Maksim stands up unsteadily. He steps out of the shower.
By the time I manage to get onto my feet, he’s wrapped a towel around his waist. He runs his hand through his hair, slicking it back.
“I’ve got to go,” he murmurs without looking at me. “I need to take care of some things.”
He walks out of the bathroom, moving so quickly, I’d wonder if everything that happened was a fantasy except that I can feel the incoming bruises on my thighs.
I grab a clean towel from his shelf and wrap it around myself, then make my way through the dark hall to my room, closing the door and locking it once I’m inside. He can probably unlock it any time he wants, but the sound of the deadbolt sliding into place is a tiny bit of comfort that I’m desperate for right now, even if it ultimately won’t do anything to help me.
I’m shivering as I ditch the towel and slide under the comforter. At least, for this one moment, it’s warm and dark and safe and nobody is in this room trying to hurt me. The fact that that’s a foreign feeling just goes to show how messed up my lot in life has been.
I get my phone out from under the bedside table and continue my research into Maksim.
As I look into the death of his parents and his ownership of the Akimov Suites, the low-key buzzing of the aftermath of sex gives way to an uneasy tension in my chest. One day, Maksim will read the article I’m going to write about him. I wonder if he already has a counter-plan in place. He probably does; he’s no fool. But, at the very least, it will lead the police in an investigation that will likely last for years. The FBI and the NYPD won’t want the public to think they’re letting a billionaire get away with unspeakable crimes under their watch. Everything he’s built will burn around him and he will know I’m the one that lit the match. I know he deserves it, but it doesn’t change the pain inside me.
I tuck my arm under my head, my wet hair drenching my skin. I keep staring at the photo of Maksim in front of the Akimov Suites until my eyes won’t stay open anymore.
I keep my eyes closed, hoping sleep will come. My bones are heavier than lead and my brain is disintegrating into gray pulp, but my thoughts keep rippling under the thick layer of anxiety. Maksim is right under the surface, the memory of his cock sliding against my tongue and his body pinning mine against the shower wall.
Every sensation, every ache between my legs, every shot of warmth that spreads under my skin at the recollection is a criminal act that I should feel significantly more guilty about.
I change my mental channel to something less conflicting— the Fifth Avenue Journal, the investigation into Mafias, the Akimov Bratva, the Balducci Mafia, my father.
I trace through my memories. I still have no idea if my father survived the shooting. A good daughter would have spent a lot more time ensuring he was fine. A good daughter would have at least looked over her shoulder while the leader of an enemy family was dragging her away, checking if the man who brought her into this world had been shot or not.
I unlock my phone and tap the keypad, then hold my phone up to my ear. With every trill of the cell phone ringing, my heartbeat speeds up.
Underneath the fear that an EMT or police officer will answer, telling me that my father is dead, there’s a deeper fear that no one will answer and I’ll have to wait for news reporters to tell me the identity of the deceased bodies.
And far under that fear is the terror of talking to him again. It was easier to talk to him while he was drunk and Maksim was there to intervene. Now, it would just be the two of us on the line, with the history between us haunting the call like a ghost.
The ringing abruptly cuts off. I take in a sharp breath.
“Cassie?” my father’s voice answers. “Hello? Cassie?”
“Dad.” I sit up. “Are you okay? Did you—are you safe?”
“I’m fine,” he says. “Where did you go? Did you get hurt?”
“I’m okay.”
“Those Akimovs are fucking cowardly motherfuckers,” he snarls. “Only thugs act like that.”
I run my tongue between my teeth, almost biting down on the tip. I’m fairly certain Maksim was telling the truth when he told me he hadn’t planned the shooting—it seemed like the desperate actions of a desperate man, which isn’t Maksim. The fact that my father has spent decades blowing up his enemies with car bombs lingers at the edge of my mind as well. What’s more cowardly than being far away from your victims when you kill them?
But I suppress all that. Now is not the time.
“Where did you go?” he asks again. “I looked for you. I wasn’t sure if you were okay.”
“I’m safe,” I say, thinking to myself that if he cared so much, he could’ve tried calling me. “Dad—you need to know something. I—I came in with Maksim Akimov.”
“What? You came in with Akimov?” he asks. I listen to his breathing, slightly ragged from years of bad decisions. “Why would you … why would you do that? Did he threaten you?”
I take a deep breath. “Kind of. Not exactly. He knows about my daughter. He found her.”
I expect my father to come up with a dozen solutions. It’s the only reason he’s managed to keep power for so long—he’s a strategist that doesn’t mind a target on his back.
“Ah. I see,” he says. “How did he manage that?”
“I have no idea,” I admit. “How would I? I didn’t even know where she was.”
Ten years of resentment melt into several seconds of silence. I wait for his answers. I
