Shattered Crown: A Dark Mafia Age Gap Romance (Kozlov Empire Book 4)

The warehouse looms large and ominous, but I push forward. I slip between crates and machines, my footsteps echoing off the concrete. This place, reeking of rust and neglect, is the last place I’d ever choose to be. But Masha is somewhere here—I’ve got to find her, somehow.

My heart pounds in my chest as I tread carefully among the crates and machinery, each step echoing off the unforgiving concrete walls, the sound almost deafening in the eerie silence.

And then, in a dimly lit corner of the warehouse, I see her. Masha, bound and helpless, her eyes wide with terror. A man is standing over her, his face a mask of cold detachment.

It’s Maxim. He’s holding something in his hand—an instrument of pain, its purpose clear even in the dim light.

I’m frozen, my heart pounding.

I call out to him, “Maxim, don’t hurt her! Don’t do this. Please.”

He looks like a wild animal in the overhead light, sick and blood-thirsty. This is not the Maxim I know.

He smiles at me, and it’s terrifying. “What do you mean don’t do this? It’s already done.”

A mix of fear and disbelief paralyzes me. This can’t be real. It must be some twisted trick of my mind, conjuring my deepest fears.

“Save yourself, Kira. Run!” My aunt’s words echo through my bones, but I can’t leave her here.

What should I do? How can I help her?

I fall to my knees, my voice trembling as I plead with Maxim. ‘Please, you’re not a monster. There’s still something decent left in you, I know it!’ I search his eyes for a glimmer of the man I know, but Maxim stares through me, his gaze empty and void of any warmth.

He turns back to Masha, his hand gripping the knife tightly. Before I can react, he starts plunging the blade into her stomach, over and over.

I scream, a tortured sound that gets swallowed up by the warehouse walls. Blood pools beneath me, spreading rapidly, its warmth seeping through my clothes. The pool grows, and I’m certain it’s going to drown me, swallow me whole in this nightmare. I open my mouth to scream, but it fills with blood, thick and choking.

That’s when I feel it—arms wrapping around me, pulling me back from the brink of this horror. A familiar smell, comforting and safe, envelops me.

My surroundings begin to fade—the warehouse, the blood, and Maxim all slipping away into darkness. The arms around me are my anchor, freeing from the terrifying dream.

My eyes open, and my reality changes in a flash. I’m not in the warehouse anymore, there’s no blood, no Masha, and no torture, but there is Maxim. Because the arms that are holding me, that pulled me from the nightmare, belong to him.

He’s looking at me with concern.

I jerk away from him instinctively, my heart still racing. ‘What are you doing?’ I blurt out and roll over to the other side of the bed, needing space from the man who is both my tormentor and savior.

‘You were screaming in your sleep. I was trying to calm you,’ he explains, his eyebrows pressed together. He reaches out, smoothing a lock of hair behind my ears. “What did you dream of?”

‘I don’t want to talk about it.” I’m shaking, the remnants of fear still clinging to me. Moments ago, in the realm of sleep, he was the cause of my terror.

It wasn’t only a nightmare. I don’t yet have the proof, but he killed Masha.

I mean, probably.

I’m losing focus. Maxim has somehow lulled me into complacency. I let him kiss me last night, but never again. I won’t be distracted any longer. I need to dive deeper, to sift through the layers of Maxim’s life more thoroughly.

He rises from the bed, his expression shifting from soft to something hard, impenetrable. It catches my attention that he’s fully dressed in his usual sharp, all-black suit. Did he wear that to bed?

‘You mistook my intention,” he says, his voice chilling. “I wasn’t trying anything other than to calm you down. You were hysterical.”

His attempts to comfort me feel somehow more intimate than any physical touch. It’s not just his presence but the concern in his eyes, the soothing tone of his voice—it all too much.

I flip over on my side so I don’t have to face him. “Why are you here? Did your mistress kick you out of bed early?”

I hear his sharp inhale and then a bitter chuckle. “Yeah, something like that. But I won’t need my mistress soon.” He pauses, and I scramble to follow his meaning. “Don’t forget, wife. Your one-month grace period is almost up.” With those words, he walks out of the room.

Fuck! I forgot my stupid promise to give him heirs. I’d lost track of time, but in another week or so I’ll need to spread my legs for Maxim. Nope, not happening. Last night alone should be enough of a reminder that Maxim is the last man I want to be tied to.

I sneak a look at the bedside clock. It’s just past five in the morning, which means few people are milling about and I’d wager Maxim was heading out of the house. Which means my chance to search his office is now.

Pulling on a robe, I slip through the hallways of the mansion unnoticed. I rarely venture to this part of the house, but if anyone asks, I’ll say I’m looking for Maxim. After all, I’m his wife. Who would question that?

Slipping into his office, I gently close the door behind me with a soft click, a wave of nervous energy coursing through me but I ignore it. Even if I’m discovered, his guards can’t kill me—one of the few perks of being married to the boss.

His office is a striking reflection of him—masculine, neat, rich. Dark wood panels line the walls, and a large, imposing desk sits in the center, its surface clean except for a few neatly stacked documents and an expensive-looking pen set. A desktop computer sits atop his desk, something I find surprising. Most bratva don’t want an electronic trail, but then again, Maxim has legitimate businesses to run as well.

I assume his computer is heavily protected, so I decide to search the room first, beginning with his heavy oak desk. The top drawer holds an array of pens and notepads, all perfectly aligned. The next one down is filled with neatly arranged files, each labeled with precision but none related to my aunt or father. In the third drawer, I find something different—a day planner.

Bingo!

Learning his whereabouts, who he was meeting with, any business deals or negotiations he was involved in around the time of my aunt’s death could be useful. Flipping through his planner, front to back, my heart sinks when I realize this notebook doesn’t cover the years in question. Furthermore, there’s no details listed. It’s almost like he writes in code.

Screw. This. I can’t fuck around any longer.

Taking a deep breath to steady my nerves, I sit down at Maxim’s desk, press a button, and watch as the screen flickers to life. To my surprise, it doesn’t prompt for a password. That’s weird. I had prepared myself to hack into the system, relying on the skills I’d honed over the years, but this … this is too easy.

My fingers dance over the keyboard, navigating his system with a growing sense of unease. None of the documents are password-protected, but then again, there’s nothing but mundane business worksheets and routine correspondence.

Then I find what I’m looking for. A calendar.

I open it, half expecting it to be locked out, but it too opens freely. My heart races as I scroll back to the dates around my aunt’s murder. The entries for those days are detailed, and to my surprise, they show Maxim was in Japan—like Roman had said—but had returned to Moscow a few days before Masha was lured out of hiding.

Holy shit. My stomach drops, a heavy stone of dread settling deep within.

Now that I have access to his life, I’m determined to do a deep dive and see what I can uncover. With time ticking away, I search for my aunt’s name directly in the calendar app, typing in “Masha Antonov” and pressing Return. The search yields a single result, and my heart leaps into my throat.

There it is, a calendar note titled Meeting with Masha Antonov, dated a few days before my aunt was abducted. My finger hovers over the entry, eager to click and reveal the details, when the doorknob turns.

The sudden sound jolts me. I try to minimize the screen, but it’s too late. The door swings open, and Maxim steps into the room, Nadya following close behind him.

Our gazes collide in a silent storm, Maxim’s eyes flashing a message loud and clear: Caught in the act, little spy.