Page 53 of Bratva's Intern

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

MAXIM

Gold leaf shimmered beneath the warm glow of recessed lights, catching on the carved moldings of Arkady’s private club like the edges of old coins. The place reeked of excess. The marble floors were polished to a mirror finish, crystal chandeliers trembled from the beat of slow jazz, and the scent hovering in the air was somewhere between imported tobacco and power.

Arkady didn’t believe in subtlety. He believed in spectacle.

I stepped out of the SUV behind Nik, with Sergei and Darius falling into formation around me without needing to be told. We were a wall in motion, practiced and unreadable. A man guarding millions in crypto couldn’t afford to walk into a lion’s den without his pack of wolves.

Two of Arkady’s guards waited at the entrance. Thick-necked men in leather coats with the same vacant, vicious expressions worn by all good soldiers. They opened the doors without a word, nodding with the deference Arkady had trained into them.

Inside, the main lounge glittered with people and things that cost too much—a white marble bar, brass-trimmed furniture, a quartet tucked in the corner playing low music. The women lounging on velvet sofas wore diamonds like afterthoughts. Everything about the place said, “We don’t hide our sins. We decorate them.”

Arkady sat in a dark leather corner booth, sipping from a heavy crystal glass that probably cost more than most people’s cars. When he saw me, he didn’t rise, just lifted his glass in lazy greeting, like we were old friends catching up over dinner instead of two pakhans keeping a violent empire glued together with money and fear.

“Maxim,” he said, voice smooth and sun-warmed. “You’re on time. I thought Russians liked to make an entrance.”

I gave him a look as I slid into the booth. “You’re Russian too, Arkady.”

He laughed, the sound like the gentle pour of expensive vodka. “But you’re the imported kind. I am second generation. How long have you been in the country now? Fifteen years? Twenty?”

“Around that.”

I’d moved to the US seventeen years ago with little more than the shirt on my back that hid fresh scars and the money my mother had stuffed into my pockets to keep me going for as long as I could. Back then, I’d been too angry, too defiant to simply give up and die. And although my mother had made her choice, and a part of me would never forgive her because of that, due to her actions, I was still alive.

Nik, Sergei, and Darius stayed near—far enough to give the illusion of privacy, close enough to move if anything went sideways. One of Arkady’s men brought me a glass of vodka, chilled and expensive. I didn’t touch it.

“Saw your old man last week when I was in Moscow,” Arkady said. “He was very proud of the contributions you’vemade to the Morozov name back home. Of all his children, you’re the one he seems most proud of. It’s a pity you’ve never been back to see him. Haven't you?”

My lips twisted into an unpleasant smile. “We’re here to talk business, Arkady. No need to get personal. What I do or don’t do with my family is none of your business.”

“I suppose that’s true. A shame, though. Your father is sickly. Who’s to say if he’ll make it through the end of the year?”

A flicker of surprise went off inside me, but I didn’t show it. I’d never kept in touch with my family back in Russia. The day I’d left, my father had made it clear I was never to set foot back on Russian soil or he would have me killed.

All because one of his rivals had shown him a clip of me fucking another guy. He'd executed the man to prevent the disgrace from spreading, then damn near killed me.

“Let’s not waste each other’s time,” I said. “You wanted the update on how the crypto wallets are coming along.”

Arkady tilted his head as if unbothered. “Right, right.” He swirled his drink. “The magical wallets full of invisible money.”

I exhaled through my nose. “They’re not magical, nor are they invisible. They’re secure. Safer than cash, harder to trace than diamonds, and ten times more convenient when you’re dealing across borders. Did I forget to mention how much easier it is to use for money laundering?” That was Arkady’s big sell. In the beginning, it had been mine too, which was why we’d shaken hands five years ago.

Arkady frowned. “I don’t like things I can’t hold in my hand.”

“Don’t worry. You’ll be able to hold on to these crypto wallets.” I tapped a finger on the tabletop. “The wallets are all set for transfer. I have a trusted carrier who will make thedelivery to Chicago. I’ll receive them through a dead-drop network and distribute from there.”

“And you’re sure they’ll be safe?” he asked. “You don’t think the Chicago problem will happen again?”

Four months ago, we’d suffered a major setback. Several of our drops were compromised. Paintings lined with loose diamonds never made it to their intended recipients. Every courier ended up the same—throat slit, body dumped, delivery never made. The paintings vanished without a trace. I’d covered the loss, but what haunted me wasn’t the money. It was the fact that we’d never found out who was behind it.

“It shouldn’t. I’ve put measures in place to secure the delivery.” I leaned in slightly. “Let me do what I’m good at, Arkady.”

Arkady took a long sip. “You trust your system that much?”

“I trust the people managing it. Archie has been working for me for a decade. I’d trust him with my life.”

Arkady’s eyes flicked toward his guard. “Loyalty’s rare these days. Some days, even I question those around me.”

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