Embrace of the Russian Tiger (Russian Mafia Kings #2)

Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

T he night outside was as unforgiving as Moscow itself. The wind howled through the streets, tearing at the trees, biting into anyone foolish enough to be out in the open. Inside the dimly lit bar, the warmth from the crackling fire was a welcome contrast to the ice-cold air outside. The low murmur of voices and the steady clink of glasses were the only sounds that filled the room. But between Mikhail and me, there was silence—a thick, oppressive silence that hung between us like an unspoken threat.

We had been drinking for hours, but I hadn’t touched the vodka in my glass for some time. My focus was on Mikhail, who sat across from me, his eyes downcast, fingers tightly gripping his own glass. The tension in his posture, the subtle twitch of his jaw, told me something was wrong. Very wrong.

I had known Mikhail for years. He was my most trusted man, my brother in arms. He had stood by me through the rise of my empire, through the blood and the violence that had marked every step of my climb to power. He had never faltered, never hesitated to follow an order. And yet, tonight, something had gone differently.

He was hiding something. I could feel it.

I leaned back in my chair, the leather creaking softly under the weight of my body. The warmth of the fire on my face did nothing to soothe the icy edge in my veins. I wasn’t a man who tolerated disloyalty, and I could sense it now—Mikhail was about to confess something that would test the very foundation of our relationship.

I poured another drink, the sound of the liquid hitting the glass sharp in the stillness. I downed it in one smooth motion, the burn of the vodka doing nothing to calm the storm brewing inside me. I set the glass down slowly, my eyes never leaving Mikhail.

“You’ve been quiet all night,” I said, my voice low, controlled. “Something’s on your mind.”

Mikhail shifted, his grip on the glass tightening, his knuckles turning white. His silence stretched on for another beat before he finally spoke, his voice rough and heavy. “I have to tell you something about that night. The night we killed Rossi.”

I froze.

Rossi.

Even after all these years, the name still stirred something dark and violent inside me. That night had been a turning point—the moment I had taken my revenge for Katya’s murder. The night I had killed the man who had taken everything from me.

Mikhail’s hesitation now told me otherwise.

I set the glass down with deliberate care, my eyes narrowing on him. “What about that night?”

Mikhail swallowed, his eyes finally meeting mine. There was guilt there—guilt and something close to fear. I hadn’t seen that look in his eyes since we were kids, fighting our way through the streets of Moscow. But this was different. This was the guilt of a man who had done something he knew he shouldn’t have.

“That girl,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “The one who saw us… Anna.”

Anna.

The name hit me like a punch to the gut, dragging memories I had buried deep back to the surface. I remembered her face clearly, the terror in her wide eyes as she watched me kill Antonio Rossi. She had been a child, barely a teenager. And I had ordered Mikhail to make sure she didn’t leave that house alive.

“She was a witness,” I said, my voice cold, hard. “I told you to get rid of her.”

Mikhail’s jaw tightened, his fingers flexing around the glass. “I didn’t.”

The air between us seemed to freeze, the fire’s warmth suddenly unable to touch the cold fury that surged through me. I leaned forward slowly, my eyes locked on Mikhail’s. “What did you just say?”

“I didn’t kill her,” he repeated, his voice firmer this time, but still tinged with the weight of the confession. “I couldn’t do it, Maxim. She was just a kid. She reminded me of your sister. I just… could not do it.”

My heart pounded in my chest, the rage building with every second. Betrayal. Disobedience. Mikhail had defied me, and not just in any way—he had defied me in a direct order. He had let a witness live. He had allowed the one loose end that I thought had been tied off years ago to slip through our fingers.

“You disobeyed me,” I said, my voice tight with barely restrained fury. “For years, I thought she was dead. For years, you let me believe that.”

Mikhail held my gaze, but I could see the guilt, the shame etched into his features. “I couldn’t do it,” he said again, his voice quieter now, almost pleading. “She was innocent, Maxim. She was just a child.”

“Innocent?” I spat, the word like poison on my tongue. “There is no innocence in our world, Mikhail. She saw everything. She is a threat.”

“She was a child,” he repeated, his eyes flashing with something I hadn’t seen in him before—defiance. “I sent her away. Far away. To some distant relatives, here in Russia. She’s been living there ever since, under a different name. No one knows who she really is.”

The silence that followed was deafening. I stared at him, my mind racing, trying to process what I had just heard. The girl, Anna, had been alive this entire time. Hidden away. Living a life that should have been snuffed out the night we killed Rossi. And Mikhail had kept this from me. He had disobeyed my order. He had lied.

But then, something clicked. A piece of a puzzle I hadn’t even realized was missing.

After Rossi’s death, I had gone through his office, tearing through files and documents, looking for anything that would help me dismantle what was left of his empire. That’s when I found the will. Rossi had a child. A secret heir. The will left everything to that child—all his assets, his businesses, his entire fortune. There was a name: Anastasia Rivera. No other details. Just the knowledge that Rossi’s heir was out there. I had been looking for Anastasia for all these years…

And now, I knew who it was.

Anna.

The girl I had ordered Mikhail to kill all those years ago. The girl who had witnessed everything. The girl who had survived.

Rossi’s heir.

I leaned back in my chair, the fury still boiling beneath the surface, but now tempered with something else. Curiosity. Anna had been living under my radar for years, hidden away, protected by Mikhail’s betrayal. And now, she was the key. The key to everything Rossi had left behind. His empire. His fortune. His power.

Mikhail had spared her, and in doing so, he had unknowingly kept the one thing I needed to cement my control over everything Rossi had built. The question now was what I would do with that knowledge.

I stared at Mikhail, the rage still simmering but now laced with calculation. “You kept her from me,” I said, my voice low, cold. “You betrayed me.”

Mikhail didn’t flinch. “I did what I thought was right.”

“There is no right in this world, Mikhail. There is only power. Control. You let her live, and now I have to clean up your mess.”

Mikhail’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. He knew there was no point. He had crossed a line, and he knew the consequences.

I stood slowly, the tension in the air thick and suffocating. “You’re going to bring her back,” I said, my voice sharp, final. “You’re going to fly to her, and you’re going to bring her to me yourself. Now.”

Mikhail hesitated for the briefest of moments, but then he nodded. “I’ll bring her back.”

“And, Mikhail,” I added, my voice dark with warning. “If you defy me again, if you keep anything else from me, I will kill you. Understood?”

He nodded again, his face pale, but resolute. “Understood.”

I watched as he stood, the weight of his betrayal still hanging heavy between us. He turned and walked out of the bar, disappearing into the cold Moscow night.

I remained standing, staring into the flames of the fireplace, my mind racing. Anna was the key. Rossi’s heir. The one loose end that Mikhail had failed to tie up. She was alive, and now she would be mine. I would use her to take control of everything Rossi had left behind. His assets, his businesses, his power.

But as I stood there, a new thought crept into my mind.

Why had Mikhail spared her? Why had he kept her hidden for so long? And why, after all these years, did I find myself curious about her?

It didn’t matter. Curiosity was a weakness, and I had no use for weakness. Anna was a tool, nothing more. A means to an end.

She was coming back to me. And when she did, I would get what I needed from her.

Or I would kill her.