by Leslie North
"Funny, it doesn't feel that way from where I'm lying," Savannah pointed out. Maxim's mouth flexed in an agreeable grin, and God, was he stunning when he looked at her that way…
She needed to put a wall up. Fast. He was already lowering himself down again to claim her for a second round. Apparently, this time he was determined to be the aggressor, the provocateur, the one who dictated the start and finish, and Savannah had a feeling she knew exactly what sort of finish he had in mind. Her hands came between them at the last instant, pushing against his chest, holding off the lips that her body privately yearned for.
Maxim's grin died. Savannah watched the rapid-fire emotions manifest on his handsome face: hurt, doubt, frustration. Before frustration could give way to anger, she shoved him off her and sat up.
"This is… I broke protocol," she apologized abruptly. It felt like a weak excuse, even to her own ears, something more native to a machine than a hot-blooded woman. "I can't do this with you. I'm sorry. I'm attracted to you, and that's it. That's all it can be."
"Well, I'm attracted to you too," Maxim growled impatiently. Savannah hated the way her eyes drifted to the man's groin, and the way that she didn't come away disappointed. She couldn't allow herself a lot of things in that moment, and a second look at Maxim's obvious erection was chief among them. She filed away certain information for later, determined to consider it only when she was alone. Unfortunately, the bulge in Maxim's pants was something he was going to have to deal with more immediately if he intended to go back to work that afternoon.
"Great. So, we're attracted to each other. It's out in the open," she said. "Now we can forget about it and focus on the mission."
"Maybe you can forget about a kiss like that, but I can't," Maxim stated. "There's more where that came from, and we both know it. There's no filing that information away. So, I propose we get it out of both our systems before it winds up boiling over at an inopportune moment."
Savannah scoffed as she hauled herself to her feet. She hunted around for her shirt, and instead found his. It would do. She wrestled it on, careless of the fact that she was leaving him with a fitted women's T-shirt that he probably couldn't even get his head through. "Well, I reject your proposal," she answered him. "I'm not going to sleep with some Russian lothario who I barely trust anyway."
"So you trust me," Maxim insisted. "I can work with that."
"I may be forced to trust you, but that doesn't mean I trust your family." Savannah crossed her arms and held her ground firmly as Maxim rose up beside her. "To be frank, I'm almost certain it was someone in the Karev-Ivankov family who murdered your father. At some point very soon, Max, I'm going to have to arrest someone close to you, or worse." She didn't bother clarifying what the 'worst' was; they both knew the dangerous bloodline he came from. "And I guarantee you're not going to want to work out a 'deal' with me then. Not the kind you're thinking of, anyway."
She watched his expression darken like a storm front. A lesser man or woman would have likely rescinded what she said, or even apologized, but Savannah had never been one to beat around the bush. It was a good reminder, for both of them, just what the stakes were.
"You think the killer is someone in my own family?" Maxim demanded. "My uncle, maybe, or one of my brothers? And you didn't think to tell me sooner? You told me I was going back in to investigate my father's death, Savannah—you never told me you would use the information I brought back to you against my own family."
"Don't," she said.
"Don't what?" Maxim asked flatly.
"Don't look that way. Don't go all introspective on me." Savannah gestured to him. "You're the primary suspect in this case to everyone but me, in case you've forgotten, and that includes the family of criminals you speak so highly of. You don't think one of your beloved brothers wouldn't throw you under the bus if he thought he could get away with it?"
"No," Maxim said. But there was a flicker of something there, a shadow of uncertainty that passed across his face before it was gone again. Savannah pounced on it. She had to make her point.
"You aren't your father's killer, Maxim, but justice is a two-way street. You don't get to be innocent and decide to take the fall for somebody else. If someone in your family murdered Sergey, then you let me handle it. You walk away and let them fry. And you don't even think about trying to give a false confession."
"Assuming that's what I'm thinking."
"Assuming that's what you're thinking."
She couldn't banish the memory of the way he had thrown himself between her and the bike. It had come instinctively, naturally, his desire to protect and defend. Hell, some of the bureau's top agents didn't even have that kind of loyalty ingrained in them. If Maxim was half the man she suspected he was, then Savannah doubted she was very far off the mark in thinking he would take the fall for someone else in his family.
Neither of them backed down. Instead, they stood in thunderous silence, glaring into each other's eyes. This was what she had wanted, Savannah thought forlornly, as Maxim turned away eventually to answer a buzzing from his cellphone. This was supposed to be a return to normalcy for them. She was an FBI agent and he was her underworld contact: if their interests aligned, they could only be limited in scope, and it was better for them both that they remembered that.
Then why did it feel so abnormal to be at odds with him?
"Gordy," Maxim intoned as he picked up the call.
"Gordy Safin," Savannah murmured to herself. Maxim raised his eyes, but didn't confirm nor deny the identity of the caller. The Safins were heavily involved in mob security and had taken over most of Maxim's responsibilities when the latter had defected. Gordy Safin was the father; he was grooming his son, Lukas, to fully take over Maxim's vacated position. All of this Savannah knew from the bureau's confidential files on the Karevs and their associates—so much for learning nothing from paperwork.
Gordy carried the majority of the conversation. Maxim kept silent, his lips tightly compressed, only nodding occasionally in affirmation at something that was said. Savannah took the break in their own conversation to find her own T-shirt and trade it out for Maxim's. She held it out to him as a peace offering as he hung up the phone.
"Gordy wants to meet. Says he knows more about the murder than is safe to say over the phone."
Savannah's eyebrow lifted. "What? He wants to meet now?"
Maxim nodded, reclaiming his shirt and pulling it over his head.
"Then I'm coming with you," she said. He looked about to protest, but she held up her hand to stall him. "Tell him he interrupted a date, and you had no choice but to bring me. You can park your bike and leave me if you want to. I'm just not comfortable letting you go into this totally alone."
"Gordy is a family friend," Maxim stated. "But then, I guess I know your opinion of my family."
Savannah said nothing. She followed him out front to his bike, only half-listening as he made up an excuse to Rebecca about why he had to depart work early. When he exited the shop, she saw that he was carrying an extra helmet. She assumed that meant she had won this latest round.
She sure as hell didn't feel like a victor.
5
Maxim
Gordy Safin was short, stooped, and gray: if he existed as a shadow of his more vital son, Lukas, then he was certainly a more competent echo. Like Maxim's uncle, Igor, Gordy was an easy man to overlook, and he preferred it that way. One didn't survive as long as he did inside the mob by being flashy.
Maxim pulled the collar of his riding jacket up as he crossed the park lawn to meet his contact. Twilight colored in the sky beyond the trees. He could only hope his meeting now would be as fleeting. He didn't like being called out into the open to meet like this; judging by the look on Gordy's craggy, solemn face, the older man didn't like it any more than he did. He was likely only doing this as a favor to Sergey's memory—Gordy had always been as loyal as they come.
"Maxim. It's been a few years, hasn't it?" Gordy greeted him once he was
within earshot. "You've grown taller; but then, you're a Karev. The men in your family never stop growing."
"Gordy." Maxim nodded to a pair of darkly-dressed men sitting on a park bench a few yards away. "I assume those two are with you?"
"Never can be too careful these days. Lovely woman, by the way," Gordy noticed. Maxim turned to follow the older man's gaze over his shoulder toward the parking lot. Savannah was leaned up against the seat of the Nighthawk, staring off toward the freeway. She looked as perfectly and as effortlessly posed as a pin-up model on an exotic postcard. "She with you?"
"I know it's hard to believe," Maxim said.
Gordy chuckled and shook his head. "You underestimate an old man's memory. I remember what you used to get up to, and who you would get up to it with. You were infamous for your ways." Gordy looked again at Savannah, and Maxim didn't begrudge the man a double-take. "Never one so beautiful, though, if I do say so myself. You seem to be doing well in your new life. Maybe I do you a favor by keeping family matters to myself."
Maxim said nothing. He waited.
"Hitman," Gordy said finally. "That's the rumor going around. Someone hired inside the Bratva. But I've recently been led to believe this amounts to more than just an unsubstantiated rumor, Maxim. I spoke to Lukas about it."
Maxim kept his expression carefully neutral. He and Lukas Safin had been in competition with one another since they were boys. In the end, Maxim had been the superior and hired as the organization's Head of Security out of high school. To this day, Lukas still claimed it was nepotism that had earned him the position; they had come to blows about it often, until Maxim had defected from the organization and ceased to care about the vacancy he left behind him. Something told him the surprise career move had probably only made Lukas like him less.
"He says Vlad came into possession of a note—a threat—before the art museum was all shot to hell. Lukas says Vlad uncovered proof that there was a hit out on him, and that it was coded in a way that only one of the Russian brotherhood would understand."
"Where can I find this proof?" Maxim asked.
Gordy shrugged. "You will want to ask your brother about that. Maybe he still has the order on paper, and maybe he doesn't, but I'm certain he has drawn his own conclusions on the matter."
"He doesn't want to see me," Maxim replied. "We haven't been on good terms since I left." Also, I might have broken into his apartment and drunk him dry. Whatever Vlad's opinion of him was at the moment, he couldn't risk getting his brother more involved. Vlad was an expecting father and only just beginning to work his way out of the mafia himself—he had been the last holdout among the three brothers, and Maxim didn't want his own relapse negatively affecting his brother's choices.
Still, why hadn't Vlad told him about this? Maxim had known about the shootout, but had steered clear of the incident outside of confirming for himself that his brother was unharmed. Not only was he number one on his brother's shit list, but he knew he probably also ranked pretty highly on his brother's list of suspects in their father's death. He had fought with Sergey before he was murdered—considering the way the Karev family historically conducted their fights, it only made sense that the lion's share of suspicion might now fall to him.
"You left." Gordy interrupted his brooding by shrugging again. "But you are coming back now, ja?"
"Is that the rumor?" Maxim asked. It would benefit their cover if it was… still, a part of him couldn't help hating that it seemed almost expected he should return. His mob ties ran deep, and there were clearly those on both sides of the law who suspected he would never escape his heritage. He didn't turn, but an image of Savannah's face flashed in his mind. What did she think of him? Did she really trust him as much as she claimed, or did she also suspect his affair with the world outside the Russian mafia was only temporary?
A low buzzing noise drew Maxim's attention back to the present, banishing his thoughts about the woman.
"Excuse me," Gordy said as he flipped open his cell and turned away.
Something clicked in Maxim's head, and his eyes narrowed. "Who knows you're here? Did someone put you up to this?" He took in the vision of the stooped, gray professional as if seeing him for the first time. The context of their initial reunion was gone, replaced instead by the memory that the Safins had never been his biggest fans on the inside—and that was when he started to notice more minute details. "Why do you have a burner phone, Safin?"
Gone was the chilly cordiality of the moment before.
Gordy glared at him and waved him off. The older man clearly didn't like being interrupted, but then, neither did Maxim—and he was nowhere near finished questioning his father's lackey. He grabbed hold of the man's shoulder and forced him around again. "I'm giving you until the count of one to answer my questions, old man," he growled.
The situation escalated quicker than he had imagined it would. One minute he had his hands on Gordy, and the next minute the two security goons in black were wrapped around his arms, hauling him back. Maxim wrestled against them and swore, clenching his hands into fists he was more than happy to use. He heard the quicksilver hiss of a switchblade being engaged, and his blood started pumping. He wasn't the son of a mafia head anymore—not a living one, anyway. Any incentive to avoid carving him up had likely died with Sergey.
"Get the fuck off him," a female voice ordered. The cold click of a safety going off had four heads turning simultaneously in the direction of the cocked gun. Savannah stood behind the small assembly, her gun trained on Gordy Safin. She had chosen the exact right target to threaten; the two men assaulting Maxim couldn't get their hands off him fast enough.
At least she didn't say 'freeze,' Maxim mused as Gordy's goons withdrew. He rubbed some of the circulation back into his biceps as he took in the developing scene. It shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone present that a mafia girlfriend might be packing; he was surprised no one had considered his own backup before moving in. It was a mistake he was certain he would have never made during his time as Head of Security.
"Phone," Maxim ordered Gordy, holding his hand open. The older man scowled, before hanging up his call and passing the cellphone over.
"Nice to have you back, Maxim," Gordy muttered. He signaled to his two security guards and turned to depart without a further word. The men in black exchanged uncertain glances, before obediently falling into step behind their superior.
Savannah didn't lower her gun until they were well out of sight; then, with a sigh, she retracted her firearm and holstered it back inside a hidden compartment of her jacket.
"Sorry to bust up the party," she mentioned.
"Too many dicks on the dance floor," Maxim replied. She snorted, and the last of the moment's lingering tension diffused. He studied the phone in lieu of studying her. He wouldn't admit out loud how deeply impressed he was by her reaction time or how moved he was that she would readily put herself in danger for him. Men like Maxim weren't moved, and women like Savannah didn't come riding to the rescue of former thugs because they had hidden feelings for them. She had likely just been trying to avoid the mess that came with seeing her contact get slit open like an envelope.
"None of those men seemed surprised that you resorted to violence to get what you want," Savannah mused. Maxim flipped open the phone and scrolled through the call history, saying nothing. "Guess I just got a sneak peek at knowing what the old Maxim must have been like. Who's Roza?" she inquired, craning closer.
Maxim studied the caller ID for a long moment. He was looking at a list of calls made almost exclusively from the same number. "Not who," he corrected. "It's a what. A nightclub highly favored by the Russian mafia."
"I didn't take Mr. Safin for the sort of man who would frequent a nightclub," Savannah said. "Any chance of us getting in to snoop around a bit?"
"I'll see if Rebecca can have a word with her father," Maxim replied, closing the phone and storing it in the pocket of his riding jacket to examine later. He had a feeling Savannah would want
to look at it as well, but not before he got everything he needed from it.
"Rebecca?" she repeated in confusion.
"Her father owns the club. If anyone can get us in, it's her." Maxim turned to discover Savannah was still standing close to him. He gazed down the length of his nose at her, and she returned his look easily, expectantly. It was one thing to say she trusted him—it was another to see it evidenced for himself.
All he ever wanted to do when he looked at her, looking at him like that, was sweep her up in his arms and kiss her until she couldn't even find it in her to trust herself. That was how crazy this woman was starting to make him, and he had a creeping feeling it was only going to get worse the longer he knew her.
"I won't tell her anything else," he continued finally. "Becky already thinks I'm heading back into the mafia and dragging you with me, so my request won't come as a surprise. She'll have some things to say about it, but she won't stop me."
"I'm sorry you can't tell her the truth," Savannah murmured. She surprised him by reaching between them to take his hand in the fading light. He didn't think he imagined the look of regret that passed across her face quickly and wondered if she wished she had mastered the impulse before giving into it. "When this is all over, I promise you can scapegoat me as much as you want to all your friends. Just tell them I… tell them the task force blackmailed you.”
He said nothing.
"But it's worth it, right?" she said cheerfully as they broke contact and started back toward his bike. "Aren't you glad I tagged along? I told you that you would need me."
Maxim offered nothing in response to this. The ways he felt himself needing Savannah Casillero were climbing steadily by the hour. He mounted the Nighthawk, and she settled her much slighter weight in behind him, wrapping her slender arms around his waist. He was already getting used to having her on back behind him.
