Page 97 of Maxim

Depending on whether Uriov has managed to lure any of Vlad’s men over to his side, he could be in for a rough ride. Still, I have enough to deal with right now without getting too involved in his problems. I promised him men if he needed them, and he hasn’t reach out yet, so I can only assume he’s got it handled.

Sasha stands, eager to get back to whatever shit he has going on. Just as he’s about to leave, Konrad comes in with a worried expression on his face.

“Boss, we have a problem.”

“Problem?” Fuck my life. I need another problem like I need a fucking lobotomy.

“I found a phone near the back perimeter. The camera in that zone has been switched off and there’s a hole in the fence.”

He hands me the phone and I recognize the pink case immediately. It’s Natalya’s phone. Why the fuck is it in the garden?

“Sasha, check our security system,” I bark before running upstairs. Natalya told me she was going for a nap, and because shit was hitting the fan, I left her alone. I should have stayed with her. I knew something was wrong when we left the funeral.

Her bedroom door is closed. I fling it open, praying I’m wrong, that she’s fast asleep in bed, her dark hair cascading over the pillow.

But the bed is empty.

My malyshka is missing.

Just as I’m about to leave and head back downstairs, my phone buzzes. There’s a photo on the lockscreen of Natalya folded up inside the trunk of a car, a gag in her mouth and a terrified expression on her face.

The message is from an unknown number but the sender is unmistakable.

You stole Zelenya from me. Now I’m returning the favor.

***

18 years ago.

If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a crying woman. My father was an asshole and my childhood includes frequent memories of females crying after leaving my father’s office.

I once asked him why he made so many women cry and he just shrugged. After my mother died, any empathy he might have had was lost. Women were a vessel to be used. Their feelings were immaterial.

The way he treated women made me sick, and as I grew older, I vowed never to be that man. So when I walk into a bar and see a woman crying, I can’t help but ask her if she needs help. Sasha says I have a white knight complex. I tell him to mind his own fucking business.

“Are you OK?” I ask the weeping woman.

“No, not really.” She wipes her eyes with a bar napkin and I don’t miss the vivid blue and purple bruises on her cheek.

“Is he in here?” If the guy who did this to her is around, I’m happy to make him regret hurting her. I have a lot of anger issues to work out. Seeing my father and Sasha’s die in a fiery explosion has massively fucked me up. I’m not sleeping at night and the stress of dealing with the Bratva he left behind is killing me slowly.

“No.” Her shoulders slump as she exhales. This is a woman who sees no way out of whatever shit she’s found herself in. If not for the bruises and general air of hopelessness, she’d be attractive. Beautiful even. But not this evening. This evening she’s broken.

“Do you need help?” I have money and resources. I can’t help every beaten woman I come across but I’m not going to turn a blind eye to this one.

Me helping a vulnerable woman is kind of ironic given the Bratva deals in drugs, but the way I see it is simple: people who choose to get fucked up on drugs make that decision for themselves, nobody forces them to do it. Unless they are trafficked.

This woman is the victim of someone stronger than her. A man like my father.

“You can’t help me,” she says in a low voice. “He’d kill you if you tried.”

I snort with amusement. “Doubtful. Who is he?”

“Anatoly Uriov.”

The name rings a bell. He’s mafia, like me. We don’t have any direct dealings but I’ve heard the rumors about his business interests. He’s involved in the skin trade; trafficking women from the Baltic states into the West, sending them into prostitution and selling them to rich men who want a woman as a plaything.

“Has he trafficked you?”

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