Page 69 of Maxim

“Early reports indicate no foul play and a source suggests Miss Romanova had been struggling with mental health issues for a while now.” The newsroom cuts away to a pre-recorded clip from the mayor.

“Miss Romanova was a loyal and hard-working assistant for many years, and we worked closely on a number of important projects, including my scheme to set up a shelter to help abused and homeless women and children.” The mayor pauses for dramatic effect and wipes a tear away before continuing. “Miss Romanova… Miriam… was not just my assistant, she was a friend, and for the sake of her family, we would appreciate it if the press could respect theirs and my privacy, and allow us all time to grieve. Thank you.”

There are voices in the background but the video goes back to the newsroom, where the anchorwoman sits behind her desk, stoically shuffling her notes.

“In other news this evening, there has been a flurry of deaths experts are linking to a dangerous new synthetic cannabinoid in circulation…”

Chapter forty-nine

Max

It’s been an hour and she still hasn’t replied to my message. I know she’s at home because I checked her phone tracker. Sasha thinks I’m obsessed. Honestly, he’s not far wrong. I am obsessed.

My curvy little malyshka is now so far under my skin I’m not sure I’ll ever dig her out. I sit on the sofa ignoring the work I have still to do. Budget reports. Profit projections. And that’s only the legit stuff.

We still haven’t recovered the weapons stolen from the warehouse and a drugs shipment was delayed last night after someone tipped off Europol. Luckily, Sasha picked up a message from an informant and was able to redirect the cargo, but it was a fucking close call.

I’m beginning to get pissed off about all the aggravation lately. The sooner Sasha can figure out who’s behind it - and my money is on Uriov - the better. I will not start a war against Uriov until I have proof, but the minute I do, he’s a dead man.

My phone remains silent so I log into the app for Natalya’s security system to check she’s OK. The cameras show her sitting on her sofa, her head dipped. For a minute I think she’s reading something, but then she tucks her knees up and wipes her face.

It’s then I see she’s crying. The video feed isn’t perfect but it’s clear enough to highlight tear tracks on her cheeks.

OK, that’s it. If someone has hurt my malyshka, they will feel my wrath.

Sasha calls just as I’m stepping into the Maserati in the underground parking garage. I don’t have time to call Artem, and besides, he’s probably already home by now. His wife is due to give birth any day and calling him back out when I could drive myself is stupid.

I may be a bastard but I do care about my guys.

“What?”

“Jesus. I thought you’d be in a better mood given you’re getting laid,” he grumbles.

“Something’s upset Natalya, she’s crying.” I dislike the way he scoffs loudly.

“Is she on the rag? Women get emotional and shit around that time of the month.”

Fuck, he has a point. If I barge into her apartment and it turns out she’s crying because of some sad news story about abandoned kittens, I’ll feel like an overbearing idiot.

For a moment, I pause, then I remember all that she’s been through and decide fuck it, I’m going anyway.

“Was there a reason you called, Sasha, other than to get on my last nerve?” The Maserati’s throaty rumble scares an old woman half to death as I drive out of the garage. She gives me a one-fingered salute and I smirk. Not that she’ll see it; the windows are blacked out.

“Yeah. I picked up some chatter online. Someone is looking for a hired gun to kill a reporter. No names are mentioned, obviously, but the general location fits. I thought it was prudent to let you know. Given your girl’s profession and her relationship with the mayor.”

“Fuck.” I stay silent for a few beats while negotiating my way through the heavy traffic in the central business district. “If this does relate to Natalya and Kolanski’s paranoia about his dirty laundry being aired in public, Uriov has guys to do his hits, so why isn’t he using them?”

“Maybe he wants more than a couple of degrees of separation. He’s likely heard you have an interest in Natalya. And he knows if anything happens to her that leads back to him, he’s a dead man walking.”

I growl, not caring for the picture Sasha is painting.

“We’ve got other problems too.”

“Yeah?” I’m finding it hard to care as the traffic thins out and I make an illegal turn, prompting a flurry of angry gestures from pissed-off drivers.

“Yeah. Some kind soul doing their civic duty called in an anonymous tipoff about seeing suspicious activity down at the docks where our latest shipment of product was due. The cops showed up and caused a scene. They got nothing, of course, but the boat was stuck out at sea and the delivery schedule was fucked. Just like last night.”

“You think all this is linked to the warehouse fire?”

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