Chapter 13

Avgust~

I t was past one in the morning, but I wasn't tired. The adrenaline from seeing Samara again was still coursing through my veins, and I knew that it'd be a while before I'd be able to fall asleep. Thankfully, I was used to keeping odd hours, so it wasn't that much of a hardship.

When the door to my office opened, I wasn't surprised. Like me, Maksim also always chose business before sleep, and we still had other things to attend to.

"What now?"

"Erica has agreed to go to rehab," he announced. "Jewelle has taken her, and she will be monitoring her progress."

Jewelle was one of our seasoned working girls, and she'd always been a woman of her word. She also had a past that would ensure that she'd never turn on us, so I wasn't worried about her keeping any of Erica's secrets. Jewelle had been sold by her father at the tender age of twelve, and after enduring horrible abuse for years, one of our torpedoes, Orlyn Dmitrieva, had found her at death's door behind one of our gambling clubs. He'd taken one look at her, had ordered our doctor to save her, then after a year of her healing as best she could, we'd given her the option to work for us. She had quickly agreed, finally being able to take some control of her life, and while all of our girls were allowed to choose their customers, Jewelle was the only one that didn't have a quota to meet. She could sleep with a thousand men in a year or only one; we didn't care. The arrangement was also beneficial to both sides, as Jewelle's loyalty was just as cemented as any member of the bratva.

"What does Dascha have to say about all this?"

"Apparently, Erica went to Jewelle before we could even ask Dascha his thoughts on her," he answered.

"If she messes up again, I want her gone," I instructed. "She will not get a third chance with us."

"Of course," he replied easily. "If she cannot appreciate this blessing for what it is, then she deserves to disappear."

I walked over to the bar to make myself a drink. "What else has you here at this time of night, Maksim?"

"Aurelio Provenza sent me over a file on Artem Rostova," he said, making my eyes slide his way.

"And you're barely telling me this now?"

"Do not start shit with me," Maksim retorted. "We both know that Samara Andreev is more important to you than Klive Simpson."

I smirked as I went back to pouring my drink. "You've a valid point."

"Avgust?"

"Yes?"

"Morocco was able to find out that Artem Rostova was from Esso Village," he informed me, his voice telling me everything.

With my drink forgotten, I looked over at him. "Is that not where your family is from?"

Maksim nodded. "Yes."

"Are we to believe that this is a coincidence?"

Again, Maksim had a very high IQ, and coupled with his common sense, he was pretty lethal when it came to logic and strategic planning. "No, we are not," he answered. "After my parents passed, I found pictures of my father and grandparents visiting Esso."

Maksim's parents had both been drug addicts, and he had committed to the bratva when he'd been only fifteen-years-old. Though we'd been friends longer than that, he'd still had choices in his life before then. However, when his parents had overdosed, that's when he'd done what needed to be done for himself and his younger brother, Akim. In less than five years, Maksim had become the bratva's most prolific killer, and his brain had increased profits three-fold.

"What else is in the report?"

"Morocco included the names of every classmate that Manziel had gone to school with, but without knowing what Klive Simpson looks like, we can't say if he'd be any of them," Maksim went on.

"Do we know where all those classmates ended up?"

Maksim let out a heavy sigh, and I knew it was because he hated being indebted to the Sartoris just as much as I did. "No, we do not. However, Provenza stated that Morocco could get that information if we wish it, though it would take some time."

I grabbed my glass of vodka, then made my way to my desk, a crisp manilla envelope lying on top of the other paperwork that needed my attention. Though I trusted Maksim with my life, Louie Manziel's connection to Maksim's heritage home could not be ignored. We'd already concluded that Klive's reason for being here was personal, but we'd been thinking that it had something to do with me or the bratva; we never thought that it could have something to do with Maksim.

"I do not like being in debt to the Sartoris," I remarked needlessly.

"Nor do I," he agreed. "However, Nero is not viewing this as a favor, which helps."

That had me smirking. "We would all rather fight with the devils that we know."

Surprising me, Maksim said, "We need to look into my parents."

I arched a brow as I asked, "Do we know anything more about the aunt?"

Maksim shook his head. "According to the file, she seems like a non-factor. She really was just a homemaker."

I eyed the man that knew me best. "What are you thinking, Maksim?"

"Nothing that is substantial," he replied smoothly.

"I asked what you were thinking, not what you can prove," I pointed out.

"There's only two things that make something personal," he said. "Love and betrayal. Since there wasn't ever any love lost between me and my parents, that leaves betrayal."

"We were just boys when your parents died," I reminded him. "How could you have possibly betrayed them?'

"Perhaps they betrayed someone else," he posed. "And since they are deceased, that leaves me and Akim to suffer the consequences, no?"

I mulled that over for a few seconds before I said, "Until we know more, we will assume that Klive Simpson's fight is with the bratva. This allows us all to be on the lookout and not lose ourselves in one possibility only. I do not want our ship to come in while we are driving to the airport."

"Of course," he agreed easily.

"However, if it will make you feel better, we can ask Nero to run a background check on your parents to see if Artem Rostova has any connection to them."

"I would like that," he preferred. "I'd like for us to leave no stone unturned."

"Agreed."

After a few more seconds of silence, he said, "Be sure that you know what you are doing with Samara, Avgust. If we're speaking about not losing sight of what's best for the bratva, that includes your vozlyublennaya."

"Samara would hardly describe herself as my beloved," I retorted.

"But that is what she is," he countered. "Whether either of you want her to be or not."

Smirking, I said, "Go get some sleep. We'll be needing it tomorrow. We have that new shipment of guns coming in, and Treso wants to discuss a new handler."

"You know how I feel about new connections," he drawled out. "Especially now that we still don't know what Klive Simpson looks like."

Sensing that his family's connection to Artem was bothering him, I said, "Which is why I said he wants to discuss the possibility, Maksim. Not that we'd agree."

He arched a brow. "I hate you sometimes."

"Only sometimes?" I quipped.

"I am leaving," he announced. "However, if anyone should get some sleep, it should be you, Pakhan. After all, you're the one that's going to have a pissed off blonde on your hands in the morning."

"Unfortunately for her, that's how I like her."

Maksim just shook his head as he turned to leave my office. "You are crazy," he muttered.

Not agreeing or disagreeing with him, I finally took a seat at my desk, then opened the contents of Morocco's folder. It really was a shame that the Sartoris were the only ones that had a man as gifted as Morocco Carrisi. A hacker with Morocco's talent was invaluable to an organization like ours, and the man was worth his price tag, though his loyalty was solid to the Sartoris.

Flipping through the report, there wasn't much more than what Maksim had summarized, though the report did contain pictures of Artem and Hannah Rostova, and younger pictures of Louie Manziel. I looked for any resemblances to Maksim, but I could not find any, though that didn't mean anything. After all, it was Klive Simpson that we were more concerned with, not Louie Manziel.

I finally took a sip of my vodka, needing it more tonight than usual.