Page 31 of Scarred Bratva King

He grabs a water bottle and takes a slow drink, his eyes never leaving mine. “He’ll look for one, but he won’t find it,” he says firmly. Then, after a pause, he sits down on the bench across from me, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “But if you want to use the truth, fine. Let’s start with your family.”

I hesitate, my fingers fidgeting with the edge of my sweater. “My mom was an abusive drunk,” I say, my voice steady. “She wasn’t always like that, but in the end she walked out on us when I was eight. Then my dad died a few years later—cancer, when I was thirteen.”

He doesn’t flinch or look away, which is oddly reassuring. There’s a long pause, his gaze unreadable. Finally, he nods. “Victor will respect your honesty. He values strength, even when it comes from pain. He’ll know you’re telling the truth if you tell him that.”

“What about you?” I ask, shifting the focus to him. “What’s Victor going to expect me to know?”

He exhales slowly, leaning back. “That I think he’s an asshole. Ruled the family with an iron fist. Controlled everything in Moscow for years—money, power, people. But his one weakness was my mother.”

There’s something raw in his voice, something he’s trying to hide. “He loved her more than anything, but it made him blind to the dangers in his own house. My sister, Katya, was born with disabilities. Our rivals saw her as a way to get to him. They tricked her into following them out of school one day. Hurt her badly. And because he was too distracted by his obsession with my mother, he wasn’t there to pick her up.”

“What happened?”

“They killed her and my parents divorced a year later. My mother killed herself not long after that. My father threw himself into work, never talked about her or Katya again. I only tell you this so you don’t mention it during the meeting. He might ask about your parents but he will say nothing of Katya or my mother. Do not ask him.”

The words hang heavy in the air, and I feel my throat tighten. “Maxim… I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he says, his tone sharp. “It was a long time ago.” He stands, grabbing the towel again. “You should go get changed. We have a meeting to survive.”

“What about my workout?”

“Should have been up earlier.”

16

VERONICA

Victor Stepanov sits at the head of the table like a king holding court, his sharp eyes making it clear that he sees everything.

He’s much older than Maxim but the resemblance is striking: the same chiseled jawline, the same cold, calculating intensity.

Maxim’s hand lingers on my back as he pulls out my chair, his touch steadying. “Sit,” he growls.

I do as I’m told, smoothing the fabric of my dress as I settle into the chair. Maxim takes the seat beside me. I glance at him, and for a moment, I think I catch a flicker of something—nerves, maybe? No. That would be ridiculous.

“Veronica,” Victor says, his voice smooth but heavy with authority. “It’s good to finally meet you properly.”

I smile, even though his words are more scrutiny than compliment. “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Stepanov. Maxim’s told me so much about you.”

“Has he?” Victor leans back in his chair, his gaze flicking between us. “And what has he told you?”

I glance at Maxim, who remains stoic, his jaw tight. Fine. If he’s going to play the strong, silent type, I’ll handle this.

“That you’re the backbone of the family,” I say smoothly. “That he respects you more than anyone.”

Victor’s lips twitch, forming a smile. “Don’t bullshit me.” He hums, clearly unimpressed but intrigued enough to continue. “So, tell me, Veronica. How did you and my son meet?”

I lean forward slightly, my hands folded on the table. “At a charity gala,” I say confidently, reciting the story we crafted earlier. “I was serving food, and Maxim…” I pause, glancing at him with mock exasperation. “Maxim decided he simplyhadto talk to me. He followed me around all night like a lost puppy until I finally agreed to have dinner with him.”

Victor raises an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“She’s exaggerating,” Maxim interjects, his tone dry. “I was persuasive, not desperate.”

“You’re splitting hairs,” I tease, nudging him lightly with my elbow.

Victor watches the exchange, his gaze sharp. “And what is it you see in my son, Veronica? He’s not exactly the romantic sort, I was led to believe.”

I laugh softly, more to ease the tension than anything else. “Oh, he seems scary,” I say, shooting Maxim a sideways glance. “But that’s part of the charm. He’s loyal, protective, and—believe it or not—he has a sense of humor. You just have to dig for it.”

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