernible in her eyes before turning back to the window.

I stop at a light and watch a group of women wearing hats with dicks flopping from the bills run across the street, ushering the center of attention wearing a pink sash I can guess says something like ‘bride to be' on it.

"No, Chicago is much more serious than Vegas. And the winters are too cold," I say.

A shiver spreads over my shoulders, but I shove down the memories pushing to the surface, reminding me why I prefer the suffocating desert to the mere sight of snow.

Elira doesn't seem to hear me as she intently watches the bachelorette party, her eyes wide with curiosity. I suppress a laugh and drive on.

When we make it off the strip and are on our way to Hugh's, she relaxes into her seat.

"So you've been?" she asks, making my brows raise.

"To Chicago?"

She nods.

"A few times, on business."

" Business ?"

I give her a crooked grin and speed the car up instead of answering. The engine roars, drawing her attention, and when the car accelerates to sixty-five, she starts to look nervous.

"Should you slow down?"

I gun it to seventy-five. "Why do you want to know about Chicago?"

Her eyes flick between me and the road. "What are you doing?"

"Asking you a question."

I slam on the pedal again, pushing it to eighty and veering around several cars.

Elira presses her back into the seat, her chest rising and falling quickly, her head turning to look behind us.

"Maksim, slow down," she says, her words clipped with panic.

"Why do you want to know about Chicago?"

"I'm serious!"

I laugh and slow only to take a corner at a speed that has Elira falling into me, her scent sobering me a moment. It's like a string that attaches to a piece of something in my chest and tugs me in her direction.

"Okay!" she yells. "Okay, I'll tell you!"

I slam on the brakes, my car skidding to a stop at a red light. I turn to her and smile as she places a hand to her chest, panting.

"Are you insane ?"

I point at the stoplight. "You have until the light turns green, sweetheart."

She looks between it and me, her mouth open. When her face lights up with a green hue, I shove my foot on the gas pedal and laugh when she gasps.

"My father!" she blurts out.

My smile slips as I ease off the gas.

She stares at the glovebox. "My father lives in Chicago."

I ease the car up the road, my mind fogging. "He's an immigrant?"

She doesn't answer for a long time. Not until I pull onto the curb in front of Hugh's place and shut off the car, regretting teasing her. She's just … a locked safe. It feels hardly fair that she knows my life while I know nothing of hers.

"He's from this country… He and my mom were never married under the law, but they loved each other, and he visited many times a year. My entire life, my mother has only been with my father."

I nod, unsure how else to respond. She sounds defensive, but I'm not sure why.

"My mother is not a whore," she snaps like my nod was somehow offensive.

My eyes widen, and I blink. "I never said she was."

"You didn't have to."

"Elira," I say, dumbfounded. "I…"

I what?

What are the right words to say?

"How could I judge your family when mine is so grotesquely on display for you?" I settle on.

Her angry face begins to relax.

"I'm sorry I pried…"

"You should be." She glowers. "You could've gotten us killed."

My lips curve without my command. "Then tell me on your own next time. It's uncomfortable having you know all my dirt without having any idea who you are."

"Your discomfort is my satisfaction." She unbuckles her seatbelt, her lips tugging into a mischievous grin, then throws open her door.

Amusement warms my smile and flushes my face as I open my door and hear the music from the backyard disturbing the would-be quiet street.

Elira

Laughter.

Loud. Masculine. Deep laughter.

That—mixed in with Russian rock music—is what I hear past the wooden fence, and it chills my bones thinking about what could elicit those laughs.

I see the faces of the men who came to pluck us one by one from the truck in my mind and wonder how different these people could be. They exist in the same world. They play by the same rules.

They're the same. Of course, they're the same. Maksim is different because he has to be, because that life wouldn't work with the one he's trying to fake for Anya, but these men are freed from their restraints. They can do whatever they want.

What was I thinking coming here?

I slow to a stop. "Maybe coming here was a mistake."

Maksim's hand presses to my lower back, and while a day ago I might have wanted to jerk away from his touch, it feels comforting now.

"Ten minutes." He urges me forward with him. "If you want to leave then, we'll go."

My feet shuffle while my heart pounds. "How do I know you're telling the truth?"

"I swear it on my father's grave."

I huff. "For all I know, you could've killed your father yourself."

He laughs, but I'm serious. I don't trust him. Even if he told me he swore on Anya's life, I wouldn't trust him.

As if he can read my mind… "Just trust me, lislchka ."

That is a command I cannot obey, but my feet move as he guides me to the gate. He opens it to reveal probably fifty people, too many people, men and women. Some wade in the pool, some are on chairs surrounding it, a few people are on the roof like I saw that first night. Few seem civilized, most are loud, all have some sort of alcohol gripped in their hands.

I cross my arms over my chest and bite my lip.

" Brat !"

My eyes snap to the man I know to be Hugh with his huge palms spread wide as he bounds this way, a smile stretched across his face. When he reaches us, I step to the side.

" Dobro pozhalovat' drug ." He and Maksim exchange a back slapping greeting, and Maksim grins before speaking Russian so quickly, I can't even discern what syllables he uses.

It didn't occur to me until now that I rarely hear Maksim speak Russian. Now, though, it slips off his tongue effortlessly as he exchanges what I assume are pleasantries with the giant. Finally, when he remembers I'm here, he side steps to me and puts his arm around my shoulders. I would shrug him off if my body wasn't frozen in fear.

Why did I come here?

"You remember Elira," Maksim says as if I was a guest of honor here at one point.

I can't find it in me to smile politely. I watch Hugh's reluctant expression for only a moment before ducking my eyes and wishing I had a watch so I could time ten minutes exactly.

"I didn't realize that was her name," Hugh says, sounding uncertain. Maksim hasn't told him a thing about me. Nothing.

I don't know why that hurts.

Maksim squeezes my shoulder. "Yes, I guess I never properly introduced the two of you. Her English was um…"

He leans in to my ear, kissing me with his breath. It feels intimate in front of all these people. Wrong when I know what they must think happens in his bedroom.

Neither my ‘elevated status' at Maksim's house nor our agreement matter. To these people, I'm his whore.

"Do you speak English yet?" he asks, his voice gentle, caring, soft.

Does he not know the vile things his friends think, or does he simply not care? Does he realize how uncomfortable I am?

" Lislchka ?" he whispers, concerned.

No, he has no idea. This is the clueless Maksim we're talking about.

Taking a sharp inhale, I lock eyes with Hugh who studies not me but Maksim with curious eyes. I don't see what benefit it gives me to hide my comprehension anymore, so instead of answering Maksim, I try to be brave and hold out my hand.

Hugh looks down, way down , at it.

"Pleasure to meet you," I lie, my words crystal clear.

He blinks, looking at Maksim for answers, but when he doesn't get them, he shakes my hand.

"You as well."

Hugh pulls away and speaks to Maksim in clipped Russian, which feels a little rude but unsurprising. When he's finished, he addresses me with a half-hearted smile. "Enjoy the party."

When he's gone, Maksim turns to me. "Thirsty?"

"What did he say?"

His eyes blank. "What?"

I nod at Hugh's back. "What did he say about me?"

Maksim chuckles nervously. "Nothing. He was telling me something about work. Don't worry about it."

"Is it time to leave yet?" I turn longingly toward the gate, my lips dipping into a frown.

I hate these people. Hate them.

"Elira?" a new voice, feminine and unfamiliar calls.

I turn toward a woman in a tight black skirt short enough to reveal all if she so much as bent over a sink and a shirt with so many holes she may as well have just stuck with the hot pink bra she displays beneath. Her eyes are like raccoons with dark makeup, and her hair is gathered on top of her head in a bundle of brunette curls, except for a few pieces streaked pink that she lets frame her face.

She fits in with the other women here—and this city for that matter—just fine, but she strikes me as unique, flashy, bold in a way that makes me wonder how bland Maksim must think me. Not that I should care.

I cross my arms protectively over the simple yellow summer dress I bought while shopping with Anya and raise my chin in acknowledgement.

The woman beams.

"Cherish, zdravstvuyte ," Maksim says before turning to me and gesturing to the woman. "Elira, this is—" She throws her arms around me before he can finish, making me stiffen.

"I'm Cherish." She pulls back with her hands on my shoulders. "Sorry to interrupt," she bashfully says to Maksim, but he waves it off, bringing her attention back to me. "I'm Zinovy's girl. He told me you were new to the country and a…" She glances over her shoulder, and I follow her gaze. Hugh stands with Zinovy, the skinny man who treated Maksim's stab wounds. Hugh must have asked her to come talk to me.

When she turns back to me, there's a quizzical look on her face. "Do you speak English?"

Chewing on my inner lip, I nod, and for some reason this elates her. She claps her hands enthusiastically before taking my arm that's still crossed. "Great! Let's go get a drink. You have to show me how you make your detergent. I'm obsessed with the smell."

I look at Maksim with wide, imploring eyes, but he only gives me an encouraging smile as he lets Cherish whisk me away.

Inside is hardly quieter with its own music blaring through a speaker, but it's at least less crowded. Cherish guides me into the kitchen, cluttered with liquor bottles and garbage, then she plucks a couple of red cups off a stack.

She crooks a brow at me. "What's your poison?"

I give my head a tiny shake, my lips parting.

Poison?

"What do you like to drink?" She smiles, keeping her tone light. "Sorry, I forgot, you aren't from here."

From the sound of her accent, she isn't from here either. She's Russian. So not exactly out of place.

"I know American lingo," I say, somehow offended. There was a time I wanted so badly to fit into this country, so badly to belong. Felt as if it was my birthright even. I copied my father's speech, studied fiction novels, practiced, believing one day I would come here… And all to end up hating it. "I just don't drink poison."

She giggles. "I meant alcohol."

"Exactly."

Her eyes widen at that, but she isn't discouraged. She walks to the fridge to retrieve a bottle of orange juice. "I got you, girl, don't worry."

I give her a grateful nod before opening the pantry in search of the baking soda. When I find it exactly where I left it, I pull it out.

"What are you doing?" she asks, pouring white alcohol into both cups along with the orange juice.

"No, I don't…" I reach for the cup, but I'm obviously too late to stop her.

She smiles. "Trust me, you need this."

That feels like an insult.

She nods at the baking soda. "What's that for?"

"It's one of the ingredients for the laundry detergent I make."

Her head tilts as she looks at me like I'm the last puppy in a box for sale. "You are so cute."

I frown. "What do you mean?"

She takes the baking soda from my hand and replaces it with the cup of what even she admits is poison.

"I only said that so Maksim wouldn't ask what we talked about." She takes a drink of her cocktail and rests it on the counter. "So give me the good stuff."

"The good stuff?"

She nods and twirls her hand. "Yeah, you know, what's it like?"

"What's what like?"

Her jaw drops, and she looks away like she's thinking. " Girl , come on, we're all on the edge of our seats here."

I shake my head. "I'm sorry, I just don't know what you're talking about."

"Sleeping with Maksim," she drones like it's beyond obvious. "That man is a conquest , my friend. Many have tried and many have failed. There's a rumor that he doesn't like Russian women and another that he doesn't like women at all. Don't tell him I told you that, of course," she says, more seriously. "I don't believe it. Actually, I thought maybe he just had a thing for Italians until recently. He's impenetrable to our group. But…"

She opens her palms to gesture to me. "Here you are, showing up with his arm around you, staying in his home while even his closest friends aren't invited there. You must have a magic coochie. Please, tell me your secret. I'm dying to know."

I shake my head. "It isn't like that at all."

"No?"

Again, I shake my head, looking down at the dull orange drink that suddenly tempts me.

"Am I making you uncomfortable?" Cherish asks, excitement missing for the first time from her voice.

I shrug. "I just…" I don't know how to finish other than to say yes. Of course. I don't know her. I don't know them. As much as I don't trust Maksim, I trust him more than these people, and I'm not going to expose what could be his secrets.

What are his secrets?

They know he has a sister, right? Is it such a big deal if perhaps he isn't a man whore?

But then there was the box of condoms in his drawer.

Could he be gay?

No. No, I've seen too many erections to be doubting his sexuality.

"I get it." She raises a hand. "Sorry, babe. Zinovy always says I can be a bit much." She chuckles, but it's nervous. "Do me a favor and don't tell Maksim I asked all this, okay? I like to think I'm one of them, but he's a lieutenant, which makes him automatically terrifying. Girls like us have to look out for each other."

Girls like us ?

Is she a…?

It doesn't matter. She's a woman in this world. I know what she means.

"I won't say anything," I assure her before my own question strikes me. "What's a lieutenant?"

She shakes her head, her lips pursed. "It's just a ranking in the Bratva, and it means he did a lot of nasty shit to get here. If you don't already know, trust me, you don't want to. He's…" She sighs. "I don't know. Just be careful and don't piss him off. I think you've figured that out by now."

No. Not in the slightest.

"Right."

What kind of nasty shit?

Do I really need to ask? Murder. It's murder. I already knew he was capable of that.

Still, the chill in her voice has me peeking at my cup and taking a sip.

She squeals with delight and pats my shoulders. "Attagirl. Now come on, let's get back before the boys wonder what's taking so long."

Maksim

I half listen to Zinovy rattle on about the state of his motorcycle he wrecked last night, pulling at his shirt to reveal road rash on his side.

My attention keeps drifting to the back door where Elira disappeared, and when she finally re-emerges onto the patio, I search for signs of distress. One arm is wrapped around her stomach while the other holds onto a Solo cup. She follows Cherish with her head down, looking uncomfortable but not terrified, so maybe that's progress.

I prepare for her to ask me to take her home, but when she reaches the circle of lounge chairs where we've gathered, she perches on the end of mine and doesn't say a word, instead glancing at Zinovy as if she's politely listening to his story.

When I nudge her, she looks at me.

Are you okay , I mouth.

She doesn't answer right away, but after a few moments she nods, and it's like a valve is opened, releasing a breath caught in my lungs since we arrived.

I scoot over in the chair and pat the tiny space beside me, knowing she won't fit. After chewing on her lip in contemplation, she crawls up the chair to flatten against me, half her body lying on mine.

I wrap my arm around her shoulders but don't smile, don't even look at her. Her body is tense, and so is mine, like we're in agreement that this was a stupid idea. Any minute I think she'll move back down to the edge of the chair, but she stays rigid in place, probably too afraid of embarrassing me to move.

Minutes go by like this. Minutes that feel like hours.

I could get up to go to the bathroom. I could put an end to this misery for both of us.

"Do you have the highest ranking here?"

I tense, startled at Elira's voice, and finally look at her. She peers at me with soft eyes I hardly recognize on her, eyes that massage my muscles, relaxing me in the chair. The discomfort is still there, but her question brings enough relief that I'd answer anything she asked right now.

"Yes," I say, although I'm unsure where her question came from.

She looks around. "Then why is your home so much smaller?"

An unexpected laugh rumbles up my chest, and I just barely quiet it to keep the attention off us.

"Sorry, I don't mean to be rude," she says, her shoulders caving.

I shake my head. "It's fine… I chose a smaller home because I didn't want to spoil Anya. Her mother dreamed of her living a normal, boring, American childhood, and I tried to make that a reality. I failed, but I tried."

Her nose wrinkles in the cutest way. "I don't think you failed. How could you have failed what you haven't finished?"

I shrug, relaxing more into the chair. Her body doesn't feel so stiff anymore. It molds to mine, and without thinking, I tug her closer without her seeming to notice.

"This was your stepmother?" Elira asks, bringing me back to our conversation. I don't want to talk about this or anything now. The silence was grueling with the discomfort, but now, this isn't so bad.

"Hmm?"

"Anya's mother. She was your stepmother?"

Elizabeth's image comes to mind, her blonde hair that reminded me of my own mother's, her kind smile. The puffy dresses she always wore, even when she worked in her garden.

I remember being in one of the fields, sweat seeping from every pore of my body, mouth bone-dry, skin hot as an iron. The house was so far away that people were mere sticks as they came toward the fields, and you never knew whether to fear or to feel the relief of company.

Those puffy dresses made her stand out, and I always knew to expect water soon. Cold. Iced . Not the drippings from the rain buckets but fresh from the well.

I hadn't known English when I came to the farm, but I knew that her words, slow and enunciated, were kind.

My fellow unfortunate bunkmates taught me to speak the language, but she taught me how to read and write. She snuck books and food to me. She invited me into her home when her husband was away.

She was not my mother, but she was kind. And when she had a child of her own, she did not forget about the young boy in the barn. She introduced me to the new baby, Anya, as her son while I stood as a statue holding the child for the first time. Later, alone in the barn, I wept. I had siblings somewhere on Earth and parents who'd long forgotten me, but that was the first day in years I felt the warmth of a familial bond. I was someone's son again. Soon, I felt like a brother. I had family. And this time, it seemed, they wanted me.

"No," I say at last, letting the image of Elizabeth fade. "A foster mother, I guess."

"Oh." Elira considers this. "So you were adopted?"

I nod, but an imaginary boa constrictor wraps around my chest and begins to squeeze. I don't like talking about this. "Sort of."

She opens her mouth, and she might say something, but my attention is completely diverted to the out-of-place figure entering the yard.

I can feel Alik's presence the moment his boot crosses the threshold.

Eyes like lasers do a single sweep of the area before landing on me. He doesn't bother motioning for me or head this way. There's no one else at Hugh's that he'd be here to see.

Something's wrong.

I dart my eyes to Elira, silencing whatever she was saying. "I have to go."

"What? Where?"

I get up without replying and walk to Alik with Elira on my heels. "Hugh," I call, gesturing to Elira. He goes to lead Elira away, ignoring Alik when he shakes his head and waits for me to reach him.

"We're going to need the girl," he says.

My spine stiffens, and protectiveness starts to flare. "Why?"

His eyebrows raise as if to tell me not to shoot the messenger. He isn't here on behalf of himself. He's delivering Nikita's orders.

If Nikita is sending Alik, it's bad.

"The trafficking organization has arrived." His eyes drift to Elira who's still being led off by Hugh. "They want their whore back."