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“With a little money in the right places,” he says, “I made sure those men entered the ring without signing the waiver.”

Every muscle in my body goes still.

“They thought they could beat Maksim anyway. They were eager enough, and their families were happy enough to take the money afterward.” He tilts his head, considering. “Everyone made a choice.”

The restraint leaves me before I can stop it.

I am out of my chair in an instant. Around the desk in two strides.

My hand fists in the front of Jake’s shirt, dragging him halfway out of his chair. My other hand rises, knuckles tight, every instinct in me demanding I put him through the glass wall behind him.

Jake doesn’t flinch.

Of course he doesn’t.

“Hit me,” he says, eyes bright with challenge. “Come on, Tristan. I know you want to.”

My fist trembles in the air.

“You’re a fucking monster.”

He smirks. “A monster with enough leverage to bring down the Petrov family.”

The words cut through the rage just enough to make me listen.

“Think about what happens if those videos go to the FBI,” Jake continues. “Or the press. Think about what happens if they reach the families of those men.”

My grip on his collar tightens.

Then he says, casually, “Or the family of the boy Maksim killed when he was fourteen.”

My hand loosens.

“You know the one.” Jake goes on, his voice softer now. Crueler. “The boy Maksim stabbed through the throat with a pen.”

“How did you—”

“Oh, Tristan.” He cuts me off with a sigh, as if I have disappointed him. “I know everything about Maksim’s childhood.”

The office is suddenly too quiet.

“He killed the son of one of Russia’s most prominent mafia leaders,” Jake continues. “That family has spent years searching for a way to take the Petrovs down. Give them this footage. Give them three more bodies. Give them proof that they can use to take that family down.”

A cold weight settles in my chest.

He is right.

If that family gets hold of this, they will not simply go to the authorities. They will use it. They will threaten the Petrovs. They will tear every old wound open until no one walks away untouched.

“What is your aim here?” I ask. My voice is low, stripped of everything except disgust. “What are you trying to achieve?”

Jake looks at me for a long moment.

Then he says, “You.”

The answer is so simple it takes a second to register.

“If I can’t have you,” he continues, “no one else gets to. If I’m not happy, you don’t get to be either.”