Maksim: A Dark Mafia Romance (Akimov Bratva) by Nicole Fox (read aloud .TXT) 📕

I saw my father do all those terrible things during my childhood and then he hid my daughter from me, the last thing I want is to get involved with more people like him. I don’t want to be in the middle. I don’t even want to be on the sidelines. It’s not bravery I’m exhibiting; I just fear getting stuck in a world I escaped far more than I could ever fear this man.

“I’m leaving,” I say. When I stand up, he lets his hand slacken. His hand slides over mine, sending a wave of heat through me.

“You can leave,” he says.

“Good.”

I turn away from him.

“But you should be aware that I’ll take you when the whim suits me,” he calls. I turn back toward him. “And because you’ve chosen not to come willingly, please know that, when I decide to pluck you from the safety of your life, none of that bravery of yours will save you.”

A soccer ball rolls up to Maksim’s feet. He picks it up, wet strands of grass clinging to it. The sleeves of his button-up shirt are pulled up enough that I can see the muscles in his arms flexing as he spins the ball in his hands. Every one of his actions is deliberate and filled with an intensity that’s hard to not look away from.

He’s a walking contradiction. Half grit and half class. One part South Bronx and one part downtown, add ice and stir.

In another life, I might have been attracted to him. He’s not bad to look at. Tall, rugged, fierce. A part of me can imagine him grabbing me, taking complete control of me, turning me into his toy, and I like it. I like it way more than I should.

But in this life, all I see is a monster.

He leans back against the bench, spinning the ball between his hands. His body makes the bench seem small, but there isn’t any sense that he’s uncomfortable. He strikes me as the kind of man who owns every room he walks into.

A young girl runs up to him.

“Hi,” she says, nervously shifting her weight between her feet. “Um, you have my ball. Could I … may I please have it back?”

He keeps spinning the ball in his hands. I take a step forward, ready to take it from him, when he leans toward the girl, holding out the ball in the palm of his hand. She takes it from him.

“That’s quite a kick,” he says pleasantly. “Just try to stay in the playground next time.”

“Okay. Thank you, sir.” She smiles at him before dashing back toward the playground.

Maksim stands up, striding easily past the park’s walking path to lean against one of the trees. He watches the children on the playground, their screams shifting in the air like a bad radio station.

Looking past him, I see the girl again. She must be nine or ten. Her long dark hair flickers behind her as she pivots, twisting herself around the soccer ball. Under the right angle of the sun, there’s almost a red tint to it.

That dark hair.

So red it’s almost black.

What my father called Saperavi wine hair.

Just. Like. Mine.

I know it immediately. That’s my daughter.

I’m running before I realize what I’m doing. There’s no thought, just instinct. She’s disappearing in a crowd of children being herded back into the school.

I’m close. She’s right there. My daughter, my baby girl. I can see her. Her hair is just like mine.

As I reach the back of the group, an older woman grabs onto my arm. She pulls me away from the children.

“Ma’am, you need to sign in—”

“I just need to talk to that girl—”

“Ma’am, please step back. You—”

Another set of arms grab me firmly. As I pull away, I see it’s a security guard. I try to shove him away, but he keeps a tight grip on me.

“Miss, you need to leave!” he says.

“No.” I shake my head furiously. “Just let me see that girl. The one with the saperavi hair. She’s right there!”

“The what? I can’t let you do that, miss.”

He tries to pull me away. The older woman is escorting the last child into the school. I watch her close the doors behind her, her eyes peeking through the small window at me before she vanishes.

And just like that, my daughter is gone.

It feels like my lungs forget how to work. My chest hurts. My knees shake, the muscles in my legs turn to jelly. The security guard is trying to talk to me, but every word he says shoots another jolt of anxiety through me. My hands are sweaty as I try to grab onto the man’s arm to keep steady, but I still feel myself falling.

“Let me go,” I demand. My voice rises to a shriek. “Let go of me!”

I try to shove the security guard. He grabs onto my other arm. I stomp at his feet. I hear the doors to the school swing open. I spin around, hoping to see my child, but it’s another security guard. When the second one—blond and slimmer—tries to grab onto my arm, I swing at him.

He yanks me away from the first guard, throwing me onto the ground. He pins me down, his knee between my shoulder blades.

“Give up, ma’am,” the blond security guard orders. I nod slowly, my cheek rubbing against the wet grass. He pulls me back onto my feet and starts pulling me away from the playground.

My legs fail to work, so he ends up half dragging me to the sidewalk. He lets me fall on all fours as he releases me.

I settle onto my knees, trying to steady my breathing and remember how to act like a civilized human being, but it feels like something has shifted inside me.

My daughter was within feet of me.

My daughter is alive and well, and she’s been in the city this whole time.

“Don’t come back,” the blond security guard says. “We’ll be on the lookout for you. If you