Chapter 104
Magnus POV
I followed Maxwell down the corridor with Ryan at my side, my eyes taking in every detail of this place. After fifty-plus years of life, you develop a certain instinct about dangerous situations, and everything about this building made my skin crawl. The men positioned at corners weren't just security—they were killers, their eyes too cold, too watchful.
The office we entered surprised me with its elegance—all gleaming surfaces and expensive furnishings. It looked more like a CEO's sanctuary than a criminal's lair. A massive desk dominated one end, while a sitting area with leather furniture occupied the other. Clearly, crime paid well.
Maxwell gestured toward a plush leather sofa. "Please, make yourselves comfortable." He took his place on the sofa while Ryan and I settled into chairs opposite him.
I caught Ryan's eye briefly. He gave me an almost imperceptible nod, silently telling me to follow his lead. Smart boy. He knew these waters better than I did.
A stunning redhead entered with a silver tray of coffee, her movements graceful but purposeful. I'd worked enough construction sites and seen enough rough characters in my life to recognize the outline of a weapon beneath her fitted jacket. Not just a pretty face then.
"Thank you, Vanessa," Maxwell said. He lifted his cup and inhaled the aroma. "Nothing quite like Mexican black coffee, wouldn't you agree?"
I decided to play along, picking up my cup but hesitating before drinking. "If you enjoy bitter coffee, you should try the 'Vampire Coffee' at 60th Street. It'll keep you up for days."
A flicker of interest crossed Maxwell's face. "Magnus Turner," he said, emphasizing my full name with unsettling familiarity. "Successful businessman, and father to Evelyn Moore—though you only discovered that particular fact recently."
My grip tightened on the cup. The casual mention of Evelyn sent protective rage surging through me.
"In my line of work," Maxwell continued smoothly, "I need to know the name of everyone in this city. Helps me identify potential allies... or threats." He turned to Ryan. "What brings you two gentlemen to visit me?"
Ryan leaned forward, determination etched across his face. "I want you to search for something for me."
Maxwell tilted his head, curious. "And what might that be?"
"I want to know the exact location of my mother-in-law's body," Ryan stated bluntly.
A laugh escaped Maxwell's lips. "Are you playing hide and seek with a corpse? That's rather morbid, even by my standards."
The flippant response about Amelia—the woman I had loved decades ago, whose child I never knew I had—broke through decades of self-control. I shot to my feet. "Show some respect!"
In an instant, the redhead had a gun pointed at my head, her movement so quick I barely saw it happen. In all my years in business, I'd faced angry competitors and tough negotiations, but never had a weapon aimed directly at me. My heart hammered against my ribs.
"Magnus, please..." Ryan's voice was steady but urgent. "Sit down."
Maxwell waved his hand dismissively at the woman. "Put it away, Vanessa. Our guests are just passionate."
I lowered myself back into the chair, aware of how close I'd come to getting us both killed. I needed to rein in my emotions—something I'd always prided myself on before discovering I had a daughter.
Ryan cleared his throat. "That bastard never buried her. I want to know where her remains are so my fiancée can be reunited with her mother."
Maxwell's expression softened slightly. "Frederick really was a bastard, wasn't he?" He took another sip of coffee. "What are you offering in exchange for this information?"
"What do you want?" Ryan countered.
A slow, predatory smile spread across Maxwell's face. "I want your beautiful fiancée."
My muscles tensed instantly. Ryan's hand shot out to grip my arm, keeping me in place. His eyes met mine, sending a clear message: Wait. Trust me on this.
Ryan's voice was ice-cold. "Evelyn is not a commodity for you to covet."
Maxwell chuckled. "We were classmates once, weren't we, Ryan? Until you discovered certain... family secrets." He glanced at me briefly. "Your father was quite resourceful back in the day."
Ryan nodded slowly. "It will be painful to give up my trump card, but I accept."
Confusion struck me. "My daughter is not a bargaining chip," I growled, misunderstanding his words.
Ryan turned to me, his expression softening. "Magnus, my trump card is a painting. My father said you might be interested in it."
He pulled out his phone, brought up an image, and handed it to Maxwell. I caught a glimpse of a white castle by a lake, surrounded by blue and pink trees—unusual, but hardly seeming valuable enough for this exchange. In my years running a construction business, I'd seen wealthy clients pay fortunes for art, but this seemed like an ordinary landscape.
The change in Maxwell was immediate and striking. The calculated businessman persona cracked, revealing something I recognized from my own mirror—the look of a man confronting something deeply personal. His fingers tightened around the phone, and for a moment, the hardened criminal seemed almost vulnerable.
"We have a deal," he said, suddenly serious. "This painting has special significance to my family. My mother has wanted it back for a long time."
I studied his reaction carefully. Whatever this painting was, it clearly touched something deeply personal—perhaps the only soft spot in Maxwell's armor.
Maxwell's eyes met mine, a moment of genuine understanding passing between us.
"I'll come for the painting in one week, bringing the information you need."
As we prepared to leave, Ryan caught my eye with a subtle nod toward the door.
I followed Ryan toward the exit, keeping my face neutral though my mind raced. The armed guards watching our departure reminded me how far we'd strayed from normal channels. All my business instincts warned me that Maxwell wasn't to be trusted, but what choice did we have?
Maxwell's voice called after us as we reached the door. "Mr. Turner."
I turned, keeping my expression neutral through sheer force of will.
"Take care of your daughter," he said, his tone impossible to read. "Family is... everything."
I gave him a curt nod, unwilling to reveal how deeply those words affected me.
Whatever this painting meant to Maxwell, I hoped it was worth the information he would provide. Because one way or another, I was determined to bring Amelia home—for Evelyn, for myself, and for the closure we both desperately needed after decades of lies.