Chapter 57
Chapter fifty-seven
Olivia
This is stupid.
Lying to War is stupid.
I could die.
They’d probably bury me in some Bratva ditch behind a meat warehouse and no one would ask a single damn question.
I stare up at Exile.
Now or never.
In the daylight, the club still looms, black brick, sharp steel awning, windows masked with thick, matte-black curtains that choke out even the idea of sunlight.
Red neon letters flicker above the door like a threat dressed up as a welcome. The entire building hums with something… dangerous. Coiled. Waiting.
The moment I step inside, the temperature seems to drop.
A bald man blocks my path. Built like a bulldozer in a too-tight shirt, his expression screams ‘wrong move and I break your jaw.’
“We’re closed.”
“I’m looking for Maksim Korsakov,” I say, straightening my spine, trying to keep my voice from shaking.
His eyes drag over me, slowly, and a sickly tingle creeps up my spine. I don’t flinch, but I want to.
He says nothing. Just pulls out his phone and starts speaking in Russian, voice low and clipped.
I try not to panic.
When he hangs up, a loud bang echoes from above, a door slamming open.
Heavy footsteps descend the metal staircase from the VIP section. I glance up.
A tall man emerges.
White button-down rolled to the forearms. Dual guns strapped in a chest holster. A wicked knife twirling between his fingers like a toy.
He smirks as he reaches the bottom, his dark hair slicked neatly back, jaw strong and clean-shaven, dark brown eyes unsettlingly bright.
He stops a few feet in front of me. He’s as tall as War. And if War is fire, this man is ice.
“You can go, Sergei,” he says, not looking at the other man.
Sergei disappears behind a side door without another word.
I swallow. Hard.
The man flips his knife once more before sliding it into a sheath in his waist band, then holds out a hand.
“Vaska Morozov.”
I hesitate a breath, then take it.
His grip surprises me, firm, but gentle. Controlled.
“Olivia Baker. I’m looking for Maksim Korsakov.”
He releases my hand, eyes gleaming with amusement.
“Regarding?”
“Business,” I say, lifting my chin.
He chuckles, low and amused. “You’re determined, krasivaya.”
The Russian rolls off his tongue like smoke. Pretty. Dangerous. “But Korsakov isn’t expecting any women today.”
“I’m an unexpected visitor,” I reply. “But I still need to speak with him.”
Vaska smiles like a man who knows something I don’t.
He considers me for a moment, then nods. “Okay,” he says simply. “I’ll bring you to him.”
He turns, and I follow him up the stairs.
Each step feels like a mistake.
A choice I can’t unmake.
The farther we go, the darker it gets—velvet curtains muffling light, plush carpet muffling sound. Shadows crawl across the walls like ghosts. The air thickens.
At the very end of the VIP hall, Vaska stops in front of a heavy black door with a gold handle. He opens it without knocking and steps aside.
“After you,” he says.
A chill creeps up my spine. But I step in.
The room is sleek and shadowed; glass, concrete, and a massive dark wood desk that looks like it was dragged out of an old-world war chamber.
And behind it, him.
Maksim Korsakov.
Blue hair mussed up, snake bite piercings catching the low amber light. Tattoos disappear under the collar his shirt.
He leans back in a leather chair like he owns not just this building but the city around it.
His cold blue eyes rake over me.
Slow. Intrusive.
Vaska steps in behind me and shuts the door.
The click of the lock makes me flinch.
I’m trapped.
With both of them.
This was a bad idea.
Maksim’s gaze lingers, hungry in a way that makes my skin crawl.
“I didn’t order a woman today,” he drawls. “So what do you want?”
Bastard.
I fight the disgust clawing up my throat and force my voice steady.
“I’m Olivia Baker. I work at—”
“Beaumont,” he cuts me off, smirking. “He sends a woman to do his bidding?”
He laughs, low and condescending.
My mouth moves before I can stop it.
“I’m here on my own.”
Shit.
His expression sharpens. He leans forward slightly, interest flashing.
“Alone?” he repeats, one pierced brow lifting.
I shake it off. Straighten my shoulders.
He’s trying to rattle me. I won’t let him.
“I want to make a deal for the Parker Building.”
Maksim leans back in his chair, a bored look settling across his sharp features.
“No.”
Flat. Dismissive. Like I offered him gum instead of a deal.
I blink. “I haven’t even told you—”
“I’m not interested.” He waves a tattooed hand lazily. “You can go now, Olivia.”
Heat floods my face. Not from embarrassment, but frustration.
Plan A it is.
“What if I offered you something better?” I ask, moving around his desk.
He lifts a brow but doesn’t object. Just watches.
I stop beside him, hovering awkwardly. “Could I use your desktop?”
His smile curves, all teeth and arrogance. “Hell, you can sit on my lap while you do it, if you want.”
“No, thank you.” My voice is tight. Controlled.
He doesn’t move.
So I lean over him, carefully reaching for the mouse. His clean, sharp scent, ocean breeze laced with something spicy, fills my nose. It shouldn’t smell this good, but it does.
He doesn’t look at the screen.
I can feel his eyes on me, not the property listing I pull up. That somehow makes it worse.
Focus, Olivia.
I pull up the maps and blueprints I’ve prepared. “This is Beaumont Luxe,” I say, pointing. “It’s larger. Better for what you want to turn it into.”
He doesn’t look. Not right away.
“What do you know,” he says slowly, “of what I want to make it into?”
I glance at him.
Big mistake.
We’re inches apart.
My breath shudders.
Then I pull back, standing straight again.
“Whatever you use it for…” I clear my throat. “It has more basement space. And for a man like you—”
He smirks. “A man like me?”
His gaze flickers with something. Amusement? Threat? Both?
“Ms. Baker, I’m just a businessman.”
I fold my arms. My patience is wearing thin.
He’s going to say no again. I can feel it coming.
And I’m done playing nice.
I place my hands on my hips. “It’s no secret you’re Bratva. Matter of fact, you’re the head of it.”
His smile fades. Just a little.
“You could use the basement for your kills. The upper floors for your fronts—money laundering, illegal shipments, whatever the hell you want. We’ll even finish the renovations for you.”
I meet his eyes.
“But we want the Parker Building.”
Maksim shakes his head, that same smirk playing at the corner of his lips. He’s about to dismiss me again.
I speak before he can.
“It’s still in your territory,” I say, pivoting fast. “Beaumont Luxe… There’s a transitional home not too far from it—for kids aging out of foster care.”
He doesn’t interrupt. But he doesn’t look interested either.
“We were going to donate. Make a big thing out of it. Cut a ribbon, get some press coverage. Looks good for the city. And for whoever owns the block.”
His eyes finally meet mine.
Cold. Blue. Piercing.
“Why,” he says slowly, “would I care about transitional homes? Or kids?”
I hesitate for half a beat.
Then I go for it.
“Your mother,” I say quietly. “She was adopted, wasn’t she? And your father’s—”
“Enough.”
The word slices through the room like a blade.
He stands.
My breath stutters. I don’t move.
Vaska, still leaning near the door, shifts. Says something in Russian, his tone low, cautious.
Maksim doesn’t look at him. His eyes are locked on mine.
“Leave.”
Vaska hesitates. “Maks…”
“Leave. Now.”
The pause that follows is long and silent.
Then Vaska nods once, his jaw tight. He looks at me on his way out, and something in his expression curls unease through my gut.
He shakes his head, barely noticeable.
Then he’s gone.
The door closes with a quiet, final click.
Oh god.
This is how I die.
Why did I say that?
Why did I bring up his mother?
I read his psych eval.
I know better.
Why did I poke the bear?
“How do you know that?” Maksim’s voice is quiet. Too quiet.
His eyes narrow. “Does Beaumont know?”
“No,” I say quickly. “No, just me.”
He tilts his head. “So I kill you and no one will know.”
The tears come instantly. Hot and humiliating.
A sob breaks.
He sees it. Freezes.
I remember what I read. He doesn’t cry. Can’t handle it when others do.
“War gave up the building for me and I—”
“Stop that,” he snaps, reaching for a tissue from the corner of his desk.
He hands it to me, and it’s oddly… gentle.
Like he wants me to stop crying because he genuinely doesn’t know what to do with it.
I pat my tears away.
“I need to keep the Parker Building,” he says.
“For what?” I ask, voice rough.
“That’s none of your business.”
I take a breath. My voice steadies.
“If it’s just to sit there. If you’re only holding it because of your father—trying to prove something, make a point about his failure, then fine. Keep it in your name. But let us build it. Let us make something good out of it.”
He steps back.
His brows furrow so deep they nearly meet. One hand hovers near the gun holstered at his waist.
His voice turns sharper. “How do you know so much about me?”
I swallow, my breath catching in my throat. He hasn’t moved, but I feel it. The shift. The danger. His hand is on his weapon.
“Maksim—” I try, but his expression darkens.
“Who sent you?”
No longer curious. Suspicious. I take a step back.
“I just—” I flinch as his fingers twitch, and it bursts out of me. “I did something illegal, okay?”
His head tilts. “Illegal?”
“Yes,” I breathe. “I... I pulled tax records. Real estate holdings. Employment history. Your liquor license renewals, everything! It was stupid, I know, but it’s what I do when I’m curious. And you were…”
I trail off trying to think of anything appeasing, his silence pressing in.
“You were interesting,” I finish lamely.
He studies me for a long moment. The tension lingers between us, sharp as a blade, but his hand leaves his gun.
“So yes, what I did was illegal,” I admit. “And yes, I’m the only one who knows. Yes, you could kill me, hide my body, and no one would ever find out.”
I pause, taking in a shuddering breath, trying to keep the tears at bay.
“Or…I could owe you.”
The words leave my mouth like a death sentence.
“Owe me?” His voice is low. Curious again.
Wrong move Olivia.
He could ask for anything.
I nod, slowly. “You need someone to break through a system you can’t get into? I’ll do it. I’ll help. But let us have the Parker Building. You can have Beaumont Luxe. We’ll finish the renovations, we’ll donate to the transitional home; in your name.”
His head tilts.
“You need the good press,” I continue, my mind racing. “You need to look valid. You’ve been on law enforcement radar for a few months now.”
He freezes.
Then slowly, a crooked smile pulls at his lips.
“You hacked into local law enforcement?”
I nod once. “And your medical records.”
That makes him laugh. Full and sharp. Eyes gleaming now.
“So you know,” he says. “And you still had the balls to walk up in here and face me alone?”
“Yes,” I exhale.
Maksim sits again. Slowly. Then leans back in his chair, arms resting wide on the armrests like a king on a throne.
“I’m not taking your ‘I owe you,’” he says, lips twisting. “I won’t tie you to the Bratva.”
He pauses.
“But I’ll take Luxe. I’ll take the donation.
And the land under the Parker Building?” He taps the desk once.
“Still mine.”
“So we get the building?” I ask. “We can make it whatever we want?”
Maksim nods once, slow and deliberate.
“What is it that you’re making?”
I hesitate. But I tell him.
He gave me a deal. I owe him the truth.
“A home,” I say softly. “For kids who age out of the system. And a scholarship fund… in Noah Hartman’s name.”
His eyes shift.
Recognition flickers there.
“That kid who died,” he murmurs. A beat passes. Then he nods.
He falls silent. Stares at the desk for a long moment. I don’t breathe.
“Deal. That’ll make my territory a pillar of the community.”
“Exactly,” I reply, heart still racing.
He extends a hand across the desk.
I stare at it for a second, then take it.
His palm is rough. His grip, firm as he pulls me in hard, eyes locked on mine.
“You keep that mouth shut, yes?”
I nod. “Yes.”
The door swings open behind me.
Vaska steps in, face tight.
“You need to move. Beaumont’s two seconds from taking a bullet.”
My heart plummets. “Oh no—please don’t,” I gasp, bolting past him.
Maksim’s laugh follows me. “Vaska, call Sergei off.”
I don’t wait to hear more. I tear down the stairs, skipping steps, breath ragged. The second I hit the floor, I see them—War and Sergei, chest to chest, heat rising off both of them like smoke. The air practically vibrates with violence.
Both men are tall, furious, and locked in a verbal brawl, in Russian. Words fly like gunshots, sharp and escalating.
I wedge myself between them before I can think better of it, my body the only shield between two men who look ready to kill each other. My heart’s about to crack my ribs.
“I’m so sorry,” I say breathlessly, eyes wide. “We’re leaving. Now.”
Vaska appears behind Sergei and mutters something.
Sergei curses under his breath but steps back, clearly annoyed.
I grab War’s arm and tug him toward the exit, pulse hammering.
Once we’re outside, I exhale hard, relief crashing over me in a wave.
“You speak Russian?” I ask, glancing up at him.
He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at me. Hard. Calculating.
“You hack systems?”
He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t curse.
But his voice lands like a fucking verdict.
Shit.