Page 72 of Surrender: XXX Maxim
He frowns, eyeing his hands, and a rare real emotion slips through his façade. Confusion. His slim fingers grasp at the air as if trying to capture the memory and dissect it properly.
“You know what was new? Later that night, I realized that he had slipped something into my pockets without me realizing it. Do you want to know what I found? It was the oddest, strangest thing…”
My brain shies from the dare. What kind of object could make him look so conflicted? Nothing good, and I’m not afraid to admit it. “No—”
“Socks,” he says simply before I can fully voice a refusal. “A single, scarlet pair. Hand-knitted by his mother, I suspect—she was the crafty sort. They were worn enough that I knew they had to be his. Possibly his favorites. He’d noticed that I had none of my own, you see—” He points to his ankles. “There was also a piece of candy hidden inside one—extravagant chocolate he must have stolen from our father’s private collection. The bastard was quite the glutton…” He chuckles only to trail off, his lips pursed. “But do you want to know a secret? That was the first time anyone had ever given me anything. I couldn’t wrap my mind around the concept. A present? Such a mythical thing! When I saw him again, Maxim, I looked for any hint of that kindness, but alas, I found nothing. He continued to beat me. Berate me. I thought, perhaps I’d imagined it? But no.” He frowns more deeply, stroking his chin. “I continued to find small, tiny things shoved into my clothing. Combs. Toys. Food…”
His gaze turns distant, and for the first time, I see a hint of similarity between the two brothers. They both express confusion in the same terrifying way. Via anger at whatever dared challenge their understanding.
“It went on until we both were sent directly to Anatoli. I won’t get into the details of that time.” He waves a hand as if dismissing the horror away. “Eventually the day came when the old man demanded we fight to the death with the gusto of some ancient Roman emperor. Maxim agreed with no hesitation, of course. No fear. But I was bored of that life.” He shrugs. “I was tired. I didn’t care. That time was so…unstimulating. I was ready to die. I made it so easy for him—and death, you see, is one aspect of life the Koslovs fear more than anything. It’s for the animals, in their view. Animals are slaughtered, not men. How to kill is one of the first things you learn in that fucking family. Maxim had already done it before, of course. It should have been nothing. But…” He frowns and picks up the bottle of wine. “More? Oh, you’ve not taken a sip.” Laughing, he takes my glass in addition to his and alternates sipping from both. “Where was I? Oh yes. Killing me should have been nothing. If anything, it would have been too easy. Anatoli demanded it, and the first, most important rule of being a Koslov, is to never disobey. And Maxim, like a good boy, dug his knife into my throat. But…he failed to do it.”
Failed.That’s not the word I would use to describe the scar snaking down the column of his neck. “He still hurt you,” I point out hoarsely.
Dima laughs. “Hurt me? Even a child knows which direction you cut a throat in.” He drags his fingers across his own, perpendicular to his scar. “Maxim didn’t spare my life by some fluke or pathetic mistake. He wentout of his wayto. I just want to know why. Is that so wrong?” With mock sadness, he bows his head and sighs. “I want to know why my brother spared me, and yet shuns me. Why he despises me enough to ignore my very existence for twenty years, and at the same time, never once,ever, attacks me directly. Even when I get bored enough to play with his little toys or disrupt his supply lines. He can use Milton as an excuse all he wants, but the man isn’t stupid—” He extends his hand to me as if demanding the answer. “I want to know why he’s decided to challenge his nature, especially now. Perhaps the first thing isn’t all a mystery, though? To acknowledge me is to acknowledge that he was never really a Koslov. He failed the first test, after all. But I admit that lately, my curiosity has been piqued—because although he refuses to acknowledge any hint of kindness extended toward me, he seems more than eager to claim some young, average prostitute as his wife. No offense.”
I stiffen. Am I even insulted? I don’t know.
Laughing, Dima continues, “And I know one must be patient when it comes to these things. Milton—I mean, my therapist—” He winks. “He claims that ‘you cannot rush him, Dima. He is not like you. You push him too far and…poof!’” He mimes his head exploding with wiggling fingers. “‘Be patient. One day he will reach out to you. Give it time, time, time!’” He rolls his eyes while mimicking Milton’s accent. “The man babies him to an extent. Though I suppose it can’t be helped. He’s kept the promise he made to me, at least. For twenty years, he’s kept that promise…”
Rather than ask what he means, I take my time putting the pieces of his verbal puzzle together. Then, it comes to me. “You asked him to be Maxim’s friend?”
It sounds so strange when said out loud. Grown men with a twisted web intertwining them, all of it cemented in friendship.
“Maxim is a delicate soul, pretty girl,” Dima says with a tired sigh. “He would have been eaten alive without Milton’s…let’s call it independence. I had hoped the man would convince him to finally break from Anatoli. But it seems that nothing can cut that bond. Even you.” He flicks his gaze in my direction just in time to catch my reaction.
Rather than take the bait, I sigh. “That doesn’t hurt me.”
“Perhaps. But that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You want me to help Maxi defeat the big bad wolf once and for all.”
Is that why I’m here? My motives feel less relevant the longer this twisted conversation goes on. Despite all this time, I still don’t know whathewants.
“How do I know you can even help him?”
“How?” Dima cackles, sloshing wine from his glass. He swipes at the drops with the sleeve of his sweatshirt, clearing them away. “You are very amusing! I’m beginning to see the appeal. Pretty girl, Anatoli will do anything to get his precious Maxi under his thumb once more. Why? He is his legacy. His good, loyal boy. Without Maxim, he has nothing but a loosely connected family tree of sycophants and grifters. Maxim is his crown. And the crown belongs to the king—no one else.”
“But you can defeat him?”
He laughs again as if knowing some wonderful joke that I’ll never even learn the punchline to. “Do you want to know the secret? Come close. Closer…” He beckons me with a wave of his hand. He waits until I finally sit forward before saying, “The only way for Maxim to ever defeat Anatoli is…to break the throne. Give up the name. Walk away. Anatoli will never touch him directly. In some ways, Maxim knows this. The old man certainly does.”
“What do you mean?”
“Milton is a powerful man, pretty girl.” He raises an eyebrow. “But the third member of his so-called club has even more influence. He is averypowerful, very rich man. The bastard has a lot of stock in pharmaceuticals, you see. He controls more money, property, and people than Anatoli can even dream of amassing. Maxim is his only firewall against total insignificance—and he needs his golden boy now more than ever. Even a Koslov can’t live forever.”
“How do you even know who the third member is if Maxim doesn’t?”
He winks. “Let’s say, I know a little about him. He’s incredibly handsome. Highly intelligent. Very charming, though some might say…unassuming. And of the three, he has the most impeccable fashion sense—”
“You?” I blurt out.
“Little me?” Dima blinks innocently and places his hand over his heart. “As a child, I learned my place in this violent, dangerous game of money, and men. It’s better not to play at all. That’s the only way to win.”
I exhale in frustration. Keeping up with him is damn near impossible, and I know now that it’s futile to even try. “So all you want is Maxim to what? Accept you?”
“Idid,” he admits, his eyes downcast. “I wanted my tortured brother to take my hand and boldly step out into the light of freedom. Call it childish if you want. I call it progress—but I’ve changed my mind.”
He props his hand beneath his chin and observes me more intently than ever. “Ilikeyou, Francesca. So now I want to help you. I want to help you learn the answer to the question you’re too terrified to ask.”
Alarm prickles through my nerves, warning me to back away. But I can’t without conceding defeat—and his fucking grin proves that he knows it.
