I nodded in response.
“I see,” Maxim said, leaning back in his chair. “And what does Sinclair want?”
I answered, “Whatever I decide, he will support.”
Maxim’s gaze hardened, his next words pointed. “That’s not what I asked, and you know it.”
My eyes narrowed as I offered a sly smile. “Help me or not, that’s your choice, Maxim, but I will tell you this, if the underworld interferes with my life or the lives of my family... who I am and what I know will become irrelevant to who I become and what I do next,” I clearly said, looking the man directly in his eyes as I slowly grinned and then added, “ThisDevilmay care, but he’s real close to fucking some shit up... so don’t push me.”
Maxim’s eyes narrowed to cold slits, the muscles in his jaw flexing. The air between us snapped taut. “Don’t threaten me, Professor. I’ve killed men stronger than you for less.”
My palms pressed into the polished wood of his desk, the cool surface grounding me as I leaned forward. I could hear the faint tick of the clock on the wall and the quiet, tense breaths of those behind me, all waiting. Lowering my voice to a razor’s edge, I let the words fall between us: “Veronika Delacourt.”
The name landed like a gunshot. For the first time since I’d entered, Maxim faltered—his composure cracked, pupilsdilating, knuckles blanching white atop his leather chair. Dust motes hung motionless in the light, as if the room itself held its breath as I just gave validity to a secret buried so deep it could topple everything Maxim fought to protect.
“She was nothing more than a whore,” Maxim bit out, voice rough, but a tremor betrayed him. A bead of sweat traced the line of his temple.
I let a slow, deliberate smile curl my lips. “Are you sure about that?” My words echoed in the silence, a subtle challenge hanging in the stale air. Outside, a distant siren wailed—a reminder of how fragile control could be.
The tension thickened, heavy as fog. Maxim’s stare bored into mine, searching for any hint of bluff. He knew now—this wasn’t about pride or bravado. This was leverage, pure and simple. With Veronika’s name, I’d laid my ace on the table, making it clear: I could topple his kingdom with a single confession. When his hand disappeared beneath his desk, I watched him—every muscle coiled, ready. That was when Vladmir reentered, Madigan Kelley and Rurik Ryabkin close behind, their joined hands a silent testament to shifting alliances.
The stakes had changed, and Maxim knew it.
Chapter Forty-Four
Rowen
The instant Madigan spotted me, she rushed forward, her arms encircling my waist. Her sobs shook against my chest, each one a raw note of regret. I could smell the faint jasmine in her hair, feel the tremor of guilt in her grip. “I’m so sorry, Rowen. I never wanted any of this. I swear I didn’t,” she cried, her voice thick with desperation.
I held her close, letting her sorrow seep into me, my hand soothing circles on her back. My heart ached for her vulnerability, for the burdens she carried. “I know, Maddie. I do,” I whispered, matching her quiet intensity. My gaze swept the room—harsh lights, cold metal, the weight of too many secrets pressing down. Guiding her to the nearest couch, I gestured for her to sit, never releasing her hand. Sitting beside her, I squeezed her fingers, grounding her—grounding myself. “Is he treating you well?” I asked, hoping for honesty.
Madigan’s eyes flicked to Rurik, who lingered near Vladmir, his stance protective and wary. She nodded, her voice trembling but resolute. “Yes. He’s been gentle. He’s tried to make this bearable.”
Relief flickered through me, but the worry remained. “Good,” I managed with a faint smile. “Maddie, your mother’s frantic. She needs to hear your voice.”
“I can’t.” Her whisper barely cut through the tension as her gaze dropped to her trembling hands. Madigan was always a gentle soul—content to fade behind her family’s legacy, never the lead. Being Eamon O’Malley’s granddaughter meant livingunder the relentless yoke of expectation. If not for Caity, her mother, Madigan might have been bartered away as a pawn. Now, watching her, I felt a pang of doubt—had any path truly been safe for her?
“Why not?” I asked gently, searching her face for the truth behind her fear.
“Because everyone is safer without me,” she murmured.
Her words landed heavily, haunted by secrets she couldn’t voice.
Maxim rose from his seat, posture rigid, his tone formal—a mask for the storm beneath. “Ms. Kelley, would you kindly elaborate on your concerns?” His eyes flicked to Rurik, icy with expectation. “You assured me you had everything under control.”
Rurik scoffed, frustration flaring in his voice. “It’s not easy trying to contain this mess. You try it, boss. It’s a nightmare. Every time I think I have a handle on it, something else blows up.”
Vladmir smirked behind his hand, shaking his head slowly, as if the situation amused him despite its peril.
Maddie straightened, resolve flickering in her eyes. “He’s right, Mr. Fedorov. With my grandfather’s files out in the open, nobody can stop what comes next.”
“What files?” Michael asked, tension straining his voice.
Madigan’s voice was low but unwavering; her hands twisted in her lap. “My grandfather, Eamon O’Malley, was the bookkeeper for theSociety, the organization behind every horrible thing that’s happened over the last several years. Every disgusting secret, every horrible war, every failed alliance was because of theSociety,and my grandfather had records of everything. The files he kept detailed every payment, every blackmail, every illicit deal—proof of decades of corruption. TheSociety’spower wasn’t just in violence, but in the threatthese files held: evidence that could destroy families and topple empires if exposed.” She swallowed, glancing at each face in the room. “The Trick Pony was only the beginning. There were plans for something bigger, more elaborate, and when my grandfather passed, everything he knew went to his protégé.”
“Who?” Vladmir demanded, urgency sharpening his tone.
Shaking her head, she murmured, “Nolan Kelley, who chose Tyran Fitzpatrick as his protégé, who chose someone else. Don’t you get it? The cycle goes on. Each generation inherits the secrets and the danger.”
