Chapter Twenty-Four

Vladmir

It was the night of the grand opening of the Playground.

An event that neither Maxim nor I could get out of, since the new owner, Mr. Crispin Sinclar, personally requested that both of us attend, stating it would be beneficial to our current circumstances.

Sitting in the back of a Range Rover, I stared at my phone while the vehicle slowly rolled toward the entrance of the club. Everyone who was anyone in the city had received an invitation. It was all anyone could talk about, that and meeting the elusive new owner.

“He went all out, it seems,” Maxim muttered as he looked out the window.

I had to agree.

This was a major, high-end club that catered to the rich and famous and I expected nothing less. I didn’t want to be here. I hated leaving Aksana and Katiya with several of our armed guards, but there was no way I could not attend.

Where Maxim went, I went.

It had been that way from the beginning.

“Don’t worry, Vladmir. We will only stay long enough to pay our respects to the new owner before we leave.”

Frowning, I sighed. “It’s not that. Something isn’t sitting right with me about how everything went down in Alabama.”

“It’s a moot point, Vladmir. Our children are safe. That’s all that matters.”

“You’re right,” I conceded. “But aren’t you the least bit suspicious of how he found them so easily? The second he showed up, he led us directly to them. How did he know where to find them?”

“Are you implying that he had something to do with our children being taken? Because that’s a big allegation and one not to take lightly, considering we are about to formerly meet him and his associates in their own building in front of cameras.”

“All I’m saying is there is something amiss and it’s bugging me.”

“Could it have anything to do with the fact you still haven’t told Aksana about the baby?”

Growling, I muttered, “No.”

“So, you have told her then?”

“No.”

“Vladmir, take it from someone who’s been in your shoes. Tell her immediately. Delaying the inevitable will only make matters worse,” Maxim said as the vehicle stopped and the door opened.

It was showtime.

The Playground was not what I expected.

While I wasn’t up to date with the lifestyle of the BDSM world, I dabbled in the scene a bit. Yet nothing could have prepared me for the real thing. For one, the building was massive. A lot bigger than it looked. The walls, draped in cream silk, looked unassuming against the dark carpeted floor. Black sconces gave the building a dark, gothic vibe as a beautiful, scantily dressed woman wearing a lace mask over her face escorted Maxim and me deeper inside. The building was cold, almost like someone forgot to turn off the air conditioning.

Looking around, I noticed several black and white pictures of naked men and women adorning the walls.

Each picture was more graphic than the next.

The more I looked, the more intrigued I became when something stopped me dead in my tracks.

Staring at a picture on the wall, I couldn’t take my eyes off it.

Something about the picture disturbed me.

“Please, sir,” the clearly submissive woman spoke. “We need to keep moving. The master is waiting for you, and he doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

Ignoring the woman, I stood my ground. “The woman in this picture. Who is she?”

“I don’t know, sir. Please, the Master is waiting.”

“Vladmir,” Maxim whispered next to me. “What is wrong?”

“I don’t know, but I’ve seen this woman before. I know I have.”

“How can you tell?” Maxim questioned. “Her face is missing from the picture. All you can see is the curve of her hip and the small of her back.”

Pointing to a small birthmark on her hip, I muttered. “I’ve seen that mark before.”

“Where?”

“WHAT THE FUCK!” Montana’s roar stopped everyone around us from speaking as all eyes turned to the irate man as he rushed toward me. Turning around just as he pushed me away from the photo, he growled frighteningly.

“Montana, do you know this woman?” Maxim asked.

Instead of answering, Montana ripped the photograph from the wall and sneered at the woman escorting him, “Where the fuck is your goddamned Master, bitch?”

The scared woman backed up several steps, so did our guide.

Just as Maxim went to halt Montana from scaring the woman more, his feet faltered when another picture captured his attention.

Following his gaze, I stiffened.

“Oh shit.”

There, hanging on the wall, was a graphic picture of Illyria in the nude. She sat in a sensual pose, her back to the camera, blonde hair cascading down her back, barely showing the small tattoo she had on her hip.

Like Montana, Maxim took the picture off the wall while he looked around at all the people staring, wondering what was going on.

Moving fast, I ushered both men ahead of the guides.

“I’ll kill him,” Montana sneered. “I’m going to rip him apart with my bare fucking hands.”

“Right after he tells me where he got this photo,” Maxim added.

“Gentlemen,” a male voice said. “The Master is waiting.”

“You tell your fucking Master to go fuck himself!”

“Vladmir. The car. We are leaving,” Maxim demanded angrily.

“I can’t let you leave, gentlemen. Not until you meet the Master.”

Stepping over to the man, I threatened, “Don’t know if you are aware of who you’re talking to but let me assure you. We are fucking leaving. Right now.”

“You leave and I will never tell you where I got those photos,” the man himself said, leaning against the bar, dressed in a perfectly tailored and highly expensive tuxedo while he smirked at all of us.

Shoving the male submissive to the side, Montana strode right over to the man and growled. “Give me one fucking good reason not to fucking blow your brains all over this bar?”

“Because if you do, then he will win.”

“Who will?” I asked.

“Steven Hartley, but you know him as Popeye.”

“Sit down, gentlemen,” Sinclair instructed, as we all entered his private office, before adding, “Would you like something to drink? I fear you are going to need it after I tell you what you are up against.”

“Cut the bullshit and get to the point,” Montana snapped, taking a seat. “How the fuck did you get my wife’s picture?”

“I didn’t. Your father did,” Sinclair said flatly as he took his seat.

That shut Montana up.

“What I am about to tell you goes no further. We do not need Malice going off the deep end. We can all agree he tends to fly off the handle when the mood suits him. Besides, with who’s coming for all of us, we need to keep a clear head.”

Confused, I looked over at Montana, who nodded.

“The reason you are here, Mr. Fedorov and Mr. Ivenok, is because what I’m about to say concerns your organization, along with the Soulless Sinners, amongst others, that will, in time, show up for answers. Montana, I know you’ve heard part of this story, so please bear with me while I bring the Russian Federation up to speed.”

“Just get on with it,” the man snarked.

“I know all of you are aware that Devlin Scott owned and operated the Trick Pony in Miami, Florida and that you recently learned that Steven Hartley is Devlin Scott’s half-brother. They share the same mother, a woman named Sarah Hartley. What Sypher and Silas’ brother, Pippen, failed to figure out was how important Popeye truly is. Back in the 1950s, things were a lot different in the South than they are now. Back then, when a young woman got pregnant out of wedlock, her family would whisk her away to some institution where the child would be handed over for adoption. However, that wasn’t the case in this matter. Sarah Hartley was an impressionable young girl, the youngest in her family, who set her eyes on her older sister’s betrothed, a man named Ashley James. The two had a torrid love affair until Sarah learned she was pregnant. Her family hastened to hide the fact and sent her to New York to stay with her older brother and his wife. There, Sarah had the baby then returned to Alabama, where the family arranged for her to marry a man named Charles Scott, with whom she later birthed Devlin Scott.”

“Cool,” Montana snarked. “What the hell does this have to do with any of us?”

“Ashley James, the man Sarah had a tryst with, went on to marry Sarah’s older sister, Abigail, who gave birth to Cordell James. But more importantly and what I think you will be especially interested in this part, Montana, is that Ashley James started the motorcycle club, Satan’s Angels.”

“Son of a bitch,” Montana groaned.

“This is all very interesting, Mr. Sinclair, but what does biker business have to do with me?” Maxim politely asked.

“Because, Mr. Fedorov, your predecessor, Konstantin Baranov, stole someone from me and I need your help to find her.”

“And that is?” I asked.

“Her name is Thena Hartley. She’s Popeye’s daughter.”

“Excuse me?” Montana snapped.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Sinclair, but I had nothing to do with Konstantin Baranov. I’m not sure if you realize this, but I distanced myself from the vile man long ago. I have no information regarding his dealings before I took over the Russian Federation.”

Sinclair narrowed his eyes and simply said, “Veronika Delacourt.”

Maxim stiffened, as did I, neither of us saying a word.

“Who the fuck is Veronika Delacourt?” Montana asked point blank.

“Would you like to tell your friend, or shall I?”

Grinding his teeth, Maxim sneered, “Veronika Delacourt was a former mistress of mine before I found out she secretly worked for my brother to gather information. By the time I realized who she was, she disappeared.”

Sinclair leaned back in his chair and said, “Tell him the rest.”

When Maxim stayed quiet, glaring at Sinclair, I added, “Rumor was that Veronika didn’t just leave with information, but she was also pregnant. We never could substantiate that claim. The woman was a whore. If she was pregnant, it could have been anyone’s. Plus, she’s dead now.”

“And what would you say if I were to tell you that she did indeed give birth to a child?”

“I’d say, where is the proof?” Maxim fumed.

“Help me find Thena and I will give you the proof.”

I chuckled, shaking my head. “Are you seriously blackmailing the Pakhan of the Russian Bratva? Do you know how he got the nickname the Bloodletter? Because I am sure my boss would be more than happy to show you.”

Ignoring me, Sinclair smiled at Maxim. “Would you prefer I talk with your wife? I’m sure she’d like to know that there is a possibility that you fathered another child somewhere out there in the world.”

“Oh shit,” Montana moaned, slowly getting up from his seat as he took several steps back, giving my boss a wide berth.

I followed, doing the same.

I knew my boss, and Sinclair just stepped over the fucking line.

Watching the room intently, Maxim Fedorov stood to his full height and clearly said, “This meeting is over. You ever come near me or mine and I will kill you. This is your only warning. Good evening, Mr. Sinclair.”

With that, my boss turned and walked out of the room.

“Well, fucker.” Montana grinned, rubbing his hands together. “Let’s never do this again.”

Picking up the photo of his wife, he too, left.

Buttoning my suit coat, I clearly stated, “A word of caution, Mr. Sinclair. Heed my boss’ warning. He doesn’t believe in second chances.”

“Mr. Ivenok.” Sinclair stood. “Give your wife my regards. It was nice seeing her again after all these years.”