#;; maks kurylenko

[romanbaranovsky]

@maksimkurylenko

Roman grinned at Maks. "нет, братан, I'm in the rich tent." He was getting his stuff out of the car. He didn't take too many things, and frankly, he also wasn't worried about using his hands when it came to 'defence'.

[amaroadriana]

@maksimkurylenko

It was late, so late that she shouldn't have been walking on her own. Her guard was around somewhere, these days he barely left her side, but she needed to pop into the petrol station to get some smokes. She'd been contemplating for the last hour, sitting on her couch, thinking that maybe if she just fell asleep - she'd wait out the craving until the morning. However, that was the one addiction she couldn't shake, so after checking to see if Pete was up (he wasn't), she decided to go herself.

Perhaps not the best decision, given the situation in London, but fuck she needed a cigarette.

The car lights behind her had been following since she got into the car. Even a fool would have understood that they were being followed, but Adriana didn't think they were a threat. After all, she hadn't been touched by anyone ever. She had never been a threat to anyone.

As she walked out of the shop, Adriana lit up a cigarette as two men stood up in front of her. "You lost, boys?" She blew out the smoke in their faces, buying some time. She left the gun in her car, which was only around two meters away from her. Technically, she could make a run for it. There was always a chance of making it.

"Just thought we'd help you."

Ah, her tires had been slashed.

"Kid games, huh?" She asked, arching her brow at them. Was this really how it was going to go down? "It's impossible to underestimate you." The woman shook her head. "You both are the human equivalent of a participation award. Well done." That earned her a slap to the face - one she knew she was going to get.

Cleaning the blood from her nose with the back of her hand, Adriana laughed. "And now you're going to knock me out, tie me up and bring me to some dark cellar? Ooooh, scary." One of the men indeed moved to his her again.

[elainahalevyx]

@maksimkurylenko

"You know..." Elaina walked up to him, with a sly smirk on her face, as she lifted her hand with her missing finger, identical to Noa's. "I wonder if I could play into your nightmares." After all, she was an identical twin.

[leylayilmazx]

Where: Stockwell, Buttersea Park @maksimkurylenko

She didn't spend much time in her old flat these days, but it felt weird to think about selling it. After all, it was her first real purchase, something she did by herself with her hard-earned money. It had nothing to do with her keeping her freedom or having doubts about the relationship she was in. This wasn't some American TV show where there were uncertainties. In Leyla's mind - if something were to take a different turn in her life, she would cross that bridge then. If she wasn't living her life to the fullest, then what was the point of living at all?

Her son wasn't with her, as she wanted some time to herself. After visiting her flat, cleaning up, and making sure everything was still in place she took a walk to the park nearby. It was where she and Alexis tended to wonder out in the middle of the night, get more drunk, and hide from any officers that may have crossed their way. Fond memories, of course, but it was also a beautiful place for a walk.

With a coffee in hand, she strolled along the not so green leaves, forgetting about the world around her completely.

[anatolyveselov]

☎

Name: Maks

Picture:

Last text:

>> Drinks?

[anatolyveselov]

"You put that on. I think my babushka wouldn't have worn that." He chuckled once more. "You can try, but you know it won't end well for you... Besides, you sure you want to ruin... That?" He asked, flipping the massive bow.

"Come on, get it out your system." He paused, narrowing his gaze. "If you fuckin' heckle me in there, I'd punch your lights out."

[ayda--demir]

@maksimkurylenko​​

Maksim was undergoing an internal transformation. His movements are stealthy, gaze piercing, and his demeanor intimidating. He sauntered over to the bustling bar, shoes appearing as if he was gliding to his preferred spot for the night. Maks quickly but politely acknowledged the bartender with a nod and tapped his fingers on the marble surface. He'd yearned to be in his local, alone with a drink, where he didn't have to entertain individuals he disliked.

Which, unfortunately, given the circumstances, happened to be a lot more than usual.

He'd been preparing himself to embody a more human-like persona and distance himself from the incessant inability to relax. Typically, the environment he found himself in was a place where he could unwind, but tonight was unlike any other.

His eyes scanned the room, taking in every detail with a predatory focus. He was on edge, ready to pounce at any moment. He had come to this seedy joint to do business, to entertain, and this seedy joint was the ideal location for such a rendezvous. It was hushed, obscure, and so taboo that one would appear out of place if they weren't a regular visitor. A Russian here wouldn't be looked at twice, thankfully.

However, her voice shattered through the cacophony, and his head turned in her direction, causing his brow to furrow. Ayda Demir. His entire demeanor changed. Eyes narrowed, his lip curling into a sneer. He regarded her with contempt, seeing her as nothing more than a filthy Turk, a bottom feeder, what the world views her people as, were how the others viewed his. He offered her a tight smile, but it was clear that there was nothing friendly about it.

"I didn't expect to see the likes of you here," he remarked, regarding her. Before he looked at her drink order, requested his usual, something cheap, and set up a tab. He'd have to wait for the person he was meeting, and while he cared little for what the woman had to say, it gave him something to pass the time.

-

Delivered.

Ayda lost count of the numerous times she would flick to the text she sent Aviv. The one person over the last few months that weaved this web into her life. She had lost a lot of people in her life, more from her own doing, but it allowed her to choose who she wanted as her family.

Aviv Kasyanenko was her family.

That led her to doing the unthinkable and putting herself in a situation that she was certain would anger her brother and Emre. It didn’t take much effort for her to give the goons her father had on her a slip at her bar. Leaving them distracted by one of her waitresses whilst she exits from the kitchen into the alley.

There was no real destination in mind except for making her way down to the more Russian concentrated part of Haringey. Was it one of her smarter moves? No, but the silence was eating at her. The nightmares that plagued her at night, a repeat loop of watching Aviv be slashed at and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

The Turk stepped inside the first bar she found. Her only advantage was that she spoke their language and only two knew of that. The second person, Ayda had made a mistake slipping up, and she had this odd feeling it was going to come back to bite her later.

“Water please.” With her nerves frayed with the meeting she had recently with the Turks, she had no idea what was going to come of the borough and the blood that would stain the streets.

Her head turns at the sound of a voice, chocolate hues taking in the blonde in front of her. Maksim Kurylenko. Not one of her favourite people and she knew exactly how he felt about the Turks, yet they were the ones to come into their home. “It’s always best to know what the competition is like.” Ayda gives a solo shrug of a shoulder, turning her body towards the Russian.

There was only one reason she would entertain this conversation was that he might have the information she needed. All she needed was to hear three words and she could relax, release the tension that filled her body.

“Think we could talk for a moment, privately?" Would he comply with her? There was a slight chance, but it was worth the risk.

[theundergroundlondon]

MAKSIM KURYLENKO (RU) VS. YVES DE METZ (FR)  

While the de Metz brother Maks truly wanted to fight was now six feet underground, the man’s brother was a suitable substitute. Maks was aware that his track record in the ring was not the best and the French man in front of him most likely wanted nothing more than murder. Which was why for the first time, Maks was being strategic.

His eyes remained focused solely on Yves. Without the pleasure of seeing him in the ring, Maks didn’t know what kind of fighter he was, but he could guess the Frenchman was emotional enough to be goaded. This needed to be a quick fight, if only for the sake of Maks’ wellbeing. Letting de Metz string it along had the potential to end unfortunately. Positioning himself on the balls of his feet so that he could duck away at a moments nothing, he reached out and made a come and get me gesture with a full blown smirk spread across his face.

-

Given how many times Varden had asked him whether he was ready for his head-to-head, one might’ve come to the conclusion he was the underdog.

He had some words to say about that.

When Yves de Metz stepped out into the ring—though admittedly for the first time in longer than he would’ve liked—there was no lack of confidence. No last minute second guessing his ability. No real reason to feel disheartened into believing he deserved anything but a victory tonight. Yves didn’t fight often because he didn’t have to. But people would soon be reminded that that didn’t mean it was because he couldn’t. Too, that taunting a man like him wasn’t meant for a stage made for a spectacle.

There had been plenty of bloodied fists thus far. No doubt, that was precisely what the Russian had been expecting as his first move. Instead, as soon as his distance was measured, Yves had delivered a kick in the direction of his head so reminiscent of Noa’s favourite means of disarming an enemy, he hoped she was watching. The shot, even if connected, did leave him open to retaliation, but he’d delivered it with such enormous force, coasting right on his fucking anger, that catching his opponent off-guard with the assault had meant ample time to put space between them once more. A strong opener, perhaps, but Yves was aware you could only catch a man like Kurylenko by surprise once. And that once was for his sister.

Two could play the taunting game. Now it was his turn.

“Where do you think she learned it, huh?”

-

Maks was too busy watching for the swing of Yves fist to catch his foot in time to completely dodge it. What he did manage to do was get his forearm up in time to prevent any broken teeth, but he was sure that wouldn’t stop Vika from performing a concussion check the second he stepped out of the ring. Using his one moment of peace, Maks wiped at his mouth just to make sure there was no blood yet before his hands were up and ready and his feet were closing the gap Yves had put between the two of them.

But his lips turned up into a wolf’s snarl at the mention of Noa. Without thinking, Maks’ swung out in a blind man’s fury, putting all of his power into making contact somewhere on the Frenchman, he didn’t particularly care where. All technique was flying out the window. As was all semblance of propriety. If the crowd hadn’t guessed that the two men in the ring wanted each other dead, they surely did now. “Shame you didn’t teach her enough to keep her alive.”

-

People underestimated body shots. Especially without gloves.

Everyone always wanted to go for the glamorous knockout. One minute, a fist connecting with the face of their opponent. The next, said opponent on the fucking floor. It rarely worked out that way, though. Aiming for the head, particularly when a fight was descending into a scrap, was always a risky move when there were more bad places to hit than good. It was hard to tell whether the punch Maksim landed in his side was meant for there, though, or whether it was at best, an opportunistic flail with the sole intention of hitting something.

Didn’t matter when it was enough to knock the wind out of him.

Still, after a momentary pause in which he gathered himself in recovery, Yves kept on his toes. Momentum was important here. Hitting a stationary target was a fuck tonne easier than a moving one, and stamina was absolutely something Yves had on his side, even after an absence from hand to hand. Striking out was a chess game. Throwing too many hands, out of desperation or whatever else, was the best way to wear yourself out. So he waited for his moments. Even in spite of the words that left Maksim’s mouth, he refused to let his anger cloud a patience that was necessary to succeed. Eventually, the Russian would get frustrated…

“Shame you never got over it. All that bitterness must’ve been hard.”

…be it because Yves wasn’t making big moves and he wanted to finish it, or because Yves refused to be baited by his comments about his family.

And when he got sloppy, the Frenchman would counter.

-

Fucking Frenchman.

No showing off. No losing focus. Vika’s words echoed in Maks’ head as he forced himself to slow down and think. As much as he hated to admit it, brute force was not getting him what he wanted. But, making contact had winded de Metz. That was a fucking start. He breathed in once again, feeling more calm descend over his body.

Which didn’t stop his eyes from narrowing at the other man’s words. Instead of retorting, his shifted his weight on to his back foot and returned the Frenchman’s opening kick, this time aimed at the opposite side of the body that he’d stuck. All he needed to do was get de Metz on the ground. That had to be his sole focus if he wanted to walk out of the ring on his own.

-

The kick landed, and it’d hurt.

Yves had seen it coming, though; the shift in the weight, the brief pause to position himself right, all indicators one looked out for. Whilst he hadn’t particularly wanted to take it, it would be worth it to catch him on the back foot. Literally. Even though he’d attempted to grab the Russian’s leg before he could get back on two feet, Yves had narrowly missed his window. So, instead, he threw himself full force into the bastard in front of him like a fucking freight train. He’d take the recovery time from the kick to shove him back into the ropes; hopeful to catch him off guard, and more so to smother him enough to avoid any further attempts at his face.

Their closeness made a prime case for kneeing him in the torso. Repeatedly. Wherever he could fucking reach. As many times as the brief moment he’d caught him off guard would allow. Ribs. Stomach. If he could’ve found an angle to grab his head and drag it down to meet it, he’d have fucking done that too. There was no referee in this ring to split anybody up.

“I’m going to fucking kill you.” It came out between pants. And Yves meant it.

-

It wasn’t until Yves was throwing himself at Maks that he realized just how much of a mistake the kick was. He saw the French man push forward, but his footing wasn’t solid enough to get out of the way without ending up on the floor. A loud groan left his mouth as his back hit the ropes with the force of a freight train.

It was all Maks could do to hit any part of Yves’ side that his arms could reach. Which wasn’t much with how each knee to his torso caused his body to contract further and further in. There was no doubt in Maks’ mind that he was going to break his promise to Vika that he would walk out of the ring. The pain was simply too much and he had no doubt in his mind that the Russian would carry out his promise and that the Rutherford princess would let him. Maks’ knees were collapsing underneath him as he used the little strength left in his arms to tap on the rope.

-

Even though he was hurting bad from the hits he’d taken to the side, movement obviously hindered by the fact he assumed his ribs were broken, adrenaline was a hell of a fucking thing. It kept him going in spite of the fact his body was telling him to stop. Maybe if he was smarter, he would’ve listened.

“Yves, enough.” Hard to tell who the voice belonged to. The crowd was deafening.

Was the motherfucker trying to tap out?

With what little strength that remained, muscles on fire, Yves dragged him away from the ropes and shoved the scumbag down on to the canvas. It dawned on him that he could’ve managed a repeat of his brother’s impressive end to their own fight; a kick to the head that wouldn’t have been undeserved in the slightest. Instead, and fully ignorant of the French people ringside calling his name, he took advantage of the man’s stunned state. Hands around his neck.

If Lara had any intention of stopping the fight, she didn’t seem to be vocalising it.

Maybe he wasn’t angry before, but now that he had him like this, Russians heckling loudly, completely at his mercy, it was sure flooding his fucking veins like a reflex to being so damn close to ending it. All he wanted to do was squeeze until the worthless life left his eyes. And maybe if Varden hadn’t jumped in to end things, a good sportsman until the fucking end, Yves might’ve finished what he so badly wanted to. Dev hadn’t quite been a murder but he sure wished Maksim had been one.

As if brought back to reality by Varden’s grip, though, the ragged breathing tempered, the red he saw fading, the Frenchman eventually stopped struggling.

It was called.

The fight might have been over. But he wasn’t fucking finished.

[anatolyveselov]

From the corner of his eyes, Anatoly had seen st Pierre bee-lining for Maks, saw the punch that was thrown. The amusement was there, and for a split second he wondered what it was that his comrade had gotten himself into. It was entertaining, for sure, and he'd have waited to see how it all escalated.

But it was when Parra decided to join, that Tolya made his move, too. Similarly to how things were in prison, he couldn't just let Maks take all the fun away.

With a cigarette in his mouth, he walked up to the men, a slight smirk playing on his face. "Where was my invite?" He disliked the French just as much as he disliked others, so this was his real perk of the night. "Now, now, Maksie, we have nothing to say to these suka's." He tapped Maks on the shoulder. "You lost a wife, some others lost a wife... I really lost count. But talk like that?" He turned his face to Parra then to st Pierre, "Makes me want to start counting again. You lost a wife, you have a child... There are still things to take."

@maksimkurylenko Event: Valentine's Day Auction. Time: After Party.

The after party was in full swing. People were too distracted with their own shit, their own drinks, their faltering fucking relationships...nobody was paying attention to anything outside of the bubble. They were the types that never really did, anyway. Finding him in the crowd was easy, because the creepy little scarecrow fuck stood out like a sore thumb amongst other, normal human beings.

If he'd thought he wouldn't notice earlier, he was wrong.

The two had already clashed over Maksim's inability to keep away from his very-uninvolved-in-mob-shit partner, and yet still, he'd sought her out pre-auction to taunt her. And this is why the Russians would never fucking learn. They always had to make shit personal. Weaving through a few drunk hookers, the Frenchman subtly switched his two Commandant rings onto his right hand.

"I warned you to stay away from Leyla. Evidently, you're too dumb a cunt to listen."

The Russian hardly had time to acknowledge he was being addressed before Laurent's silver and gold adorned fist collided hard with his jaw. Enough to do real damage? Nah. He wasn't looking to get kicked out. Enough to send him stumbling a few steps back into the bar, the girls around him shrieking in surprise? Yes.

"Next time, I'll kick your fucking teeth down your throat."

[islahuntd]

text - maks

Isla: Hello is this Maks Kurylenko of Adriana Amaro fame?

Isla: This is Isla Hunt, the promised blonde

[amaroadriana]

@maksimkurylenko

Given what had happened at the petrol station not even two days ago, Adriana had been left wandering about Maks. Not enough to actually continously think about it, but it was there, somewhere in the back of her mind.

Maks had been here and there in her life, in one way or another and the past year it felt as if she didn't understand him. Not that she had a right to, but it was still a thought here and there.

"This is not a thank you, by the way." She said, placing down a tray of drinks on the table. "Think of it more like... I want to get fucked so I beleive everyone else around me should, too."

[david-pavoncello]

etienne-canet​:

Maks’ eyes narrowed at David’s boldness, his calm demeanor barely masking the simmering anger that was boiling and bubbling. Taking a step closer, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Careful.” He tutted, his gaze remaining soley on David. “You don’t want to push me too far,” he warned, his gaze flickering over David’s shoulder to the Russians standing behind him, and then back to Étienne.

He didn’t fear David, but he did fear Étienne.

Maksim observed for a moment as a mocking grin flashed across his lips, the strategic planning already kicking into gear. Ways out, ways in. He was always calculating, mind racing with the potential outcomes of this confrontation. He knew that the stakes were high, they had been since their pulled stunt at the docks. Oh, Vika.

With each passing moment, the room seemed to hold still, waiting for the clash of wills to ignite the powder keg. Keeping his composure, Maksim leaned back against the bar, gaze locked onto Étienne’s. “I have no problem discussing matters in a more private setting,” he replied, his voice steady despite the tension lacing his words. “We can step outside and settle this like civilized men. No need for unnecessary bloodshed.”

But they knew that was bullshit.

“Heard you went nomad, gave a little taste to one of them.” The Rutherfords. The heavy weight of the blade he kept in his pocket reminded him he wasn’t without protection, and he eyed the men telling them to stay back. He didn’t want a brawl, not here, at least.

Maksim stopped as he turned to the back door, a taunting smirk on his lips as he gave David a once over. “Is it not past your bedtime, kid?” He gestured for David to stay behind. “You need a puppy to help you out, Étienne?”

“Nothing that wasn’t deserved,” Étienne assured Maks, his own features remaining passive. He wasn’t sure if was an attempt to get under his skin, to let him know he knew what had been happening, but the Frenchman didn’t care. If the Russians wanted him out of the picture, they take a shot at him on the street. They wouldn’t pawn him off to the Police. Not that Lin would testify. “The Italian comes with,” Étienne responded shortly as Maks tried to indicate he would be left out of the conversation. It wasn’t a debate. “If you have a complaint, I’ll file it away under who gives a shit. You people are the reason they’re here in the first place.”

The well-dressed Frenchman opened up the back door of the bar, the dim sunlight streaming through the doorway, illuminating the figures as they made their way to the alley out back. He held it open for the two other men, the manners engrained in him from a very young age.

Ét’s men, upon watching their leader leave, finished their drinks, rose to their feet, and made their way toward the front, shooting dirty looks at the Russian associates as they did so, but nothing more. Their instructions had been clear– they were not to throw the first fist, no matter what was given as a provocation.

-

David took the opportunity to finish his drink, not one to waste alcohol, even if it was tainted by Russian hands. He places the empty glass down on the bar, knowing that in minutes the whole place would burn and it left a satisfying feeling. He felt no remorse for those that occupied this shithole, each, regardless of not being involved, owed their lives for the loss of his mother. A fire blazed in his amber hues and the corners of his mouth twitched into a knowing smirk.

“Careful Kurylenko, hate for you to see how hard I bite.” It took every restraint in his body not to show the Russian how hard he could hit, knowing the deal he made with the Frenchman about not being the first to throw a punch. He tipped his chin up, giving the signal for the Italians to vacate the premises. Dark vengeful hues glance back at the kitchen before he steps around Maksim making his way out into the alley.

The rest of the Italians followed after him, fanning out around them. He leans his shoulders back against the cement wall of the opposite building, the bottom of his foot lifting to push into the surface. Intent orbs watch the rest of them coming out, not able to keep his smirk plastered on his features. In his head he was already counting down until he would feel that sweet taste of revenge engulf him.

"I think you should ask yourself why we don't knock you the fuck out and take you back to the French." There was a target out on certain Russians, the same ones he would love to have a few moments with himself to let his wrath free. "Be grateful we are playing nice." For now.

David gave a nonchalant shrug to his shoulders when the Russian realised who he had brought and the comment. The Italian didn't give a shit, and when the night was over, this place would be up flames and smoke -- how it should be for all the pieces of shits that walked this borough. Their blood would make up for what he lost.

His eyes flickered between the two, knowing that all parities would leave unharmed, for the time being, when this was over with; at least on their side. "My mom always said that was my downfall. I don't know what she was talking about." He was speaking of Alessia, and she may have said that a time or two, a hand coming up to slide his finger along the chain he wore with his cross and pendant.

"We all have friends that want to meet, all depends on how many of them you are willing to lose." The Italian takes a sip of his drink, turning his attention back to the Kurylenko. "Are we going to have this conversation here?" He raised a brow. "I have no qualm airing your dirty laundry for all to hear." He stated bluntly. "I don't know how you feel about it."

[andrei-baryshnikov]

January 25th

The Basement

@makskurylenko​

Christmas and Epiphany came around and passed in a blink of an eye. The Russians hardly felt like celebrating anyway. January had neared its end, and the rage, unlike a few French bodies, hadn’t disappeared. It morphed from hot, scalding wrath into an icy, steely fury, fueled by future vengeance and expansion plans.

Majority of which, Andrei merely listened on from behind the bar counter. Until its official opening, the Basement operated as a hotspot for the Russian mob, its associates, Russian diaspora living in London, and a place for the higher-ups to gather the loyalists for meetings.

After one of those meetings, Maks stayed behind at the Basement, in a dire need for a drink. 

“Where’s your boy band?” Andrei reached for the expensive bottle on the shelf behind him, and smiled at the Kurylenko “I just got a new batch of that vodka Tolya had been raving about.”

[yvonne-rutherford]

Reaction: Dev Daryani (GB) vs Maksim Kurylenko (RU)

You could catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.

That was obviously a lesson that Lara Rutherford, or any other member of the Rutherford family, had never learned.

The Russians were ostensibly their allies, on the same playing field as the Rutherfords. But all Yvonne had see since her arrival was her family kicking and shitting on the force that they brought into the city. Even she knew that the Russian Mob wasn't the Cávado Kings: the Rutherfords couldn't just bully them into submission. This dog bit back.

Dev was brutal, and a message. Russian interests don't matter. Russians are just rabid attack dogs that we will put down when we feel like. Yvonne turned her head from the carnage below her to look at Lara. Was this how Roman emperors looked at the gladiator arenas, waiting to decide who lived and who died, relishing the power over each and every competitor. Everyone knew the story of how Andrew Rutherford worked his way up through the organization, and everyone knew Lara Rutherford had ruled on high since the day her name became Rutherford.

Looking back over the arena, Yvonne felt no thrill, despite the obvious pleasure of the crowd and especially the French. Dev was the breaker and from the moment the matchup was posted, there was never any doubt as to who would reign victorious. Maks never stood a chance against Lara's champion, against a monster who put other monsters to shame.

A crack rang through the air as Dev once again wailed on the Russian's sternum and for half a second, Yvonne saw not Maks' face, but Jared's. She'd be lying if she said this was the first time she'd imagined the devastation Dev could reign on the group she'd once considered her true family, once upon a time in a galaxy far, far away. But Yvonne remained steadfast and stoic. Showing sympathy for a Russian in the Royal Box was a no-go. She remembered the scorn and lectures she'd received for attending Damon's benefit on Maks' arm. While she was using the Russian to piss off her parents (and he was no doubt using her for his own purposes) part of the line she'd fee Connie and Andrew was true. The Russians are their allies and a show of unity couldn't hurt anything. Were. Breaking Maks' spine was signing the death warrant and spitting on the grave of any chance of working together, if the faces of the Russians on the other side of the ring were any indication.

Yvonne settled back in her seat, sipping at her drink as Maks went down. She hoped this bit Lara in the ass, sooner rather than later. For all the money and power the Rutherfords were so fond of tossing around on a whim, for all they were used to be obeyed and never questioned, in a fight Yvonne's money was not on Lara.

[ivannadmitrieva]

Maksim.

Date — Thursday, March 5th, 2020 Location — The Bar at the B&B @maksim-kurylenko

It’d been close to a week since Ivanna had landed in London after her much needed vacation with her family in Russia. The two months she’d spent in the company of her sister and her children were some of the best and worst. It had been all too easy to be lulled into a false sense of bliss, and reminded of all the things she might have wanted for herself years ago. She’d found herself grateful to Konstantin once again, when the call came. Leaving was much easier for a clear purpose.

She’d layed low, relatively out of sight the first couple of days getting a feel for the city in her own way. The tedious task of setting up a place of her own, a place that fit her very particular specifications was the other matter occupying her time. When she’d made the decision to head down to the haunt she knew her people might frequent, Maks wasn’t the first person she’d been hoping to encounter.

“Gin and tonic, please.” She requested as she came to stand at the bar, turning to the Maksim after the fact. “This seat taken?” She asked gesturing to the open bar stool beside him.

[anatolyveselov]

"Why?" Tolya asked, taking a sip of his drink. "Been there done that. I don't see why I should worry."

Maksim hated Noa and Elaina. He did. But he hated that he still cared about Noa more than the overwhelming need to end the French line. She'd refused to help him find Larissa, to not help Aviv in bringing down the person responsible, and that had fuelled hate. In a way, he would never understand until his mother's passing. Aviv had been at his side without a word, without question. "I'm sure you would."

***

He was thankful, beyond belief. A laugh broke from his lips, his eyes finding her animatedly talking to Benjamin Vox. Little fucking rat of a man. Melissa Lin lingered close enough to make his stomach turn. "Yeah, mine was good. But yours...woof."