Page 10 of Scarred Bratva King

“Relax,” I say, sliding the stack of money over to her. “I’m only joking. If you see him, will you call me?”

“Of course, Mr. S… Maxim. At once.”

I rise from the chair, my movements slow and deliberate. The cane taps against the floor as I make my way to the door.

I lift the cane and silently walk back to the wardrobe. I pause when I reach it, glancing at her. She doesn’t move. I point at the left wardrobe door. She shakes her head the slightest amount. I point to the right. A nod.

In one motion, I yank open the wardrobe, and drag out the terrified piece of shit, dropping him on the floor and whacking him in the stomach with my cane.

He’s only wearing jockey shorts, his skin coated in sweat. I hit him again. He groans, fighting for breath, his hands raised in a pathetic gesture of surrender.

“Please,” he chokes out. “Please, Maxim. It wasn’t personal.”

I tilt my head, studying him as though he’s some curious insect. “Not personal?” I repeat softly. “You left me for dead. And then you ran.” I step closer, looming over him. “With my money and my boat.”

“Please,” he whispers, tears streaking down his face as he pisses himself. “Have mercy.”

I crouch down, bringing myself to his level. “Mercy,” I say, my voice as cold as the Moscow winter outside, “is for the weak.”

I stand and pull the gun from my coat. “How much did Lombardi offer you to cheat the Bratva?” I press the gun to his forehead. “Tell me or the first shot is to the balls.”

“A million,” he says, eyes bulging with fear.

“Just think of the vagaries of fate,” I reply with a laugh. “You shot me in the head but the bullet slid around my skull. Just one of those things. You were so unlucky. Such a shame.”

“Please don–”

I fire, ignoring the splatter of blood that splashes back onto my face. He collapses to the floor, lifeless. Blood pools around him, soaking into the cheap rug.

I glance back at Mrs. Bukowski, who is frozen in place, her face pale. “My apologies for the damage to your floor.” I reach into Arseni’s pocket and pull out his wallet, extracting the banknotes inside. “That should cover a new rug,” I say, tossing the money to her.

She swallows hard, eyes fixed on mine as I pick up the large bundle of notes from the table. “Thank you, Mr. S… Maxim.”

“My men will collect the body shortly. I was never here, is that clear?”

She nods mutely, her hands trembling. I straighten my coat, grab my cane, and walk toward the door. I turn back. “One more thing. Can you still get hold of signal replicators? For a custom job I’m planning.”

“Of course, Maxim. It will take a while though.”

“I’ll be in touch,” I say, tossing the bundle of notes her way. “Enjoy your retirement.”

6

MAXIM

Ivan is leaning against the sleek, black SUV parked by the curb. He’s chewing on the end of a cigar.

When he sees me, he straightens, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“Done?” he asks, his tone casual but his eyes sharp. Always sharp. Ivan doesn’t miss much.

I pull off my gloves, blood staining the leather. With a flick of my wrist, I toss one into the first of the winter snow, watching as it leaves a crimson smear against the pure white.

“Resolved,” I say curtly, opening the passenger door to retrieve another pair of gloves from the compartment. The air inside the SUV is warm, the faint scent of leather and cologne hitting me as I lean in. “The wardrobe.”

Ivan chuckles softly. “Classic.”

I slip on the fresh gloves. My cane taps against the icy pavement as I move toward him. Ivan knows better than to push for details.

---