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

As Maxim and I step into the grand foyer of the theater, a hush falls over the crowd. All heads snap towards us as we make our way through the mass of people, nods are exchanged, camera flashes flickering at the edge of my vision. I try to smile at those who approach us, but I can feel my hands shaking, betraying my nerves.

Maxim gives my hand a reassuring squeeze as we continue our path through the sea of faces.

“Are you alright?” he murmurs in my ear.

“I’m fine,” I say because I don’t want him to worry.

Maybe he thinks I’m still digesting what he shared about losing his son and exiling his ex-wife. That was a lot to take in. But there’s more to my silence—the realization that I might be carrying his child. One that he doesn’t want, and for good reason.

“Let me get you a drink,” he offers with a frown. “You look a little pale.”

‘Seltzer water, please.’

Before Maxim can turn away, he nods at someone behind me. Seconds later, Liza slides up next to me, wrapping me in a welcoming embrace, her jasmine scent floating between us. A scent I usually find lovely. But right now, it makes me feel like hurling.

“Keep an eye on Kira,” Maxim instructs her. “I’m going to get her something to drink.”

Liza turns to me, confused. “Water? We have something much stronger, you know.” She lifts her drink to offer proof. “The bartenders are making this amazing espresso martini with vo—” Something about my expression stops her mid-sentence. “What’s going on?” she asks, pulling me into a quiet corner of the cavernous room.

‘I’m okay,’ I whisper, ‘but I need you to do something for me. Can you get me a pregnancy test and bring it over to the house tomorrow?’

Even though the war with the Black Company has gone quiet, I can’t head out on my own to the pharmacy. There are guards with me at all times. I know it’s asking Liza a lot, but until she’s actually married to Anatoly, she has more freedom than I do.

“Oh my God, of course. Do you think you’re…” She looks at me intently, her gaze searching mine.

“I think I might be.”

Her eyes widen. “Does Maxim know?”

I shake my head, wringing my hands in front of me. “I want to be sure before I tell him. He may not be happy about it.”

“I doubt that. You should see how he looks at you. Like the Earth orbits around you.”

“He doesn’t want another child.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I bite my lip.

Shit. I don’t think anyone knows about Ilya. Maxim must have kept him a secret from the world to protect his son’s life. In the end, his enemies got to him anyway.

“You mean other than Alyona?” Liza looks at me curiously.

“Exactly.”

Liza’s eyes soften. “Whatever you need, I’m here.”

“You are the best,” I say and mean it.

She gives me a quick hug. “I’m happy to help you. Now, plaster a smile on your face because Maxim is storming over here, and he looks like a charging bull.”

I square my shoulders and pull myself together in time to offer Maxim a warm smile when he approaches me with a glass of seltzer and a worried expression.

“Thank you,” I say and take a big gulp. “I was overwhelmed with all the attention on us, but I’m feeling much better.”

“Are you sure? If you want to go home, we can leave.”

“No, no,” I insist. “You go work the room. I know you have associates here that you need to speak with. Go wheel and deal, and I’ll make the social rounds later on with Liza.”

He brushes a piece of hair from my forehead and drops a sweet kiss. “As long as you’re sure. If things change, come and find me.”

“I will,” I promise him. “I’ll find you.”

MAXIM

I’ve spent the last ten minutes cornered by Mr. and Mrs. Petrovich while they drone on about my generous donation to their fundraising cause. Apparently, I donated a quarter-million dollars to help build a state-of-the-art luxury shelter for Moscow’s stray dogs—something I will be having a word with Nadya about since she handles my philanthropic donations. I’m all for animal shelters, but I doubt mutts need a sauna or a silver-plated water bowl.

“There you are.” Roman mercifully appears beside me. “Mayor Rashnikov would like a word.”

“If you’ll excuse me,” I say to the Petroviches, thrilled for any excuse not to hear about sheepskin-lined daybeds for dogs.

As soon as we’re out of ear shot, I turn to Roman. “Are you serious about that mudak wanting a word?”

Roman chuckles and takes a sip of his drink. “Fuck no. As soon as he took one look at you, he high-tailed it the other way. He’s probably hiding in the bathroom or something. I was liberating you from a conversation you clearly weren’t enjoying.”

“A state-of-the-art dog shelter,” I grumble. “I worry about the future of humanity sometimes.”

“Yeah, you and me both,” Roman snickers, but his voice barely registers above the hum of the gala’s chatter.

I scan the room for Kira for what feels like the hundredth time. Something is off with her tonight. I can feel it. Through a sea of glittering gowns and tailored suits, I spot her laughing with Liza.

A wave of relief washes over me. She looks more like herself—color has returned to her cheeks and her eyes are bright, but there is something about the way her expression falls when she thinks no one is looking. Something changed after I told her about Irina and Ilya. She was fine until that point, but in the car on the way over here she barely said two words to me.

Fuck, who could blame her? I’m a walking red flag. Burned and broken. Kira’s got her entire life ahead of her. Even if I keep her, one day she’ll wake up and want a man who’s whole. Who doesn’t bear the weight of past scars.

A cold pit grows in my gut at the thought of losing her, but I can’t go there right now.

Beside me, Roman whistles through his teeth, pulling me from my whirlwind thoughts. “Look what cockroach dared to show up.”

My head snaps up, zeroing in on Boris Ivanov’s stocky form as he edges through the crowd. We’ve been after Boris since Kira spilled that he’s the source of the false rumors about my involvement in Masha’s death. His associates have been covering for him, saying he’s tied up in Poland with “critical” matters. More like drowning in vodka and bedding whores.

‘He must be feeling pretty bold to show up here,’ I muse aloud.

Roman draws in a sharp breath, leaning in. ‘Any progress on tracking down Masha’s killer?’

I shake my head, frustration evident. ‘It’s a dead end. After discovering the photo with my Zippo, we’ve hit a wall.’ I turn to Roman with a sly grin. ‘Let’s have a little chat with Ivanov.’

“My fucking pleasure.”

Roman and I split without a word. He veers left while I take the right. People try to catch my attention in the crowd, but I walk on by with no acknowledgement. Boris continues his path towards the bar, oblivious to the net closing in around him. It’s too late for him to bolt without making a scene when he realizes Roman and I have him surrounded.

He clears his throat nervously. “Maxim, Roman … nice to see you, as always.”

“Is it, though? Is it really?” I throw an arm around him and lead him towards an isolated alcove near the back of the hall, away from prying eyes and eager ears.

When we turn the corner, Roman shoves him against the wall. I step in front of Ivanov’s path, and his eyes go wide as the gravity of his predicament sinks in.

“We’ve been trying to get in touch with you.” I make a tsking sound. “Apparently, you’re a busy man. Unless you’ve been avoiding me.”

“N-no … absolutely not,” he stammers. “Why would I do that?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Because you’re spreading rumors that I killed Masha Antonov.” He opens his mouth to argue, but I don’t even give him a chance. “Save your breath, Boris. Kira told me everything that happened the night of Alyona’s ball.”

“Please,” he pleads, his hands splayed. “I don’t remember anything from that night. I was drunk⁠—”

“You’re always drunk,” I snarl. “But you seemed very sure of my involvement in Masha’s death, so much so that Kira planned to kill me to get her revenge. Lucky for me” — I grin and hold up my finger to show off my wedding band — “she had to marry me first.”

“I’ve never even heard those rumors. You know I don’t follow gossip, Maxim.”

The words are barely out of his mouth when Roman punches him in the stomach, and he flies back against the wall, coughing and sputtering like the pussy he is.

“Maybe that will help you remember,” Roman suggests.

Boris wipes his mouth and stretches out his jaw. “What do you want me to say?”

I drag a hand down the side of my face. “The truth.”

He swallows hard, and a thin sheen of sweat covers his brow. ‘It was talk at a poker game,’ he wheezes. ‘I was drinking with some wannabe gangster around the time Masha was killed. One of them—I don’t remember who—had a picture from the scene where Masha was …” He makes a slashing motion across his neck. “I was curious, that’s all. We all were. I don’t remember who pointed it out first, but your Zippo—the one that you would always use to light cigars at the gentlemen’s club—was there at the scene.”

I clench my teeth. ‘A lost lighter doesn’t make me her killer.’

‘That’s what I figured,’ he continues hastily. ‘When the whispers started, I ran into Nadya at the opera. Took her aside and told her what people were saying, about your so-called hand in it, especially considering your history with Oleg.’ Roman’s eyes cut to me, and I shake my head. Nadya never mentioned anything. “She said it was all bullshit. That I should ignore what people were saying, to keep my nose out of it.”

“You didn’t do a very good job of that,” Roman says dryly.

“It’s the drinking.” Boris hangs his head. “It makes me … loose-lipped.”

“You’ve already sold your daughter to the biggest mudak on the planet,” Roman barks, referring to Anatoly. “Very soon, your drinking and gambling are going to get you killed.”

“I’m trying to dry out. That’s what I was doing in Poland.” That’s a lie if I’ve ever heard one—one of the many things that make it impossible to take him at his word.

Doesn’t matter. We don’t need Boris to figure out who killed Masha. We will get answers, eventually. I’ll make sure of it.

Roman’s phone buzzes with an incoming text. He glances at it, his expression turning grave. With a subtle tilt of his head, he signals to me that it’s important. Time to wrap this up.

“So, what do you think?” I say to Roman. “Should we kill him?”

Boris pales, his face melting into pure terror. ‘Kill me? But I didn’t do anything.”

Roman shrugs. ‘You ran your mouth. That alone is a death sentence.”

Boris squirms, spewing excuses and apologies. It’s sad, really.

With one swift move, I grab his collar, yanking him close enough to share a breath. ‘The only reason you’re still breathing is because Liza and my wife are friends. Mess up again, and you’re done.’ My words are a knife, slicing the last of his defiance.

Boris scrambles away, stumbling over his own feet to escape.

“That was pathetic,” Roman grumbles. “But I have good news. We’ve got a location on Lai King. He’s holed up in a mountain safehouse in Switzerland.”

A grin tugs at the edges of my mouth. ‘I hear Switzerland is lovely this time of year.”

Roman rubs his hands together. ‘Jet’s being prepped as we speak.”

‘I’ll let Kira know what’s happening and meet you out front,’ I say, already in motion.

I wish I didn’t have to leave her tonight, especially after my intense revelation, but duty calls and I can’t put this off any longer.