“You could say that.” I manage a thin smile. “Latte?”
“Caffeine-sober for a month,” she teases, ordering a chamomile tea instead.
Once we’re settled and have our drinks, she leans forward, fingers laced. “Uncle’s got a bee in his bonnet again. You okay?” The concern in her hazel eyes is genuine, as always.
I sip my cappuccino. “Define okay. He’s had me blacklisted from half the banks on Wall Street. Now he wants me fired from the one job I found that wasn’t in a strip club.”
Her brows knit. “He’s still clinging to that? It’s been two years.”
“Grief has no expiration date and neither does his bitterness, apparently.” I trace a swirl in the foam. “You know he still blames me for Maxim. For everything.”
Trina sighs, tucking a strand of chestnut hair behind her ear. “Let’s back up. Maxim adored you. You two were practically childhood sweethearts.” She softens. “He was gentle, not like the old man.”
He was gentle. It still stings. “And yet Aleksander looks at me like I pulled the trigger.”
“That gala was a bloodbath,” she murmurs. “Nobody saw it coming.”
Maybe not, but I still see it every night when I close my eyes. Gunshots, Maxim’s blood, Vlad returning fire. I swallow hard. “I’ve kept my head down. I never retaliated. But when I accused Aleksander of arranging my parent’s plane crash?—”
“—he snapped,” she finishes. “Believe me, the family knows. He’s got your accusation etched into his pride.”
“I accused him because it makes sense,” I reply fiercely. “Winslow Transport merged neatly into Volkov Industries once my parents were gone. If Jack hadn’t vanished, maybe we could’ve fought it. But now, your uncle has possession of everything my parents built.”
Trina rests her hand on mine. “Your brother’s disappearance isn’t on you. As I told you then—I’ll keep Uncle from crossing the line.”
“You mediated the truce,” I say, my voice softening. “He would’ve buried me without you.”
She smiles. “Someone had to be a reasonable Volkov.”
We lapse into silence, nursing our drinks. A thin layer of snow begins to settle outside the window.
“I’ll talk to him again,” Trina says finally. “Remind him the Bratva investigation is still open and that harassing you makes him look desperate.”
“I can’t thank you enough,” I tell her. “Honestly, Trina, you’re the only reason I can sleep.”
She pats my hand. “You’ll owe me a spa weekend when this blows over.” Her playful grin drops into a serious frown. “Stay cautious, T. Uncle’s temper is unpredictable.”
“I’m well aware.”
We pay, bundle up, and step into the street’s glittering twilight. “Text when you get home,” she calls out, hugging her coat close before heading toward SoHo.
I turn toward the subway and freeze. A black BMW sedan idles at the curb. Leaning against its passenger door is Dmitri?Sokol, Vlad’s right hand. He’s an Angeloff Bratva legend with eyes like steel. He wears an overcoat dusted with snow, gloved hands folded in front of him.
My pulse skyrockets. “Mr.?Sokol?”
He inclines his head. “Ms.?Winslow. Mr.?Angeloff requests a word.”
The rear window lowers a fraction and Vladimir’s shadowed profile appears. Two nights without him and the memory of his body against mine still burns at the base of my spine.
“Now?”
“Now,” Dmitri confirms, opening the back door.
Snowflakes swirl under the streetlamp like shaken glitter. Trina’s warning about unpredictability echoes in my head, but this isn’t Volkov’s fury. It’s Vlad summoning me and ignoring it isn’t an option.
I pull my coat tighter with trembling fingers and duck into the warmth of the car. The door shuts, Dmitri slides into the front seat, and we pull away from the curb.
Vlad turns to me, eyes dark. “We need to talk.”
