She wanted me to bow. I don’t bow. I don’t kneel. I don’t even dip my head unless I’m dodging bullets. It was adorable, really. Like watching a kitten puff up at a pit bull. If Pakhan wasn’t in the next room, I might’ve laughed so loud it echoed. Instead, I let her think she’d won something by standing there like royalty in lingerie. Let the little empress have her moment.
Still… yeah. She was fuckable. The kind of girl men ruined themselves over. Not me, though. I don’t do sentimental. I don’t fuck where I work. And this? This wasdefinitelyhis daughter.
I could get a dozen like her by nightfall if I wanted—models, dancers, influencers with lips like that and minds like dust.
She wasn’t worth the headache. No matter how good those thighs would look wrapped around my waist.
Still… why the fuck was I even thinking about that?
“You’re ambitious,” she said.
And you’re annoying, I thought. Not just because of the words—because of the way she said them. Like she was testing me. Like she had any idea what ambition costs.
“Careful,Malaya.”
She bristled. Good. Got under her skin. A small win.
“Call me that again and see what happens,” she snapped.
I raised a brow. Bold little thing. I liked her fire—useless as it was.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, the word dry and half-mocking.
She didn’t intimidate me. None of them did. But I could admit, there was something sharp in the way she bit back. Most girls pouted. She threatened.
Cute.
And then—like a gunshot through tension—came the voice I’d been waiting for.
“Maksym. In here.”
I stepped inside, gladly. The princess parade was over, and I hoped I’d never have to deal with her again. Spoiled rich girls were good for two things—screwing and... yeah, no, just screwing. The rest was noise, tantrums, and credit card bills. And I didn’t have the patience for any of it. Not today. Not ever, if I had a say. She wasn’t my assignment, thank fuck. I was here to work, not insecurities to babysit.
The office looked like a high-ranking bratva’s wet dream—leather chairs, dark wood, tall windows, and the kind of calculated power plays dressed up as taste. A place meant to impress allies and threaten enemies. But nothing here intimidated me. Not the weapons tucked behind glass. Not the bodyguard flanked by the door.
Behind the desk, just as expected, stood the man in charge.
Pakhan. Real name: Roman Sokolov. Not that anyone used it.
Mid-sixties. Greying, but not soft. Not a wrinkle out of place. Rolled-up sleeves over thick forearms, one of which bore an eight-pointed star—black ink, brutal lines.
Bratva. Old-school code etched into skin. Not the kind of thing you get for decoration. It said: I bled for this. I killed for this. I own the fucking table.
He didn’t smile. Just stood there for a moment, then lowered himself into the heavy leather chair like a man with all the time in the world. One hand reached toward a polished humidor on the desk—some custom-made thing lined in cedar and brass. He flipped it open, selected a thick cigar, clipped the end with a silver cutter, and lit it slowly, letting the first drag curl around his head like a crown of smoke.
Power, performed. One puff at a time.
He gestured to the chair opposite him like he was offering tea. I sat down like I was doing him a favor—sprawled with casual arrogance, one arm slung over the chair’s edge, elbow resting, chin propped.
“Word gets around,” he said, dark eyes steady. “You don’t scare. You don’t stall. You do the job, no matter how bloody it gets.”
If he was expecting a thank-you, he’d be waiting a long time. I stared back, dead-eyed.
But then he said something interesting.
“But to me, you look like every other street dog that crawled out of Kharkiv. Mangy. Starved. Loyal to no one. How do I know you won’t turn on me the second I turn my back?”
Ah. There it was. The real interview.
