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My jaw tightens as I study the photo in front of me again.

This one was taken in the Seychelles last summer. Maksim is stretched out on his stomach on a white sunbed, shirtless, skin golden under the sun. Dante is leaning over him, hands pressed into his back like he’s either giving him a massage or simply touching him for the sake of it. I can’t tell which bothers me more.

Another picture shows them stepping into a hotel in Tokyo. Dante’s hand hovering at Maksim’s lower back, guiding him inside as if he has a right to.

The most recent one is from here in the States, only a few weeks ago. Maksim laughing at something Dante said, head tilted toward him, completely at ease.

Too at ease.

I don’t understand the game Maksim is playing.

Hell, I don’t even know if it is a game.

What I do know is that this is careless. Reckless in a way he usually isn’t. Maksim might be stubborn, impulsive, and occasionally self-destructive, but he’s never been stupid. He knows how to move carefully. He knows when to stop. He knows when not to cross lines that can’t be uncrossed.

This? This is the opposite of careful.

It’s sloppy. Dangerous. And it wouldn’t just reflect badly on him; it would ripple outward.

Pavel would have a stroke if he found out his son is sleeping with a man whose company rivals his own. Pavel Petrov didn’t spend years building his Vineyards just to have his son tangled up with the competition.

It isn’t about money. I know that much.

Maksim doesn’t need anyone’s wealth. His family fortune makes Dante Russo look middle-class by comparison. Pavel Global Holdings alone could buy and sell half of Europe without blinking.

Pavel is the son of Roman Petrov—who is no small man himself—and Roman is the son of Petr, the founder of a Russian mafia organization that has been operating longer than most governments.

The Petrov name isn’t just money.

It’s history. Power. Fear.

So why?

Why is Maksim being so careless? Why is he acting as if he is indifferent to exposure, to the media, to the very real consequences of being seen?

My gaze drifts back to the photographs, and this time I notice what I’d been avoiding.

The way Maksim looks at Dante.

Not guarded. Not distant. There’s something softer there, like an unmistakable and intimate fondness.

I know him. I know every version of him. And he doesn’t look at people like that.

Except…

A bitter taste fills my mouth.

Fuck.

Is he actually into this man? Is that why he’s pushing boundaries, inviting risk as if it doesn’t matter? Is that why I saw a flicker of fear in his eyes when I told him I’d do to Dante exactly what he had threatened to do to Jake?

The sharp ring of my office phone pulls me out of my thoughts. I snatch it up, already irritated.

“Jake Wesley is here to see you,” my assistant says, voice tight but professional.

My eye twitches. A dull headache blooms at my temple.

“Tell him to fuck off,” I say flatly, and hang up.