Sebastian Livingston was every bit as enigmatic as I remembered. Like me, he knew all the players in this city’s tangled web, though I doubted anyone—least of all his president—understood the full scope of his knowledge. Raised among New York’s elite, Sebastian was groomed from childhood to fulfill his family’s legacy and marry into fortune. Instead, he’d walked away from all of it, stealing secrets and connections his family relied on to survive. There was always more to him than met the eye, and tonight, I sensed the stakes were higher than ever.
Sebastian shot me a crooked grin, his eyes glinting with shared history. “We’ve met a few times,” he said, smirking. “I got here as fast as I could. King’s pissed and wants Jasper Michaels dead fast. Also, Reaper sent you a message: Make the right choice before he makes it for you.”
His words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken threat.
I met his gaze, the implication settling deep. I knew exactly what Reaper’s warning meant—and the consequences of ignoring it. “How much time do I have?” I asked, voice low, bracing myself for the answer.
Sebastian’s jaw tightened as he checked his watch, a discreet gesture that betrayed urgency. “With the Bloodletter... maybe about twenty minutes, tops,” he murmured. “You should also know that I didn’t come alone. Reaper ordered Mercy and the Soulless Sinners to lock the docks down should you fail to sway Fedorov. They’ve been ordered to take the dock. No one gets in or out—not alive, anyway.”
His words landed like a blow, icy certainty settling over our small group. The wind picked up, carrying the salt and diesel tang sharper now, as if the harbor itself braced for what was to come.
“Malice?”
Sebastian shook his head. “Still on life support.”
Nodding, I said nothing as I looked around, knowing his club brothers were in the shadows, watching, waiting to make their move.
“Then let’s get this done before all hell breaks loose,” I said, voice steady despite the riot of nerves inside me.
Sebastian nodded once, grim approval flashing across his expression. Together, we turned toward the looming silhouette of Pier 87, our footsteps muffled in the fog, hearts pounding with the certainty that whatever waited in the darkness, there was no turning back now.
The warehouse was heavily guarded as we approached, tension prickling across my skin with every step. I watched a door swing open, and Vladmir Ivenok, second only to thePakhan, stepped out to greet us. The man radiated authority—formidable, cunning, and deadly in his own right. From the shadows behind him, men stiffened, their eyes flicking nervously in his direction as if seeking silent permission. He stopped in front of me, posture unyielding, and fixed me with a stare that seemed to cut right through. His voice dropped, low and commanding. “You sure you want to do this, Mr. Shay?”
My heart pounded against my ribs, uncertainty gnawing at me as I met his gaze. I tried to steady my breathing before I answered. “I’m not sure of anything, Vladmir,” I admitted quietly, my voice rough. “All I know is, I refuse to see anyone else hurt because of my mistake.”
Vladmir arched a brow, the corner of his mouth curving in a predatory smirk. “You could farm it out,” he suggested, his tone deceptively casual as he glanced over his shoulder. He lingered a moment, watching his men respond to his unspoken command. Then he turned back to me, eyes bright with calculation. “I would be more than happy to ensure certain secrets stay hidden.”
I hesitated, searching his face for a hint of intention. “That would imply you know what secret I carry,” I said, keeping my tone even, though my palms had begun to sweat.
Vladmir’s smirk deepened, but his eyes hardened to steel. “You will soon learn there is little I don’t know about myPakhanand his family, or the lengths I will go to, to protect them.” His gaze swept over me, then lingered, as if weighing whether I was worthy of the truth. His voice dropped to a warning murmur. “So I will ask you one more time, Professor Shay. Are you sure you want to do this?”
My throat tightened, but I squared my shoulders, refusing to break eye contact. The air between us thickened, silence stretching dangerously. “I am,” I answered at last, my words clipped but unwavering. A flicker of respect—or perhaps interest—passed through Vladmir’s gaze, though his expression remained cold.
He studied me for a long moment before stepping aside, gesturing toward the open door behind him. “Then let us proceed,” he said. I felt Sebastian’s and Michael’s presence steady at my back as we crossed the threshold, stepping into the dim light of the warehouse, the fate of more than just ourselves hanging in the balance.
Standing at a window overlooking the vast expanse of New York Harbor, Maxim Fedorov commanded the scene with an imposing presence. His reputation preceded him—he was a legend forged from violence and resolve. Known for his ruthless, bloodthirsty nature, Maxim had fled Russia with a bounty on his head, accompanied by loyal men who shared his fate.
Upon arriving in the United States, Maxim wasted no time establishing his authority. He swiftly earned notoriety, eventually rising to become the leader of the Russian Bratva on the East Coast. His ascent was marked by pivotal decisions, most notably when he chose to side against theSocietyand its network of syndicates. In a decisive act, Maxim eliminated the formerPakhanand his associates, seizing control of the Bratva on a global scale. His authority was uncontested—his word became law, and those who dared defy him soon understood why he was calledthe Bloodletter.
Without turning to face me, Maxim spoke in a gruff, deep voice, each word edged with command. “Why are you here, Mr. Shay?” he asked, making it clear that acknowledgment was not easily granted.
I faced Maxim, my voice steady despite the uncertainty that lingered in the air. “I was told you might help me.”
Maxim regarded me with cool detachment; his answer was brusque and dismissive. “And why would I want to help you? Go ask Sinclair,” he stated, making it clear he was not someone easily convinced.
Refusing to back down, I replied, “Sinclair can’t help me with this. Only you can.” My words hung in the air, weighty with implication.
Maxim narrowed his gaze, finally asking, “What do you need help with?”
I met his stare and answered simply, “Keeping a secret.”
At that, Maxim turned, a flicker of confusion passing over his face as he looked from me to Vladmir, who shrugged lightly, maintaining an air of nonchalance.
Maxim’s tone grew sharp. “So this has nothing to do with me or mine?”
I couldn’t help but smirk. “Oh, it has everything to do with you and your family, but unlike others who would use the truthto get what they want, all I care about is living a simple life. I may be forced to live in your world, Maxim, but I refuse to let who I am define me.”
Sighing, Maxim shook his head and moved to his desk, sitting down as he studied me. “You surprise me, Professor Shay, and that’s not an easy feat,” he said, motioning to Vladmir, who immediately left, leaving me alone with Maxim, Sebastian, and Michael—both silent, watching intently. Maxim continued, “Tell me something, Professor. Does Sinclair know?”
