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“The Iron Wolf.”

I blinked. “As in your bar? Your Bratva base? Your testosterone-fueled criminal clubhouse?”

He smiled faintly. “You’ll be fine.”

Before I could argue, he was already out the door.

It took me twenty minutes to shower and throw on something understated: dark gray dress, high neckline, hem just above the knee, a pair of cute black combat boots. We left together in the elevator and went thirty-two floors down to a private garage. His car was sleek, matte black, like a shadow. He opened the door for me. Didn’t say a word.

The drive was calm. Boston slid past the windows in a blur of late morning sunlight and wet pavement. No music. Just the low hum of the engine and the steady rhythm of my heartbeat in my ears.

When we pulled up to the Iron Wolf, he got the door for me like a perfect gentleman. The outside was unmarked, just a black door, a brass handle, and a flickering light overhead. Inside, it smelled like old whiskey. The lights were dim, barely illuminating the exposed brick walls and the long, polished bar that gleamed like it had seen blood and bourbon in equal measure. There were booths along the far wall, all empty and a private back section behind frosted glass.

Nikolai’s hand was warm on the small of my back as he guided me forward to that back room. He didn’t shove, just used calm, steady pressure. At a table in the center of the room, there were four men waiting, all of them unmistakably Morozovs. They fell quiet when we approached.

The first man stood, tall, lean, and annoyingly handsome in a casual sort of way. He looked like the kind of guy who could talk you into selling your grandmother’s engagement ring and then turn around and thank him for the favor.

He smiled like he knew me.

“Welcome to the Iron Wolf,” he said smoothly. “I’m Aleksei.”

He extended his hand, and I took it, because what else was I supposed to do? His grip was warm, confident.

“Your reputation precedes you,” he added in a teasing tone.

Before I could respond, the man beside him spoke. This one didn’t stand. He was tall, yes, but quieter in his posture. Messy dark hair, thin glasses perched on his nose, a tablet in one hand. He glanced up once, offered the faintest nod.

“I’m Ivan,” he said. “I liked your odds manipulation strategy. Inefficient in execution, but solid in concept.”

My jaw ticked. “Thanks?”

“You used a three-year-old leak in a betting API to spike risk perception in real time.” He shrugged. “Smart.”

Aleksei leaned over. “Don’t mind him. He forgets normal people aren’t fluent in code.”

“Or compliments,” Ivan muttered.

The third man stood now. He was taller than the rest, broad shoulders, cropped salt-and-pepper hair, green eyes that pinned me in place like I was some threat he’d already clocked six ways to kill.

“Sergei.”

That was all he said, but it was enough. He didn’t smile, didn’t offer a hand. He just looked at me for a long second, then gave a curt nod and sat back down, arms folded across his chest.

The final man was already watching me. He stayed seated. Fingers laced in front of him on the table. He unfolded his hands, leaned forward just enough to command the moment, and offered me a nod that felt more like a final verdict than a heartfelt greeting.

“Maxim Morozov,” he said.

No theatrics. No warmth. Just a name weighted with something that felt an awful lot like legacy.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Sloane,” Maxim observed.

I sat up a little straighter. “Wish I could say the same.”

His mouth curved. Not in a smile really. Something infinitely more dangerous than that.

“I like sharp girls,” he said. “But sharp things still get put out of reach when they cut too deep.”

A warning. Delivered calmly. Almost kindly even.