Chapter 15 Ivy
IVY
Idon’t know why I even bothered to tell him about my family.
It’s not like he cares. He’s literally a Mafia leader.
The top of the food chain in a world where people disappear just for crossing him, not the kind of man you unload your sad little life story to over an early lunch.
And yet here I am, word-vomiting my way through all the family skeletons I’ve spent years keeping under lock and key because he simply asked.
I don’t know why I tell him about my parents. Or how I can’t rely on them for anything—not for money, not emotional support, not even a basic phone call unless they need something from me.
I clawed my way out of that suffocating house as soon as I could, desperate to put a continent between us. The only plan I’d ever had was to get into a good college, get a degree, and finally build a life that didn’t have their fingerprints all over it.
And then, because I’m apparently incapable of shutting up, I admit the worst part. That I ended up failing that dream, too.
Hard.
I say it quickly, like if I rush the words out, maybe they’ll sound less pathetic.
I tell him how the student loans are piling up.
About how my part-time over the last two years to help me get by has barely scratched the surface of my insurmountable debt.
And then finally, how I’d decided dropping out would be better than continuing to throw money into a sinking pit when the overseas “job offer” landed in my lap like a miracle.
When I finally stop talking, I realize I’m clutching my napkin hard enough to leave it shredded in my hands, twisted and torn from how badly I’d been wringing the poor thing through my fingers.
Across from me, Maksim surprises me. He doesn’t look bored or dismissive. He’s been quiet while listening, never once waving me off and telling me my problems are insignificant compared to the power plays he deals in daily.
If anything… he looks almost sympathetic. And worse, a little intrigued.
It’s unnerving the way he studies me, recalculating something in his head, maybe the internal chess game he’s always playing because of me.
And that’s when he drops the bombshell on me—that someone’s been tracking me, pulling my personal data, and connecting me to the shootout that happened at the cafe.
To say I’m surprised is an understatement. Who the hell would be interested in me enough to want to kill me? I don’t have enemies, as far as I know, and certainly not the kind who follow me halfway across the world just to take me out.
It’s a terrifying thought, my life hanging on the line of a very thin tightrope. But with no other resources other than the man sitting in front of me, I’m shit out of luck trying to resolve this myself.
“What would you say about making a deal?” he says finally. “Help me find out who pulled your information before you arrived in Moscow, and I’ll pay your debt off. All of it. I’ll even give you enough money to find yourself a new apartment.”
I just stare at him.
Two things hit me at once, both with the force of a punch to the gut. One—what the actual hell does he mean he’s going to pay off my hundreds of thousands of dollars in student loan debt? And two—how the fuck am I supposed to help him track down an online executioner?
I’m just a fucking girl from the States. I don’t have any hacking abilities. Even if I did, why would I waste them on trying to help his gang when I could be using them to go dark and start my life over somewhere new?
Then again, the idea of no longer having any debt hanging over my head is… tempting. Paying my loans off would hand my future back to me on a silver platter. Why would he do something so… kind? It doesn’t make sense
Which means obviously, there’s a catch because there’s always a catch with people like him.
“And how exactly am I supposed to help you? What, you think I have some magical hacking abilities I’ve been hiding? I don’t even know where to start.”
His gaze doesn’t waver, though there’s a slight uptick to the corner of his mouth.
“Start with Sergei. Look into his records when you have access to them. Emails, calls, any logs of visitors that come and go off the property, including my Bratva. There might be someone he’s been in contact with who knew you were coming from the States.
Someone who could benefit from using you against him as leverage.
If so, I want to know why and who that is. ”
The implication makes my stomach twist.
I’m not even sure if it’s fear or fury. Maybe both. “If Sergei really did want me dead, why risk Yulia? She was with me that day. She could’ve died.”
He leans back slightly. “I don’t know. While I don’t want to accuse him of anything… there are reasons a father would want to kill his own child. Especially if he has a sizeable life insurance and an insurmountable pile of debt looming.”
“Is he broke?”
“As far as I know, no. But then again, I don’t comb through his financial records when we meet.”
Before I can push further, his phone buzzes on the table. He glances at the screen, his expression tightening just slightly, shifting instantly from casual conversation to damage control. The mask that had been slipping very slowly throughout our conversations is now back in full force.
Without another word, he picks it up, answers in rapid Russian, and listens for all of ten seconds before ending the call.
“Lunch is over. We need to go,” he says, rising to his feet.
I blink. “Are you taking me back to the estate?”
“No.” His coat is already in his hand, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You’re coming with me.”
“Coming with you where?”
“To a job, Ivy. Up, let’s go. I don’t have time to waste.”
I should argue. Hell, I want to argue, but he’s already throwing cash down on the table and moving toward the front door. Something in the way he says it, like the negotiation is done whether I like it or not, makes me fall into step behind him.
The drive is short, maybe twenty minutes, and when we pull up outside a sleek, glass-fronted building in the center of the city, I realize this is one of his “business fronts” judging by the men in suits waiting outside it.
Inside, it’s all polished chrome and muted lighting, employees moving with the kind of deference that says they know exactly who he is and what he’s capable of and are more than happy to stay the hell out of his way.
Maksim doesn’t just walk through the space. He owns it. The air seems to bend around him. People step aside instinctively, lowering their eyes, offering quiet nods like he’s royalty.
I hate the way it makes my pulse quicken. Not out of fear but out of something else.
He moves with the same controlled precision as the first time I saw him at the Sorokin estate. Every step is planned, every glance calculated. When he speaks to the manager at the front, his tone is quiet and razor-sharp, leaving no room for negotiations.
Watching him in this mode—his Pakhan mode—is terrifying. And maybe it’s also a little… something else.
A little… dare I say, hot as hell.
Maksim Antonov, in full force like this, is a dangerous thing.