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Maksim’s parents had both been drug addicts, and he had committed to the bratva when he’d been only fifteen-years-old. Though we’d been friends longer than that, he’d still had choices in his life before then. However, when his parents had overdosed, that’s when he’d done what needed to be done for himself and his younger brother, Akim. In less than five years, Maksim had become the bratva’s most prolific killer, and his brain had increased profits three-fold.
“What else is in the report?”
“Morocco included the names of every classmate that Manziel had gone to school with, but without knowing what Klive Simpson looks like, we can’t say if he’d be any of them,” Maksim went on.
“Do we know where all those classmates ended up?”
Maksim let out a heavy sigh, and I knew it was because he hated being indebted to the Sartoris just as much as I did. “No, we do not. However, Provenza stated that Morocco could get that information if we wish it, though it would take some time.”
I grabbed my glass of vodka, then made my way to my desk, a crisp manilla envelope lying on top of the other paperwork that needed my attention. Though I trusted Maksim with my life, Louie Manziel’s connection to Maksim’s heritage home could not be ignored. We’d already concluded that Klive’s reason for being here was personal, but we’d been thinking that it had something to do with me or the bratva; we never thought that it could have something to do with Maksim.
“I do not like being in debt to the Sartoris,” I remarked needlessly.
“Nor do I,” he agreed. “However, Nero is not viewing this as a favor, which helps.”
That had me smirking. “We would all rather fight with the devils that we know.”
Surprising me, Maksim said, “We need to look into my parents.”
I arched a brow as I asked, “Do we know anything more about the aunt?”
Maksim shook his head. “According to the file, she seems like a non-factor. She really was just a homemaker.”
I eyed the man that knew me best. “What are you thinking, Maksim?”
“Nothing that is substantial,” he replied smoothly.
“I asked what you were thinking, not what you can prove,” I pointed out.
“There’s only two things that make something personal,” he said. “Love and betrayal. Since there wasn’t ever any love lost between me and my parents, that leaves betrayal.”
“We were just boys when your parents died,” I reminded him. “How could you have possibly betrayed them?’
“Perhaps they betrayed someone else,” he posed. “And since they are deceased, that leaves me and Akim to suffer the consequences, no?”
I mulled that over for a few seconds before I said, “Until we know more, we will assume that Klive Simpson’s fight is with the bratva. This allows us all to be on the lookout and not lose ourselves in one possibility only. I do not want our ship to come in while we are driving to the airport.”
“Of course,” he agreed easily.
“However, if it will make you feel better, we can ask Nero to run a background check on your parents to see if Artem Rostova has any connection to them.”
“I would like that,” he preferred. “I’d like for us to leave no stone unturned.”
“Agreed.”
After a few more seconds of silence, he said, “Be sure that you know what you are doing with Samara, Avgust. If we’re speaking about not losing sight of what’s best for the bratva, that includes your vozlyublennaya.”
“Samara would hardly describe herself as my beloved,” I retorted.
“But that is what she is,” he countered. “Whether either of you want her to be or not.”
Smirking, I said, “Go get some sleep. We’ll be needing it tomorrow. We have that new shipment of guns coming in, and Treso wants to discuss a new handler.”
“You know how I feel about new connections,” he drawled out. “Especially now that we still don’t know what Klive Simpson looks like.”
Sensing that his family’s connection to Artem was bothering him, I said, “Which is why I said he wants to discuss the possibility, Maksim. Not that we’d agree.”
He arched a brow. “I hate you sometimes.”
