Maksim: A Dark Mafia Romance (Akimov Bratva)

If you come willingly, I’ll give you what you need to find your daughter. If you don’t, I will take you forcefully.
This far away from him, his words aren’t a threat. They’re coaxing me closer, promising me things I’ve only dreamed of.
And I do dream of them.

7
Maksim
I have spent my life shadowboxing death. A half-dozen times or more, the world has tried its damndest to kill me. I suppose I should thank someone—God, a guardian angel, sheer dumb luck—but I am not feeling grateful as I stand in front of Ravil’s house, the bandage around my wrist starting to peel off and the pain in my leg burning.
Because, two days ago, my closest friend was bombed into a charred remnant at the cemetery where my murdered wife is buried.
I’m not going to be grateful. I’m going to be vindictive.
I knock on Ravil’s door. A frantic barking ricochets inside the house. I hear Lynna’s voice inside. When she opens the door, her dirty blonde hair is tied back into a braid and she’s wearing a pale yellow dress with a white sash at her waist.
“Hello, Maksim.” She starts to smile and then stops when she notices my bandaged hand. “What happened?”
“Can I come in, Lynna?” I ask solemnly. She nods, face suddenly tight. She leads me inside.
We pass a wall covered in photos. Every Christmas and every July, Lynna and Ravil went on a trip. There are ten photos of the two of them—Akaka Falls, Garden of the Gods, Rockefeller Forest, the Adirondacks, Patagonia, Dodger Stadium, Denali, the Bellagio, Yosemite National Park, and a steakhouse in Austin—surrounding their wedding photo. They had that ceremony in my backyard.
Lynna takes me straight to the dining room. “Do you want some coffee? It’s still a fresh pot.”
“No, thank you,” I say.
She turns to me, leaning against the table. “What’s going on? You didn’t send Ravil over the border again, did you? We were thinking of going to Mexico City this summer. He says they have amazing cathedrals and we could make it extra romantic.”
Lynna’s skin appears tan in comparison to the brightness of her dress. Her round face appears too young to be a widow. Her smile appears too optimistic to break.
“Lynna, Ravil is gone,” I say. “He’s dead.”
Her head tilts, her smile almost faltering before she laughs. “What? No. He’s fine. He just left a couple of days ago. He’s been with you. He said you two have been working on an important project.”
“He died,” I say. “The Balduccis killed him. I was visiting Natalie. At some point, they put the bomb on the car. They killed him at the cemetery.”
Her lower lip presses up, still smiling, but her eyes are confused. “No. We’re going to Mexico City this summer. I can’t go to Mexico City alone.”
“He’s dead, Lynna. We took care of his body, but we can arrange for something more formal to occur if you’d like. I’m sorry. He deserved a lot better.”
She takes a deep breath. She runs her hand over the skirt of her dress several times, her head bowed. Her hand touches her forehead, like she wants to make sure she is still real and not dreaming. She takes several ragged breaths.
I step toward her—to offer what, I don’t know. A helping hand? A shoulder to cry on? A fucking hug? But she raises her hand to stop me. Somewhere in the house, a ticking clock documents the passing time.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
When she looks up at me again, her eyes are dry, but there is a new coldness to them.
“Thank you,” she says calmly. She is stronger than I thought. Stoic. Fearless. She knew what Ravil did, she knew the risks, and she is taking the hardest news a person can hear far better than many of my soldiers would.
“Your strength is admirable,” I tell her. “You know you don’t have to worry about anything. I’ll ensure that you’re taken care of.”
I walk past her to their small chestnut bureau. I open the top drawer, taking out a pad of paper and a pencil. I jot down my private number. I rip off the paper and hand it to her. She takes it, gazing at it briefly before folding it in half.
“That’s my private number,” I tell her. “If you need anything, feel free to call anytime.”
“Mama!” a child’s voice yells. Five-year-old Ben runs into the room, his thin blond hair bouncing as he rushes to her. He shoves an action figure in Lynna’s direction. “Tommy broke Master Midnight!”
“Nuh-uh!” a younger voice calls out. Ravil’s youngest son, Tommy, patters out, his face still round with baby fat and his steps a little uncertain. “No, Mommy, no I din’t!”
I force a sad smile. “I’m sorry.”
I take a step back before turning around and heading back toward the door.
Those children will grow up fatherless. Ben likely won’t remember his father at all.
Ravil would have followed me to hell, but it only led to his death. It made his wife a widow, and his children fatherless.
I let the pain in my arm and leg plow through me. Perhaps, for now, I deserve nothing more.
The Irish whiskey doesn’t bring any salvation, but it softens the edges of my rage. I tilt the glass until the last drops are gone, then I pour myself another glass. I finish it slowly, trying to ignore all the dead bodies that are littering my mind.
They’re gone. There’s no point in mourning. There’s no point in thinking about what I could have done differently. I’ll move forward with my plans without Ravil. I’ll build the Bratva stronger and more expansive. I’ll humiliate Gianluigi Balducci so thoroughly that he’ll run for the hills with his tail between his legs. And then I’ll kill him and reduce the Balduccis to ash as a warning for future generations.
I will give the fallen the best gift I can offer: vengeance.
I take the glass to the kitchen. The house feels emptier than usual. I walk up the steps to