Masquerade [Kuskovo Estate]

[Maksim Marveet]

Tarik & Maksim

Tarik had known Cyrena would fold first.

She was a snake, sure, but slow—bloated from gorging on bottom-feeders and too sluggish to strike before someone stepped on her neck. There was venom, maybe, but it washed off quick. Her limp wasn’t dramatic—just a whisper of imbalance—but he caught it, that hitch in her step in those red-bottomed stilettos. A private little victory. He smirked and let it sit.

Back inside, the ballroom was the same stew of lacquered puff-ups and desperate leeches, all frothing at the mouth to tongue each other’s egos. A mess of silk and ambition, dripping of each other’s cum, a live-action circlejerk with better lighting.

It took a moment to spot his brother—short little shit that he was—but where Alina glowed, Maksim was sure to be buzzing nearby, orbiting like a fruit fly drunk on perfume and attention.

Tarik slid in with a grin sharp enough to slice through silk. “Mind if I borrow the prince for a little brotherly bonding, Alina?”

Alina offered the kind of smile that said she’d love to see him thrown off a balcony, but she gave her nod and stepped aside.
Maksim turned with a smirk, eyes glittering behind a stupid baroque mask. “I love it when you call me that, teacup.”

“You look like a fucking pirate.” Tarik snapped at his mask as he drew them away. “And not even a cool one. Like, the knock-off brand that dies in the first five minutes.”

The crowd shifted around them, soft music and murmured politics, but only once they were half-sheltered from the noise did Tarik lower his voice.

Across the ballroom, Scion held court, surrounded by preening little peacocks all flapping their feathers in the hope of catching their father’s attention. The old man barely acknowledged them—his eyes stayed fixed on Jessika Thrice, whose laughter rang like a bell dipped in poison.

“So,” Tarik said, clicking his tongue, “do you know what’s going on with Dad?”

Maksim followed his line of sight, eyes narrowing. “What’s going on with Dad?”

Playing dumb. Always his first move. Or maybe he was that dumb.

“You know what I mean,” Tarik murmured. “He finally got the crown jewel. Took him what—ten years? Longer? He’s going to have to scale back at the company.”

Maksim puffed air through his nose, then scoffed. “That’s not Dad. He’ll clone himself and have the new version stomping around Moscow like some pissed-up King Kong. Pissing on the Kremmy. Building piss statues of himself pissing on the Kremmy.”

Tarik barked a laugh. “Sounds like the real one already.” But then he leaned in, lower. “Still. He’s old. He’s slower. And Privilege? It’s big. And the minute he comes up for air, someone’s going to make a move.”

“And you think that someone’s gonna be you?” Maksim asked, but his tone wasn’t challenging—it was curious.

“I think it shouldn’t be a stranger,” Tarik replied. “I think if you hear anything... we don’t waste the opening.”

Maksim didn’t respond right away. He was watching their father, the way Jessika was leaning in, eyes bright with attention. Fake laughing. At his joke.

Their father wasn’t funny.

“You think she’s, you know...” Maksim asked under his breath.

Tarik turned to him, deadpan. “Boning him?”

Maksim cringed. “I mean, he’s got Vena. Why would—”

Tarik cut in, voice low but oily. “You mean why would he go for a younger blonde with ambition, tits and her own growing power base? Why would he ditch the loyal girlfriend for a bitch that’s younger, wetter, hungrier?”

Maksim made a face like he was about to gag, but it was for show. “Classy, Tarik.”

“You’re just mad I said it first,” Tarik muttered, eyes lingering on Jessika. “But come on, —wouldn’t you?”

Maksim gave a small shake of the head, feigning disgust. “You’re disgusting.”

“Yeah,” Tarik said, smirking. “I forgot, you’re too busy fucking dad all up and down to remember to get a side-piece.”

For a moment, neither of them said anything. Just watched the old man hold court. Watched the blonde hang on his every word. Watched the power shifting across the floor like gravity changing direction.