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12
MAXIM
VEGAS - DOJA CAT
The secondI stepped inside the elevator, I dragged off my necktie. The doors closed as the receptionist watched me. With barely an inch of a gap remaining, I saw him reach for the phone.
Eyes were on me everywhere here.
As I unbuttoned my shirt collar, I heaved a sigh. Giving myself some breathing room, I watched the numbers while I surged toward the penthouse in one of Moskva's tallest buildings.
I did not want to be in Moskva.
It didn’t matter that I was staying on Pozharskiy Pereulok—an expensive street that I’d have killed to live on when I was a starving boy—it was still the last fucking place I wanted to be.
When Stepanov and the few remaining Old Guard pieces of shit I hadn’t killed had started making waves, however, I knew I could only consolidate power by getting approval from the homeland—a move I’d been avoiding since the new year.
So here I was.
And here I'd been for the past three weeks.
I hated Moskva.
Americans thought they had it so fucking bad with their cities that were a capitalist’s idea of heaven, but Moskva was hell.
I'd dragged my ass away from the streets and into a multimillion-ruble property, but it didn't matter.
Whenever I came back to the city of my childhood, I always felt hungry. Always remembered what it was like to feel myself starving to death.
For a second, I ran my fingers along my collarbone, remembering what they’d felt like when they were brittle bones poking out through my flesh. Now, even there, I was muscled. Strong. So unlike the boy I’d once been when the motherland was my home and not somewhere I avoided at all costs.
My cell rang, and I eyed the caller ID warily.
Though I’d just arrived at my building, that wouldn’t stop the leaders from dragging me out again. TheKrestniy Otets,the head of the Bratva in Russia, the man who kept each individual gang in line, was putting me through my paces.
Though I was relieved his name didn’t light up my screen, I gritted my teeth when I saw VICTORIA there instead.
She'd been calling me more often than I was comfortable with. Because she was still a child, I knew she was scoping me out, and I had to keep it clean.
My life wasnotclean.
But if I didn't want to terrify her, then I knew this was how I gentled her to me.
Of course, that made me feel like a fucking pedophile, and no way in hell was I one of thoseizvrashchenets. I’d dealt with those bastards on the streets.
Patiently impatient, my voice was gruff as I answered, "Katyonok, you know I'm in Moskva."
"I'm sorry, Maxim," she said miserably. "I-I didn't know who else to call."
My brow furrowed because I heard genuine tears clogging the words.
"What's happened?" I barked in concern. She remained silent, then she sniffled. "Tell me, Victoria. Now."
I didn't realize I'd slipped into Russian until, in our mother tongue, though hers was heavily accented, she whispered, "He touched me."
Rage flushed through me. "Who touched you?"
"It was only a small touch," she corrected with a sniff. "Just my boob, but he said I was a whore. He said I was just like Mama."
