49. Max

It's been an hour and she still hasn't replied to my message. I know she's at home because I checked her phone tracker. Sasha thinks I'm obsessed. Honestly, he's not far wrong. I am obsessed.

My curvy little malyshka is now so far under my skin I'm not sure I'll ever dig her out. I sit on the sofa ignoring the work I have still to do. Budget reports. Profit projections. And that's only the legit stuff.

We still haven't recovered the weapons stolen from the warehouse and a drugs shipment was delayed last night after someone tipped off Europol. Luckily, Sasha picked up a message from an informant and was able to redirect the cargo, but it was a fucking close call.

I'm beginning to get pissed off about all the aggravation lately. The sooner Sasha can figure out who's behind it - and my money is on Uriov - the better. I will not start a war against Uriov until I have proof, but the minute I do, he's a dead man.

My phone remains silent so I log into the app for Natalya's security system to check she's OK. The cameras show her sitting on her sofa, her head dipped. For a minute I think she's reading something, but then she tucks her knees up and wipes her face.

It's then I see she's crying. The video feed isn't perfect but it's clear enough to highlight tear tracks on her cheeks.

OK, that's it. If someone has hurt my malyshka, they will feel my wrath.

Sasha calls just as I'm stepping into the Maserati in the underground parking garage. I don't have time to call Artem, and besides, he's probably already home by now. His wife is due to give birth any day and calling him back out when I could drive myself is stupid.

I may be a bastard but I do care about my guys.

"What?"

"Jesus. I thought you'd be in a better mood given you're getting laid," he grumbles.

"Something's upset Natalya, she's crying." I dislike the way he scoffs loudly.

"Is she on the rag? Women get emotional and shit around that time of the month."

Fuck, he has a point. If I barge into her apartment and it turns out she's crying because of some sad news story about abandoned kittens, I'll feel like an overbearing idiot.

For a moment, I pause, then I remember all that she's been through and decide fuck it, I'm going anyway.

"Was there a reason you called, Sasha, other than to get on my last nerve?" The Maserati's throaty rumble scares an old woman half to death as I drive out of the garage. She gives me a one-fingered salute and I smirk. Not that she'll see it; the windows are blacked out.

"Yeah. I picked up some chatter online. Someone is looking for a hired gun to kill a reporter. No names are mentioned, obviously, but the general location fits. I thought it was prudent to let you know. Given your girl's profession and her relationship with the mayor."

"Fuck." I stay silent for a few beats while negotiating my way through the heavy traffic in the central business district. "If this does relate to Natalya and Kolanski's paranoia about his dirty laundry being aired in public, Uriov has guys to do his hits, so why isn't he using them?"

"Maybe he wants more than a couple of degrees of separation. He's likely heard you have an interest in Natalya. And he knows if anything happens to her that leads back to him, he's a dead man walking."

I growl, not caring for the picture Sasha is painting.

"We've got other problems too."

"Yeah?" I'm finding it hard to care as the traffic thins out and I make an illegal turn, prompting a flurry of angry gestures from pissed-off drivers.

"Yeah. Some kind soul doing their civic duty called in an anonymous tipoff about seeing suspicious activity down at the docks where our latest shipment of product was due. The cops showed up and caused a scene. They got nothing, of course, but the boat was stuck out at sea and the delivery schedule was fucked. Just like last night."

"You think all this is linked to the warehouse fire?"

"It feels like someone is fucking with us. First, the fire and the stolen shipment, which I still can't trace. Now this, plus there's a new product flooding the streets that's dangerous as all fuck."

"What product?" I frown. This is the first he's mentioned it.

"I got some calls last night from our guys on the street. Someone's been distributing a new synthetic cannabinoid drug in our name. They're calling it ghost chili because it causes numbness and seizures."

My hands grip the steering wheel and it creaks. "Fuck, this is not what we need. If users don't trust our product, it's bad for business." I turn down the street toward Natalya's apartment, trying to control my temper.

"Quite. I'm on it though."

"Good, make sure you get me some fucking answers," I snap. "Any other shit I need to be aware of?"

There's a long pause and I tap my fingers impatiently while waiting for a traffic light to turn green. The buildings in this part of the city are well past their best. There's litter everywhere, vagrants hanging around with their piles of junk and skinny dogs. One or two stores are still open, but the whole area reeks of poverty.

It's not somewhere my malyshka should be living. She's not safe here, even with a state-of-the-art alarm system.

"Yeah." I don't like the careful way he says such an innocuous word.

"Spit it out, Sasha, I'm nearly at Natalya's place."

"Zaria."

I go still, not noticing that the light has flipped to green until some asshole steps on their horn behind me.

"What about Zaria?" Ten years ago, my father made a loose arrangement with Zoltan Milosovic, the leader of a rival mafia family. In return for some assistance dealing with a little problem, I would marry Zaria when she came of age.

I was 16 at the time and Zaria was barely a toddler. Honestly, I haven't thought of the girl in years. My father was assassinated and I took over the Bratva.

Milosovic got caught up in a corruption scandal a few years later and was arrested on organized crime charges. As far as I knew, he was down and out, his daughter in the wind, and not my problem.

She has to be around 18 or so now, no longer a kid, but we've never met. I have no clue what she looks like. Or anything about her.

"Milosovic is out of prison. The judge from the original trial was assassinated along with several key witnesses. His lawyer launched an appeal and the conviction was overturned due to a lack of evidence. He was at the gala on Friday night, not looking very well, it has to be said. Expected to see you and was very disappointed you couldn't make it. He says he expects you to honor the deal your father made with him now Zaria is of age."

I snort. "Fuck that."

"Max, you can't just dismiss him. If you brush this off, he'll seek allies elsewhere, most likely Uriov. The guy looks seriously unwell and he's probably desperate."

"I can't deal with this right now, Sasha. We'll talk later."

I end the call just as I pull into the cracked concrete parking lot outside Natalya's apartment building. Some old guy wearing a black wool coat, even though it's in the high 60s, gives me some side-eye. I ignore him.

There's a low-level buzz in my head from all the shit I'm dealing with. An ache settles deep in my skull. I know Sasha is all over this like a harbor shark, but ultimately, I'm responsible. And besides, he can't fix the Zaria issue.

That one's on me.

My fucking father. He was ruthless. Every decision he made was for the Bratva. My happiness meant nothing to him. Nothing at all. My sister was lucky he died before she came of age, or he would have married her off to the highest bidder without shedding a tear.

Lucky for Vanya, I was in charge by the time she reached 16 and she had the freedom to live her life the way she wanted. Which is why she's now settled far, far away with a husband she loves and the freedom she always craved.

Unlike me, who will never escape the responsibilities that come from being born into the Bratva.

The heavy weight of being Pakhan fell on me the day my father was killed. All the men in our Bratva now look to me for instruction. If I fuck up, we all lose, and if I make poor decisions, it won't be long before some upstart comes along and challenges me.

My money is on Uriov being behind all this but we have no proof.

If that slippery fucker thinks he can get away with fucking with me he can think again. I will fucking end him.

And as for Zaria…

I don't care what Milosovic wants. There is zero chance of me marrying his daughter, so he better have some other poor schmuck lined up.