Maksim: A Dark Mafia Romance (Akimov Bratva)

noise.”
I step in, closing the door behind me. He taps on his keyboard once more, checks the screen for a second, and snaps the laptop shut. He looks up, smiling.
“Cassandra Balducci. I’m so glad you’re here. Come, sit down.”
I sit across from him, nearly beaming now. My interview with Tom on campus went so well that it feels like I’m reuniting with an old college friend.
“It’s crazy out there,” I remark. “Silton seems like he’s onto a good story.”
“Smuggling,” Tom says. “But let’s talk about you. Did you find a desk yet? You likely won’t be at it much. Most of our reporters only come to the office to use our resources or to get away from their wives.”
“Uh, no, I didn’t find it yet, but I’ll get acquainted with it soon enough.”
“Good. We want you to be comfortable.” He gazes out the window. “Moving on—work. The good stuff. For your first assignment, I wanted you to do something you’d be highly educated on, something in your wheelhouse, something you can really smash out of the park.”
His excitement is contagious. It’s not hard to tell why the man is such a legend. He’s got fire and steel in equal measure. One of those guys you immediately respect, and whose respect you crave in return. I sit up straight. “If it’s about the college admission scandal, I know someone who works in an admission office. They’d likely want to remain anonymous, but maybe …”
He shakes his head and cuts me off. “No, no. That’s fine, but save it for another day. I’m far more interested in a grittier topic. Organized crime.”
My stomach plummets. So this is why I’m here.
We stare at each other over his desk.
“Oh?” I ask. “I don’t … that doesn’t sound easy.”
“With your personal connections, it should be very easy.”
I tuck a strand of my hair back, trying to ignore the sudden roaring in my ears. “I don’t have any, um … personal connections.”
He laughs, but suddenly he doesn’t seem quite as friendly as he did just a few moments ago. “Cassandra, come on now. Your father may have evaded conviction, but the Balducci family has been an active Mafia family since the Depression. Your family might not be as powerful as it used to be, but let’s not beat around the bush here.”
“I can’t write about my family,” I whisper. It’s hard to get the words out. Did someone steal all the air out of the room? Why can’t I breathe right?
“It’s why I hired you,” he says, and that hurts more than anything else he could’ve possibly said. His words stab me, a steak knife slicing through both my lungs and my heart.
From the second the words “organized crime” left Tom’s lips, I was terrified that we were headed to this point. But now that he’s said it outright, I can’t deny it. I can’t pretend it was a misunderstanding.
My hard work didn’t get me here. My brain didn’t get me here.
The only thing that got me here was my family name, paving the way for me even when I didn’t want it to.
My father would be delighted.
“I can find a better story,” I say in a panic. “Way better. I promise.” He’s already flipped open his laptop again, focusing on the screen. I wonder if he is even hearing me. “Mr. Harden, you must have read past my name on my résumé and my references. You can call anyone I’ve worked with and anyone who taught me—I’m a hard worker and I’m determined. I’m not afraid to dive into the difficult topics.”
“Your family—” he starts.
“We’re estranged,” I interrupt.
He glances at me, then shrugs. “Better get un-estranged, then.”
I stand up suddenly. “I’ve admired this paper for a long time. I will find a better story to write. News about the Mafia might catch people’s eye, but, like you said, everyone knows my family has some complicated history. It’s not news. I could break open something brand-new.”
He waves a hand distractedly in the air. He’s already moved on from me, I can tell. It’s crazy how one man can make you feel so, so small with such little effort. “Fine, have it your way. You have two weeks to propose something better,” he says. “And a month to write it. If you can’t, find yourself another paper to write for.”
I’m no idiot. That’s a death sentence. The short time span means that he expects me to cave and write what he wants me to write. It would be difficult to dig up a new story in two weeks, and damn near impossible to gather enough information and write it within a month.
It’s his way or the highway.
“Thank you, Mr. Harden,” I whisper. I turn away from him, walking slowly to the door in a daze. I can almost feel my family name clinging to my ankles like chains, weighing me down and dragging me back.
Nothing else I do will ever matter. From the moment I was born, I was a Balducci and a shadow was cast over me.
It seems like I can’t run fast enough to escape it.
As I open the office door, the noise from the other reporters hits me again. Several cardboard boxes have been stacked up against one of the cubicles in the short amount of time since I went into Harden’s torture chamber. Jacob Silton is pulling more plush animals from it. He’s scowling at the boxes.
“I swear to God,” he says to one of the nearby women. He rips the head off the teddy bear. “If I don’t break this story, it’s going to break me.”
“You should sleep,” the woman says.
“I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” he mutters. He tears the head off a plush dog. “Fucking hell! There it is.”
I can’t see what he’s looking at, but the whole office seems to stop, turning to see what he’s looking at. From where I’m standing, his eyes are bright and the joy across his face makes me smile too despite myself. I move