by Lana Sky
Sighing, he crosses to the bar. Putting his palms flat on the surface, he observes the liquor selection with his back to us. “I don’t ignore my past. Not that it lets me. Some days it bothers me, I won’t lie, but I’ve made peace with it. I don’t let it define me now, and I don’t dwell on it. If I choose to refer to Dima as Dima, so be it.”
“And I do? Dwell?” Maxim strolls toward the pile of glass on the floor and nudges a chunk with the toe of his boot. “Tell that to the mess he’s always left in his wake. The past does not define me, either. I have just never made the mistake of forgetting it.”
“Anatoli threatens my livelihood as well, or did you forget that?” When he turns from the bar and meets Maxim’s gaze head-on, Milton’s noticeably colder. “Despite his faults, Dima knows better than anyone how to… let’s call it, circumvent overwhelming odds. With his help, you can make Anatoli bow with little bloodshed.”
“So, you want to play peacemaker?” Maxim laughs, shaking his head. “Don’t talk like a pacifist, Milton. It’s beneath you.”
Milton flashes a disarming smile. “Alright, then, let’s cut the bullshit. You don’t have what it takes to defeat Anatoli on your own—” his voice deepens, losing any ounce of congeniality. “You and I both know it. Running from him will only delay the unavoidable. In his arrogance, Anatoli will see it as an opportunity to force you to surrender. The old bastard will get spiteful, placing us all at risk. You do realize that?”
“Go.” Maxim turns away from him and observes my forehead, frowning in concentration. “Get out. We will discuss this later.”
“Will we?” Milton starts toward the entrance, his steps deliberately slow, skepticism darkening the shadows on his face. “I’ll leave out of respect for the circumstances—” he points his head in my direction. “But I won’t let you ignore me this time. I mean it. You have my loyalty, but I’m not above making my wishes known in ways you can’t ignore. Understood?”
He passes through the archway, and the second he is out of view, I remember how to move.
“Are you alright?” Maxim reaches for my forehead, but I recoil, nearly tripping in my rush to back away.
He follows, his eyes narrowed, jaw clenched. “Don’t move—”
“I’m tired.” My fingers tremble as I brace them against his chest. I’m too weak to push him off, but he withdraws regardless. “I… I just want to see my family.”
He eyes me for so long. I’m numb when he finally nods and turns away, his expression blank. “Clean up—” He gestures to the rag on the floor. “I’ll bring the car around. We’ll leave soon. Together.”
I watch him go, storming off to take charge once again.
But I have no desire to follow him this time.
Chapter Seven
I could never hold onto anger the way Maxim does. At least, in the sense that I don’t acknowledge it at all. Feel it. Let it consume me. If anything, I’ve always been a doormat, swallowing down my emotions. Choking on them. My pain. My hate. If I didn’t, I doubt I would have survived up until this point.
Melanie may have been a cunt, but she wasn’t stupid—and she wasn’t inclined to get arrested for child neglect either. She knew which kid to shoulder her responsibility on. She knew whose personality she could meld and shape and beat into submission.
She knew that as much as I hated her, I loved the kids more. Enough to willingly suffer anything for them. Anything…and devotion was one surefire thing she could always bank on—even when the shitty marriages and stolen money ran out.
And now, she’s laughing at me from her spot in hell. I never got them shot at, Francesca, I imagine her taunting in that smug fucking way only she could. I never put their lives in danger. I was a selfish bitch, but I never entangled them in a mafia war. What does that make you?
It makes me crazy.
It makes me guilty. So fucking guilty…
And it makes me more selfish than she ever was.
I’m blind to everything but the gut-wrenching panic building within me, as Maxim’s doctor finally arrives and examines my injury. His determination is a mild concussion, nothing serious. Once I’m deemed able to fly, Maxim ushers me into the car, and we leave for the airport.
The following hours pass by in a blur too dizzying to interpret. I’m left with just snippets of memory. Entering a private jet. Staring blankly from a window, aware of Maxim watching me. I don’t even have the sense of mind to acknowledge another of the many firsts I’ve experienced with him—my virgin plane trip.
I’m numb when we land, and I nearly lunge out of my seat the second Maxim stands. Exiting the climate-controlled cabin for a sweltering, oppressive heat feels like entering a parallel universe. The sun is so bright I have to shield my eyes with my hand and take in our surroundings in bits and pieces.
No city, for one. No skyscrapers and lifeless concrete. Instead, I see endless blue—sky, water—everywhere, reflecting sunlight like glitter. The taste of salt teases my tongue and triggers my curiosity. We’re somewhere tropical. Near the ocean?
Maxim pushes ahead without revealing the answer, and I don’t ask. As we descend the steps to the tarmac, I spot a black car waiting nearby, along with a familiar face.
“Sir. Ms. Marconi.” Lucius nods to us in greeting, but even his warm smile can’t disguise the exhaustion hammered beneath his eyes in purplish bruises. I doubt he’s slept at all since I saw him last. As dutiful as ever, he opens the door to the back seat. “Once you’re settled, we can go.”
Maxim extends his hand for me, but I stare ahead and enter the car on my own. He follows me in without a word, and Lucius commands the steering wheel.
“Your siblings are safe and sound,” Lucius declares before I can get a single word out. “Everyone is settled in. They know to expect you shortly.”
“Thank you.” God, I sound worse than he does. My eyes burn as I rest my head against the window on my end. I can’t even tell how long I’ve been awake. An eternity, it feels like.
“Sir,” Lucius begins, shifting the conversation. “Mr. Hood has been persistent in his attempts to reach you.”
“Milton?” Maxim’s voice is a passionless hiss. “Tell him I’m otherwise engaged.”
“I have,” Lucius admits. “But I will say that he seems…unwilling to be pacified in this instance. I know for a fact he’s tracked the jet out of the country, an action he doesn’t normally take—”
“Did you make the arrangements I requested?” Maxim interjects, forcibly changing the subject. Arrangements. I make a half-hearted attempt at guessing what he means. More security? More shuffling my family around like pieces on a gameboard? More lies?
Wary, I eye him through a crack in my eyelids. Though he sits beside me, we could be an entire fucking world apart. We don’t touch, our bodies poised on opposite ends.
“Yes, sir,” Lucius replies. “I will admit it was a challenge, but everything is in place.”
“Good.”
They continue speaking, presumably about business, but I stop listening. I must drift off because when I snap to awareness, Maxim’s hand is on my shoulder, and the door on his end is open, letting in a wave of stifling heat.
“We’re home.” Something in his tone catches me off guard. The softness, maybe?
I inhale in the wake of it, my fingers fluttering toward him. But then I remember Vadim’s “price,” and I shrug him off and exit the car on my own, clinging to the side of it for balance. His eyes track my every movement, dark and unreadable.
In a bid to ignore him, I focus on our surroundings.
It looks to be late in the evening now. Despite its intensity, the sun has gone down compared to when we first landed. A brilliant, reddish-orange paints the horizon, threatening to swallow it for good. I can’t tell how long we were in the car.
Or where we are now, exactly.
Somewhere luxurious, seemingly private, and far from civilization. Around us lies a courtyard enclosed by palm trees and white stone architecture. A p
ath leads off into what seems to be a garden, bathed in shadow. I can just make out a gurgling marble fountain and countless, sprawling plants in the fading daylight.
Behind me looms the real attraction, however. Towering at least three stories, the structure is composed of the same white stone as the courtyard—a mansion expensive enough to star on the cover of some fancy billionaire magazine—the exotic beach home edition. Massive windows promise a view of the ocean I can see looming beyond the trees.
It’s breathtaking.
“You and your family have the run of the place,” Lucius announces, drawing up beside me. He eyes the house objectively, stroking his chin. “There is a pool. A courtyard. Plenty of rooms. Several acres of property for recreation—”
“I just want to see them,” I blurt out, starting forward. “I need to see them.”
A passing figure manages to beat me to the front door. Maxim. He opens it without a word to me, revealing a wide entryway.
I barely register the layout at all. I can’t fucking breathe until several figures rush toward me all at once, shouting my name. Before I know it, I’m assaulted by all six kids, and I gladly allow myself to be crushed within the rush of hugs and the barrage of questioning.
I can’t stop touching them. Feeling them—and they hold me even tighter in return. A part of me shatters at that fact. I did this to them. I put them in the middle of this mess.
And I refuse to fail them ever again.
Fresh tears slide down my cheeks, obscuring my vision as I bury my face in Ainsley’s hair, inhaling her scent. Even so, I’m painfully aware of a certain figure who keeps his distance from the fray, eventually leaving the vicinity altogether. His absence reinforces the truth I think we both know at heart, and the ache in my chest could be resignation more than anything else.
This is where I belong.
With my family—not him, a man who sees those around him as tools...
And nothing more.
Chapter Eight
Children are so easy to fuck up. Traumatize. Hell, I should know that better than anyone. Melanie left scars on my psyche that probably deserve intense therapy or some shit.
But history has a way of repeating itself. Of rubbing your nose in your own mistakes and taunting you with the aftermath.
Right before she started talking, Ainsley went through a clingy phase—but without her real mother around, she attached herself to me. Separation anxiety, I think one of her social workers called it. Whatever the fancy term was, she’d panic if I wasn’t within reach.
At the height of it all, I had to carry her into the bathroom with me. Eat with her in my lap. Bathe with her. Hell, it got to the point where she would only sleep in my bed.
It went on for four months, being her entire world. At least until I stole a night light from the drugstore, and she stopped having nightmares.
Until now. Roughly a day after being shot at, we’re back at square one.
She’s the first kid to swarm me when I arrive. With hugs at first—then death grips on my arms and eventually my waist until I can’t pull away. It’s nearly an hour before she lets me go just long enough for me to escape into the bathroom.
Finally alone, I splash water on my face and inspect the wound above my eye in its full glory. It’s a thin scratch, superficial like Lucius said, but I can’t stop touching it out of morbid curiosity. It’s going to scar, joining the many already scattered on my skin. I’ve grown accustomed to ignoring my old cuts. The ones made “accidentally” intentionally with a knife or my nails—anything sharp I could get my hands on. They’re mostly silver now, faded with time.
My newer wounds are more severe in both number and brutality. Injuries left by Maxim. Bruises inflicted by Sevastyn. And now this…
“Frankie!” The door shudders, assaulted by someone’s pounding fist, and I nearly jump out of my skin. “Frankie!”
“Coming!” I leave the counter, passing a sunken tub and polished white marble tile to reach the door. My hand shakes as I wrench it open, dreading what I might find on the other end. Broken glass? Another shooter? Maxim?
My knees knock together as I face the inevitable. “W-What’s happening?”
Ainsley is the only one standing on the other end. I barely take a step before she throws her arms around my waist so tightly it hurts to walk, but I don’t go far. The bathroom is just off the open living room on the first floor. Whether intentional or deliberate, the color scheme is night and day to Maxim’s grim monochrome.
If an insanely rich mafia boss were to read a manual on what décor might less alarm six children, this room would be on page one. Beige walls blend in seamlessly with pale hardwood floors, creating a brighter, cozier interior than that of his penthouse. Instead of a king’s perspective from the heart of the city, the view from here is of the night sky, glimpsed from beyond a landscape of palm trees. It dawns on me as I settle Ainsley onto a white leather chaise near the windows, that I haven’t even explored the rest of the property yet.
Even if I wanted to, Ainsley claws at my wrist until I finally relent and sit beside her.
“Don’t go.” Wider than ever, her eyes fixate on the window. “What if bad people come back?”
“No one’s going to hurt you.” I pull her into my arms and run my fingers down her back. She’s shaking. “Ever.”
“Is the man going to protect us?” she asks. “Is that why he’s here now? He can fight away the bad people?”
“The man?”
She buries her face against my chest rather than answer. I have an idea of who she’s referring to, however. Should I be relieved that she associates Maxim with protection? Maybe. Maybe I’m more alarmed that she noticed him at all despite his intermittent presence these past few weeks. I’d been an idiot to hope that they all wouldn’t. Not yet.
Not when I have no fucking clue where he even fits into our lives. Or where I fit into his…
“Close your eyes, baby,” I murmur, running my fingers through her hair. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise—”
“You should get some rest,” a deeper voice suggests. I stiffen, though the speaker’s identity is no mystery—his shadow looms over the polished floor beneath my feet, inescapable. “You need sleep. Both of you. Lucius has coverage on the house from every possible angle. A fly won’t get inside unnoticed.”
“We’re fine.” I tighten my grip on Ainsley and close my eyes, nestling my nose against her scalp. If I inhale her deeply enough, I can ignore everything else—including the masculine musk threatening to invade my nostrils by the second.
My sister smells sweeter. Like sugar and toothpaste. And…
I recoil, my nostrils flaring. Shit. She smells like pee. Like she wet the bed overnight, but no one else had noticed or forced her to wash up well enough. Guilt hits me like a punch to the stomach. I can’t even be angry. It was a habit she had grown out of after a year of constant vigilance and enough pull-ups to last a lifetime. We worked damn hard—the two of us—until she stopped.
My eyes burn, but I blink any new tears back without saying anything. I don’t have the heart to. Not even to drag her into the bathtub. Not yet.
I owe her one fucking night of peace, at least. For now, she’s breathing normally, her hands in my hair, already asleep.
“There is a room for her upstairs,” Maxim continues. “She has a bed. Her clothing has been brought from the—”
“She needs me.” I pull her closer, cradling her in my arms. “I’m not leaving her.”
“There is a room for you as well.” His tone falls flat, far more level than I’m used to. “You can share it with her.”
“Right now, all I need to do is keep her safe. Make her feel safe. No one else can do that. A fancy bed or a fancy fucking house, doesn’t change anything.” My voice rings out, harsher than I’ve ever heard it.
In the end, I don’t know how long it is before Maxim finally retreats. Minutes? Hours?
I force myself not to care, pouring my sole focu
s into my sister.
What I said to him was the truth. She needs me more than anyone else. They do.
And I’ve already failed them more than once.
I startle awake to the sensation of my skull on fire. More specifically, like someone is trying to rip a chunk of my hair out. Panicked, my eyes fly open, my body hunched defensively—but my only assailant turns out to be the tiny blond curled on my lap. Still asleep, she moans, grasping for any part of me she can reach.
“You’re having a nightmare,” I murmur, shaking her awake. “Open your eyes, baby. It’s morning.”
Soft yellow light seeps in through the windows. As Ainsley rubs her eyes, I stand up.
“Don’t go!” She all but climbs onto me before I can go a single step.
“You’re okay. Hold on—” I bite back a sigh and lift her into my arms. Her smell hits me like a punch. The house is air-conditioned, but a ruthless humidity magnifies every ounce of sweat and grime.
“Where are your clothes?” I ask.
She shrugs, but I carry her up a modern-style staircase to the upper level of the house, recalling Maxim’s mention of a room. It doesn’t take me long to find the one meant for her and Daisy to share. Daisy’s still asleep in one of the beds, huddled beneath yellow sheets.
The whole room is decorated in shades of pink and yellow, somehow suiting them both. A large window overlooks a clearer view of turquoise water and a distant, white beach. Wherever we are, it’s breathtakingly gorgeous—like a goddamn living postcard.
Once I shake off my shock, I find Ainsley a fresh pair of clothes from a jumble of suitcases stacked in the corner of the room. Then I take her into an attached bathroom every bit as luxurious as the one downstairs. Oddly, this feels like falling back into yet another routine from our old life. Cleaning her up. Scolding her for not attending to her hygiene properly while gingerly showing her the correct way to.
“No one shows me like you,” she says as I drag a washcloth over her back. “Daisy’s always too tired. I was trying. Honest.”
