Chapter 4
SERGEI
When Maxim first told me he intended to replace Vasiliev with me as one of his brigadiers, I’d balked at the idea.
As the head of Maxim’s security team, there were few people he trusted more than me—maybe Archie.
And, well, none of us could have seen that betrayal coming.
Although technically, he hadn’t betrayed Maxim.
He’d just tried to kill Maxim’s husband.
My position as director of security paid me more money than I could reasonably spend, and the work suited how I was wired.
My instincts had always leaned toward protection, watching for threats and eliminating problems before they reached the people who mattered.
Probably because I grew up on the streets, where survival depended on noticing danger before it noticed you.
For most of my life, though, there had been no one worth protecting.
Then Maxim Morozov took me into his organization and gave that instinct a purpose. He shaped me into armor, into someone who would step in front of a bullet without hesitation if it meant keeping him alive. For years, that had been my role. My function.
I existed to keep him breathing, and I was damn good at it.
I’d already taken a bullet and two knife wounds for him.
Taking that away from me now felt like someone had reached inside my chest and removed the only part of my life that had ever made sense.
Maxim had only convinced me to accept the new role because my real task wasn’t to run the territory.
It was to infiltrate Vasiliev’s network and separate the men who were loyal to Maxim from those who remained loyal to Vasiliev after his death.
We couldn’t afford another security threat. Not when the men Vasiliev left behind were already circling the territory, fighting for control, or nursing grudges against Maxim. So, technically, I was still on protective detail, although indirectly.
Vasiliev’s territory included a nightclub that looked legitimate enough from the outside.
Music, dancing, overpriced drinks, and a crowd eager to forget their problems under flashing lights.
But beneath that polished facade sat the real business.
The third floor catered to an even more exclusive clientele, an elite gambling den where fortunes changed hands in a single night.
Security, I understood, but running an entire territory was something else.
As Maxim’s head of security, my job had always been simple in principle: keep him alive, eliminate threats before they reached him, and ensure nothing slipped through the cracks of his operation.
It required patience, attention to detail, and a willingness to do unpleasant things without hesitation.
Managing bartenders, servers, gamblers, and clientele was not part of that skill set.
And yet here I was.
We had approximately an hour before opening time, so the club stood silent, the dance floor empty except for the staff gathering in uneasy clusters while they waited for me to speak.
Without the music and the crowds, the place looked different—less like a playground for the city’s nightlife and more like what it actually was.
A machine running in the background, designed to generate the kind of money most people couldn’t even dream of.
Nik leaned against the bar to my right, arms folded, watching the employees assemble. For two nights, we’d circulated the club, lying low and observing to find the cracks in this territory. Tonight we’d take the first step to addressing those issues.
Security at the front door had been sloppy.
Bouncers waved in certain guests without checking identification, even ones who looked too young to be in a setting like this, while others slipped them folded bills and walked straight past the line.
Radios meant for communication between security posts sat unused while guards leaned against walls scrolling through their phones.
At one point, I’d run into two of the men spit-roasting one of the bartenders around the back.
I also noticed money disappearing. Bartenders poured drinks that never appeared on receipts.
Servers lingered too long at certain tables, where wealthy gamblers passed them cash directly rather than through the house.
Someone on the third floor ran quiet side bets that never touched the official ledger.
And then there were the drugs. The smell of cocaine drifted out of the VIP bathrooms both nights, so sharp that even someone without my experience would have noticed. Pills had changed hands near the back of the bar. None of it belonged to Maxim’s operation.
This club wasn’t meant to operate on drugs.
It was one of the legitimate fronts of Maxim’s business, and for that reason, it had to remain squeaky clean.
Drugs brought the wrong kind of scrutiny—narcotics divisions, undercover operations, and investigations that dug far deeper than a nightclub should ever invite.
This place made its money from alcohol and high-stakes gambling.
Powder and pills had no place here.
This meant Vasiliev had been running his own operation inside the club. We already suspected as much, but we had no idea how deeply his drug business had taken root.
I let my gaze move slowly across the staff gathered on the floor, watching their posture, their breathing, the subtle shifts in their expressions as they waited for me to speak. Some of them looked nervous. Others tried too hard to appear relaxed, and that itself was a telltale sign.
Nik pushed off the bar and wandered closer, his voice too low for anyone else to hear. “You planning to terrify them right away, or are we easing into the evening?”
I ignored him and stepped forward. A few of the workers straightened their shoulders. One bartender wiped his palms nervously on a towel he’d been holding. He should be nervous. I’d seen pills exchange his hands during his shift last night.
“My name is Sergei,” I said, my voice carrying easily across the room. “As of now, I am responsible for this nightclub.”
“This club belongs to Maxim Morozov, my boss.” My gaze moved from one face to the next. “Everything that happens inside it is his business. The bar. The gambling. The money.”
I nodded toward Nik. “For the past two nights, my associate Nik and I have been observing how this operation runs, and I’m not pleased with what I’ve seen.”
“Your door security is inconsistent,” I said, looking toward the cluster of bouncers near the entrance. “Some of you seem to believe identification checks are optional if the customer waves enough cash in your face, so let me be clear, minors are not welcome in any circumstance.”
“Your radio communication is poor. Guards abandon their posts to stand together and talk while areas of the club remain unwatched. And someone has deliberately created a blind spot in the surveillance cameras. Then there is the matter of drinks being poured without receipts, side bets being run outside the house ledger, and substances being sold inside the VIP areas that do not belong to this operation.”
I let my gaze linger on them one by one.
“I am mentioning these things only once. You are no longer working under Vasiliev. The rules in this territory are changing. If you work with me, you will be rewarded. The club will become more profitable, and those who contribute to that profit will see the benefits.”
“But if you continue behaving as if this territory is unmonitored, or if you believe you can run your own business under Mr. Morozov’s roof, then you may eventually share Vasiliev’s fate.”
No one laughed or dared even breathe loudly, and that was the reaction I wanted.
My security team under Maxim was not lax.
They all had gym memberships and regular training because I took whatever tasks I was assigned seriously.
I expected everyone working under me to pull their weight, or I cut them loose.
There were no second chances under my operation.
Nik had felt the brunt of that even though we were close.
He’d made one mistake, and Maxim cut him loose.
If not for Wren hiring him, personally, he would never have been allowed back in our organization. But Maxim was weak for his boy.
I inclined my head slightly toward the staff. “If you want to continue here, consider this an opportunity to adjust your behavior. The next time we gather like this, I will remove the people who do not belong here. Do you have any questions?”
For a moment, no one spoke. The group stood in uneasy silence, eyes shifting between me and the floor.
Then a woman near the middle of the group stepped forward.
Dark hair fell in a long braid down her back, thick and glossy under the club lights.
She wore fitted black trousers that hugged her hips and a sleeveless silk blouse tucked neatly into the waistband.
The look should have been elegant, but the sharp red of her lipstick and the narrow stiletto heels clicking softly against the floor gave it a dangerous edge.
A small ring pierced one eyebrow, another glinted through her lower lip, and a thin line of ink disappeared beneath the collar of her blouse at the side of her neck. She was striking. Not in the soft, flirtatious way most of the servers tried for, but she had a fuck-you energy I found intriguing.
When I met her gaze, she didn’t look away.
Interesting. Most people tended to avoid making eye contact with me.
Around her, a few of the employees shifted uneasily, their shoulders tightening as if they anticipated what she would say.
“My name is Hazel,” she said, her voice calm. “I run the second floor.”
I nodded for her to continue.
“For months, we’ve been understaffed,” Hazel said.
“Three or even two servers covering twelve VIP tables during peak hours. Security rotates guards without telling anyone, which means sometimes there’s no one watching the stairwell to the third floor, and deliveries for the bar arrive late half the time because there’s no one coordinating schedules. ”
“We’ve raised these issues repeatedly.” She folded her arms loosely, though her expression remained composed. “Nothing ever changes. Why should we think anything’s going to be different under you?”
“Wasn’t the operations manager supposed to address these problems?” I asked.
Her brow lifted slightly, and I searched my memory, recalling the information Maxim’s office had compiled when they handed over Vasiliev’s territory.
“The club manager,” I said slowly. “The one overseeing bar operations and staffing…”
“Daniel Blackwell, isn’t it?” Nik offered, checking through his phone.
“Yes, Blackwell. Isn’t he here today?”
The room went silent, and everyone I looked at made a concerted effort to avoid my gaze.
Hazel rolled her eyes. “There’s no one here by that name,” she said flatly.
I blinked. For a second, I thought she had misunderstood me.
“The operations manager,” I repeated. “The one responsible for coordinating the floors.”
Hazel shook her head. “There’s never been one.”
The silence that followed stretched long enough for the realization to settle in.
Of course. Vasiliev listed an operations manager on the payroll…
someone who didn’t exist. Which meant the salary for that position had been going straight into his own pocket.
I closed my eyes briefly and exhaled through my nose.
This territory was even more of a mess than I thought.
Nik let out a low whistle beside me. “Well,” he muttered under his breath, “that explains a lot.”
It certainly did.
No operations manager meant no one coordinating staff schedules, no one overseeing deliveries, no one managing the workflow between floors. The entire place had been running on improvisation while Vasiliev skimmed the salary of an employee who wasn’t real.
I suppressed the urge to pinch the bridge of my nose.
Cleaning up Vasiliev’s mess was going to take longer than anticipated. Which meant tonight wouldn’t be the only night I’d be stuck here overseeing this place. And if I were stuck here, I would miss escorting Leo home from the hospital again.
I preferred that word—escort. It sounded far less obsessive than what Nik kept accusing me of. Still, the thought irritated me more than it should have.
I straightened and looked back at the woman in front of me. “Alright, Hazel, we have our work cut out for us. I need all floor managers and the head of security to stay behind while we sort this mess out.”