Valerie
The next place Lev takes me is a nightclub is called Apex.
We pull up in the black Mercedes—bulletproof glass, Mikhail driving, two more cars full of armed men flanking us—and my stomach drops at the line of people wrapped around the building. Waiting. Hoping to get inside.
We don't wait.
The doors open for us like Moses parting the Red Sea.
"What is this place?" I ask as Lev helps me out, his hand immediately claiming my waist.
"Mine." He guides me past the velvet ropes, past the angry looks from people who've been waiting for hours. "Neutral territory for business. And somewhere I want people to see you."
That last part makes my chest tighten.
He keeps wanting to be seen with me. Keeps parading me in front of his family, his associates, his world. Is this some kind of game? A power play I don't understand? Or does he actually want me around?
The thought terrifies me either way.
Inside, the club is a fever dream of wealth and violence barely contained.
The main floor is packed—bodies grinding against each other under lights that pulse like a heartbeat. The bass is so deep I feel it in my bones. But it's not the dancing that catches my attention.
It's everything else.
In the corners, men in suits that cost more than houses conduct business like they're at a boardroom table instead of a nightclub. Money exchanges hands openly. Drugs flow freely at certain tables—not hidden, just... accepted.
Violence simmers under the surface like heat shimmer off asphalt. I see it in how certain men move—predators in expensive clothing. See it in the scars some of them carry openly. See it in a flash of something in one man's jacket that's definitely a gun.
This isn't just a club.
This is the Bratva world, stripped of pretense.
Beautiful people doing ugly things in beautiful spaces.
And Lev is leading me right into the heart of it.
We head toward an elevated VIP section—glass walls, plush seating, perfect view of everything below. Like a throne overlooking chaos.
As we approach, I see familiar faces.
An older man at the center—gray hair, sharp eyes, commanding presence even while sitting. Tash's father, Dmitri. I recognize him from photos she's shown me, though she's always been careful about how much she reveals about her family.
Some men I remember from the dinner are scattered around.
And Tash.
She's perched on the arm of a leather couch, red dress that probably costs a fortune, drink in hand. Looking every inch the Bratva princess.
When she sees me, her eyes go wide.
"Oh my GOD!" She jumps up, nearly spilling her drink. "Babe! What are you—"
Then her hand flies to her mouth. Eyes darting to her father. Back to me. To Lev.
"I mean—" She tries to recover. "You look like—you remind me of someone I—" She's turning red. "Can we just pretend I didn't just—"
"Natasha." Dmitri's voice is amused. "You know this girl?"
"I—she—we—" Tash looks at me helplessly.
I decide to save her. "We went to Columbia together. Same literature class freshman year."
"Right! Yes!" Tash latches onto it. "Literature. We studied... books. Together."
Lev's looking between us, one eyebrow raised. "You studied books?"
"So many books," Tash says, completely straight-faced now. "That’s why it’s called literature."
I press my lips together to keep from laughing. Even Dmitri looks amused.
Sometimes I wonder how this lady is mafia-born.
"Well then." Lev guides me to the couch and sits, pulling me down beside him. His hand stays on my thigh—high enough to be possessive, not quite inappropriate. "Small world."
"Tiny," Tash agrees, taking a long drink. "Microscopic, really."
Dmitri shakes his head, but he's smiling. "Lev, I see you've brought interesting company."
"I have." Lev's hand tightens on my thigh. Claiming. "Everyone, this is Valerie Novak. She's under my protection."
The words ripple through the space. Men who were engaged in other conversations turn to look. Trying to assess what it means that Lev Volkov brought a woman here.
I try not to squirm under the attention.
The next hour is surreal.
Men approach our section constantly. Some to pay respects, some to report, some to ask permission for things I don't fully understand.
"The shipment from the coast?" A younger man, nervous, hands clasped.
"Arrived. No issues." Lev's voice is calm. Measured.
"The property dispute?"
"Settled. Petrov saw reason after we had a conversation."
The word "conversation" sounds ominous. I see the young man swallow hard.
"The Italians want to renegotiate the Brooklyn arrangement."
"Tell them no. They had their chance. If they push harder, I'll push back."
Not a threat. A promise.
I watch faces as men interact with Lev. Some show respect—bowing heads slightly, keeping their voices deferential. Others show fear—stammering, unable to maintain eye contact, and even seem relieved when he dismisses them.
These are dangerous men. I can see it in the scars some carry, in how they move like violence is muscle memory, in the cold calculation behind their eyes.
And they're all terrified of him.
At one point, a man gets dragged past our section—literally dragged, two huge enforcers holding his arms while he begs in Russian. Blood streams from his nose. His expensive suit is torn.
"Please, please, I can explain—"
They haul him past the VIP area, toward a back door marked PRIVATE. The music swallows his protests.
No one in our section even looks up. Like this is normal. Expected.
I stare after him, heart pounding.
"Don't worry about it." Lev leans close, lips against my ear. "Just business being handled."
Business. Right.
I watch them disappear through the door, and my imagination fills in what "handled" means. The soundproofed rooms. The tools. The screams no one will hear.
My stomach flips—terror and something darker I don't want to examine.
A woman in a barely-there dress delivers bottle service to our section. She pours with practiced grace, but I see how her hands shake slightly when she gets to Lev. How she won't meet his eyes.
Even the staff are afraid.
Downstairs, the dancing has devolved into something more primal.
Couples grinding against each other, hands everywhere, some barely clothed.
In one corner, I see a man push a woman against the wall and kiss her aggressively while his hand slides under her dress.
She doesn't push him away. Just lets him.
In another section, three people are doing something that definitely constitutes public indecency.
No one stops them. No one cares.
This is the Bratva world. Money and power and violence and sex all tangled together until you can't tell where one ends and another begins.
And I'm sitting in the VIP section, Lev's hand on my thigh, watching it all like I belong here.
The thought makes my chest tight.
Because part of me—some sick, twisted part—is drawn to this. To the danger. To watching Lev command absolute loyalty. To seeing this world that exists in the shadows.
But another part—the part that remembers I'm supposed to be spying, that Ethan is being tortured, that I'm going to get Lev killed—is screaming that this is wrong.
That I don't belong here.
That I'm playing a game I don't understand.
What am I doing? Sitting here beside him like I'm his, when I'm the one who's going to betray him?
Guilt crashes over me. I see Mila's face—trusting, finally feeling safe. Then Lev telling me about finding his family dead. About Mila sitting in their blood.
My chest tightens so hard I can't breathe.
"Valerie." Lev's voice cuts through my spiral. "You alright?"
"Fine." The lie is automatic. "Just... a lot to take in."
His eyes narrow, studying me. Then his hand moves higher on my thigh. Possessive. "Stay close. This world can be overwhelming if you're not used to it."
I nod because I can't speak.
Tash catches my eye from across the section and slightly jerks her head. A clear signal for me to follow her lead.
I wait a few minutes, then lean close to Lev. "Bathroom?"
He looks at me for a long moment, as if he's deciding to dictate nature’s call. Then nods. "Don't take long."
I stand on shaking legs and head toward the back.
The bathroom is all black marble and gold fixtures, designed to match the club's excess. Tash is already inside, grinning.
"So." She crosses her arms. "You're fucking him."
"Tash—"
"Don't even try to deny it. I can see it all over you." She gestures at me. "The way he touches you. The way you let him. How long?"
"A few days." I move to the sink, needing something to do with my hands. "It's... complicated."
"Of course it's complicated. You're sleeping with the man you're supposed to be spying on." She lowers her voice, glancing at the door. "Have you told him?"
"No. And I can't. If he finds out—"
"He'll kill you. I know." She moves closer. "But this can't go on forever, Val. Something has to give."
"I know!" It comes out too loud. I lower my voice. "You think I don't know that? Patrick has Ethan. He sent photos—Ethan's face is destroyed, Tash. He's being tortured because I'm not moving fast enough. But if I give Patrick what he wants, Lev dies. And Mila—"
"Loses another parent." Her expression softens. "This is so fucked."
"I know." I press my hands over my face. "Every choice ends with someone I care about bleeding."
She grabs my shoulders. "Then pick the choice you can live with. Because this middle ground? It's going to implode. And you need to know which side you're on when it does."
"I don't know—"
"Yes, you do." Her eyes are serious. "You're falling for him. I can see it."
"It's not love—"
"I didn't say love. I said falling. And Val?" She squeezes my shoulders. "For what it's worth? Enjoy it while you can. The sex, the danger, all of it. Because life's too short for regrets, and you might not get another chance."
She leaves, and I'm alone with my reflection.
I look different. Eyes wilder. Lips swollen. Like someone who belongs in this dangerous world.
The thought terrifies me.
I fix my appearance and head back out.
Lev's eyes find me immediately, tracking my movement across the club. When I sit beside him, his hand returns to my thigh. Higher than before.
"Everything okay?" His voice is low.
"Fine."
A man approaches our section—older, fifties, expensive suit, cold eyes. I don't recognize him, but I see Lev's posture shift. Tension.
"Volkov." The man's accent is thick. Armenian. "Didn't expect to see you here."
"Grigor." Lev's voice is pleasant. Too pleasant. "Could say the same. Thought we agreed you'd stay in your territory."
"This is neutral ground." Grigor's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Besides, I wanted to see if the rumors were true. That the great Lev Volkov has found himself a weakness."
His gaze slides to me. My stomach drops.
"Careful." Lev's hand tightens on my thigh hard enough to hurt. "That sounds like a threat."
"Not a threat. Observation." Grigor shrugs. "Just noting that men with weaknesses make mistakes. And mistakes are... costly."
The temperature drops.
Lev stands slowly. And suddenly the pleasant facade is gone.
"Let me make something clear, Grigor." His voice is quiet but carries perfectly.
"The girl is under my protection. That means she's untouchable.
If you look at her wrong, I remove your eyes.
If you threaten her, I take your organization apart piece by piece.
Your men, your family, everyone you've ever cared about—scattered across three states in pieces small enough to fit in jars. Do you understand?"
Grigor's smile falters. "I didn't mean—"
"Do you understand?"
"Yes." Grigor steps back. "No disrespect intended."
"Good."
Grigor leaves quickly.
Lev sits back down, hand returning to my thigh like nothing happened.
My stomach flips—terror and that dark arousal I can't control.
The night continues. More business. More drinks. More watching Lev command this world while guilt eats me alive.
Around midnight, he stands and pulls me with him.
"Come."
"Where—"
"My office."
“You have an office here?”
“You’d be surprised at how many business deals have been struck here.”
He guides me through the club, past the PRIVATE door, up stairs to a corridor lined with heavy doors.
At the end, he unlocks one and pulls me inside.
The office is sleek—desk, leather chairs, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the chaos below. The music becomes muffled. Soundproofed.
He locks the door.
"Lev—"
He kisses me. Hard. Hands already pulling at my dress.
"I've been watching you all night." His voice is rough against my lips. "Sitting beside me, looking like that, driving me insane."
He lifts me onto the desk, pushes my dress up. Finds me already wet.
"No underwear again." His eyes darken. "Making it so easy for me to take what I want."
"Lev, someone could—"
"These walls are soundproofed." He unzips his pants, positions himself. "You could scream and no one would hear."
The words hit differently than he means them.
No one would hear.
If he killed me here, right now, I could scream and beg and it wouldn't matter. These walls swallow sound.
I'm completely at his mercy.
The thought makes me wetter.
He feels it—how I clench at the realization. "You like that. Knowing no one can hear you. Knowing you're trapped here with me."
"Yes—"
"Then scream." He thrusts inside, and I cry out. "Let me hear you fall apart where no one can save you."
I do.
Scream his name as he fucks me on his desk. Scream when his hand finds my clit. Scream when the orgasm builds impossibly fast.
The danger of it—being trapped, helpless, completely his—makes it overwhelming.
I come so hard I see white. Body rigid, clenching around him, sobbing his name.
"That's it." He doesn't stop. "Taking me so perfectly. Coming so hard where no one can hear you beg."
The words push me over again—smaller but intense—and I'm shaking, falling apart.
He follows. Buries himself deep with a Russian curse, hand in my hair, holding me exactly where he wants me.
Afterward, he helps me down. My legs barely work.
He fixes his clothes while I try to straighten my dress.
"Beautiful like this." He cups my face. "Wrecked and trembling. Mine."
My phone buzzes.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Lev's eyes drop to my purse. "Answer it."
"It's just spam—"
"Valerie." His voice goes cold. "Answer it."
Terror grips me because I know who it is.
Patrick.
I pull out my phone. Seven missed calls.
"Spam." The lie falls out. "I'll block it."
Lev's eyes narrow. "Spam doesn't call seven times. Who is it?"
"Old job. They keep trying—"
My phone buzzes again.
Lev doesn't grab it. Just watches my face. "We're leaving."
The drive home is silent. Tense.
When we arrive, he walks me to my room.
"Sleep. We'll talk tomorrow."
Then he's gone.
I pull out the burner.
Fifteen missed calls. Ten texts.
24 hours to send updated intel or Ethan loses a finger.
What do I do?