Maksim: A Dark Mafia Romance (Akimov Bratva) by Nicole Fox (good books to read for beginners .TXT) 📗

His pale cheeks turn bright red. “Mr. Akimov, I didn’t mean any disrespect. I was simply expressing my concern—”

“You were expressing sentiments that you should keep to yourself,” I say. “Better yet, bury them deep. Learn some self-control or you will find yourself searching for new employment.”

He nods. “Of course. My apologies, sir. I will … let you get back to your night.”

He skitters past me, rodent-like as ever. I turn to Ravil.

“I don’t appreciate you entertaining slander about me, either,” I growl.

“I was preparing to correct his assertions when you walked in, Maksim,” he says. “I truly don’t believe he meant anything malicious.”

I sit down at the head of the conference table. Ravil joins me. He leans back in his chair.

“If you want to fire him, we have three other men who could take over his job,” Ravil says.

I wave my hand dismissively. “He’s fine. He just needs to watch his tongue.”

“Of course,” Ravil assures me. I rap my fingers against the table, waiting for him to say what he needs to say. “But, to certain people, it may appear that you’re … stuck … on what happened.”

“All that matters is that you know I’m doing what it takes to move forward,” I say. “Do you or don’t you have him, Ravil?”

“We have him,” Ravil says. “He awaits you on the terrace. And, if I may, Maksim: he is terrified.”

“Good.” I stand up. “Let’s go visit him.”

Eric Clarke is sitting tensely on one of the patio chairs beside the pool while one of my lieutenants stands a few feet away. I stride over and lean against the stone table in front of him.

“Hello, Mr. Clarke,” I say. His temples drip with sweat. He’s a middle-aged man, but he’s worked hard to hide that. His hair is dyed black and his face only has the faintest wrinkles. Botox works wonders on vain men.

He glances at me from the corner of his eye but keeps looking away. As he should.

“Mr. Clarke, my being here is not good news for you. My men have no doubt asked you for the address we seek, and you must have refused to give it, or else you wouldn’t be here in front of me. Let me ask you: are you a smart man?”

I stare at him. He realizes I expect an answer, swallows past a thick knot in his throat, and nods hesitantly.

“Verbal answers, Mr. Clarke,” I chide. “Surely, as a lawyer, you must know the importance of hearing a man speak his thoughts out loud.”

“Y-yes.”

I clap my hands. “So you’re a smart man. Good. That’s a good thing. This world is full of many dumb men. I prefer to deal with men such as yourself instead.” I shift my weight, but Clarke doesn’t move a muscle. He’s sweating, I see, though the night is cool. “As a smart man, you must realize that your being here is a bad sign for you and for me both. It means you have not been cooperative. I would like nothing more than to move our relationship into a more cooperative state. Do you think that will be possible tonight?”

“Y-you have me confused with s-someone else,” he stutters. “I-I’m s-sorry. I … I don’t know what you w-want.”

“You know exactly what I want,” I say. “And you know I’ll do what it takes to get the information out of you.”

He’s trembling. “I … I don’t know anything. I’m sorry. God, I just don’t know w-what the address is.”

I continue to stare at him. Torture isn’t optimal. It’s messy, to say the least. If I don’t kill him afterwards, then I have to eventually let him return home and if he has been worked over, then he’s a lot less likely to remain silent. Pain tends to loosen a man’s lips once and forever. And I don’t think Mr. Clarke has the heart to stay quiet for long.

“Mr. Clarke,” I say. “I need some clarification. When you lie to my face, you do so aware of who I am, correct? You know what I’ve done. You know what I could do.”

He refuses to look at me, shaking harder. There’s a stench in the air, and I wonder idly if he’s shit himself already. Christ, the poor coward.

“I know who you are,” he mumbles.

“Good,” I say. “Tell me what I need to know.”

“I d-don’t know the a-address of—”

“Mr. Clarke,” I say. “How is your wife adjusting to her life as a homemaker?”

His head shoots up. “M-my wife? S-she—y-you know … you must know I … I can’t give you that i-information. P-please, if I … if I could, I would. But I can’t.”

“I apologize—I don’t mean it’s new for her to be a homemaker,” I say. “She’s been doing that for six years now. However, she’s only just begun watching over your two children—both adopted from Ukraine. She must have her hands full with a ten-month-old baby and a two-year-old. If she needs support, I have men I could send over to take some of the burden off her hands.”

He blanches. “You can’t. You wouldn’t.”

“I know what it’s like to lose everything,” I continue. “It’s worse than you’d imagine, but the worst part is that it comes back just as bad every time you wake up and remember she’s gone, every time you move to get two plates and realize you only need one, every time you drive through the city and imagine her walking down every street. I’d say I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy, but I’m not that empathetic.”

“I … the address is at my house. I can get my wife to look it up.”

“I’ll send someone.” I stand up. “I don’t want you talking to her until I have the address.”

I leave Clarke quivering on the terrace and move back into the house. Ravil is sitting at the dining table, drinking a glass of whiskey.

“He must not have known you that