31
Edge of the Night
—Maksym—
The house didn’t go quiet after dinner. It almost never did. Pakhan and his inner circle usually drifted toward the study afterward, pouring drinks, lighting cigars, talking in low voices about things that never made it to paper. That night was no different.
I sat with them longer than I should have, nursing a glass I barely tasted, listening to the smoke-thick laughter and the quiet negotiations humming beneath it. Every minute I stayed felt like another chain around my throat.
I excused myself and walked out, but the tension didn’t stay behind. It came with me—thick, choking—along with every unsaid word clawing at the inside of my chest.
All throughout dinner, I’d been rehearsing it in my head—a thousand versions of how I’d approach her, what I’d say, how I’d explain the inexcusable. I imagined taking her hands, pressing them to my chest so she could feel how wrecked I was without her. I’d kiss her forehead and admit that every word I’d thrown at her was a lie, a shield for something bigger—something I couldn’t explain yet without putting it all at risk. And then I’d say it—the thing I should’ve said long ago. That I loved her. That I still did. And I’d fall to my knees and let her destroy me piece by piece, if that was what it took for her to let me stay.
I went to her room and knocked once, then again, unease already prickling beneath my skin.
“Kira,” I called, keeping my voice low. I tried the handle. Unlocked.
Her room was empty.
The bed lay untouched, the bathroom dark. No trace of movement, no whisper of her presence. A cold, ugly knot twisted in my chest.
“Jesus Christ,” I muttered, yanking out my phone. I called once. Straight to nothing. Again. And again.
No answer.
I checked the tracker. She was at Valeria’s place.
Relief hit first, sharp and immediate. Good—she wasn’t alone. She was with a friend, someone who could keep an eye on her, someone who might steady her until she came back to herself. For a second, that thought settled in my chest, almost enough to calm the edge digging into my ribs.
Then it clicked.
Valeria.
Fuck.
Of all people.
Valeria didn’t fix anything—she poured gasoline on it and watched it burn. The kind of girl who turned every problem into a line, a pill, a night she wouldn’t remember. If Kira was with her, it wasn’t better. It was worse.
I had to reach her before she did something reckless.
The last thing I needed was Pakhan realizing she wasn’t in her room. Not because he’d panic like a worried father—he wouldn’t. She wasn’t a daughter to him. She was an asset. But missing property draws attention, and attention is the one thing I couldn’t afford.
So I turned the music up loud enough to drown suspicion and locked the door from the outside.
Then I hit the road, tires screaming over rain-slick asphalt. One hand gripped the wheel while the other clutched my phone, thumb tapping redial like a desperate prayer. The city spun past in a blur of lights and fury. Still, she wasn’t answering.
The silence clawed at me.
By the time I reached Valeria’s building, panic had burned through every last shred of restraint I had. I pounded on the door, jaw tight with dread. No answer.
“Fuck,” I hissed through gritted teeth.
I picked the lock and slipped inside.
The stench of smoke and synthetic sweetness clung to the air, thick and nauseating. I moved fast, checking each room, my pulse thundering in my ears until I found the bedroom door half open.
Valeria and some dude were sprawled on the bed, unconscious, clothes tangled, faces slack. High. Out of it.
