"You left." Gordy interrupted his brooding by shrugging again. "But you are coming back now, ja?"
"Is that the rumor?" Maxim asked. It would benefit their cover if it was … still, a part of him couldn't help hating that it seemed almost expected he should return. His mob ties ran deep, and there were clearly those on both sides of the law who suspected he would never escape his heritage. He didn't turn, but an image of Savannah's face flashed in his mind. What did she think of him? Did she really trust him as much as she claimed, or did she also suspect his affair with the world outside the Russian mafia was only temporary?
A low buzzing noise drew Maxim's attention back to the present, banishing his thoughts about the woman.
"Excuse me," Gordy said as he flipped open his cell and turned away.
Something clicked in Maxim's head, and his eyes narrowed. "Who knows you're here? Did someone put you up to this?" He took in the vision of the stooped, gray professional as if seeing him for the first time. The context of their initial reunion was gone, replaced instead by the memory that the Safins had never been his biggest fans on the inside-and that was when he started to notice more minute details. "Why do you have a burner phone, Safin?"
Gone was the chilly cordiality of the moment before.
Gordy glared at him and waved him off. The older man clearly didn't like being interrupted, but then, neither did Maxim-and he was nowhere near finished questioning his father's lackey. He grabbed hold of the man's shoulder and forced him around again. "I'm giving you until the count of one to answer my questions, old man," he growled.
The situation escalated quicker than he had imagined it would. One minute he had his hands on Gordy, and the next minute the two security goons in black were wrapped around his arms, hauling him back. Maxim wrestled against them and swore, clenching his hands into fists he was more than happy to use. He heard the quicksilver hiss of a switchblade being engaged, and his blood started pumping. He wasn't the son of a mafia head anymore-not a living one, anyway. Any incentive to avoid carving him up had likely died with Sergey.
"Get the fuck off him," a female voice ordered. The cold click of a safety going off had four heads turning simultaneously in the direction of the cocked gun. Savannah stood behind the small assembly, her gun trained on Gordy Safin. She had chosen the exact right target to threaten; the two men assaulting Maxim couldn't get their hands off him fast enough.
At least she didn't say 'freeze,' Maxim mused as Gordy's goons withdrew. He rubbed some of the circulation back into his biceps as he took in the developing scene. It shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone present that a mafia girlfriend might be packing; he was surprised no one had considered his own backup before moving in. It was a mistake he was certain he would have never made during his time as Head of Security.
"Phone," Maxim ordered Gordy, holding his hand open. The older man scowled, before hanging up his call and passing the cellphone over.
"Nice to have you back, Maxim," Gordy muttered. He signaled to his two security guards and turned to depart without a further word. The men in black exchanged uncertain glances, before obediently falling into step behind their superior.
Savannah didn't lower her gun until they were well out of sight; then, with a sigh, she retracted her firearm and holstered it back inside a hidden compartment of her jacket.
"Sorry to bust up the party," she mentioned.
"Too many dicks on the dance floor," Maxim replied. She snorted, and the last of the moment's lingering tension diffused. He studied the phone in lieu of studying her. He wouldn't admit out loud how deeply impressed he was by her reaction time or how moved he was that she would readily put herself in danger for him. Men like Maxim weren't moved, and women like Savannah didn't come riding to the rescue of former thugs because they had hidden feelings for them. She had likely just been trying to avoid the mess that came with seeing her contact get slit open like an envelope.
"None of those men seemed surprised that you resorted to violence to get what you want," Savannah mused. Maxim flipped open the phone and scrolled through the call history, saying nothing. "Guess I just got a sneak peek at knowing what the old Maxim must have been like. Who's Roza?" she inquired, craning closer.
Maxim studied the caller ID for a long moment. He was looking at a list of calls made almost exclusively from the same number. "Not who," he corrected. "It's a what. A nightclub highly favored by the Russian mafia."