The city lights smear across the tinted glass as the sedan merges into traffic, carrying me toward whatever reckoning waits beyond the glare.
CHAPTER 7
VLAD
The engine settles into a low hum as Dmitri pulls the BMW onto the FDR. Teresa sits beside me, hands braided tight in her lap, eyes fixed on the blurred glow of the East River. Tension ripples off her in the subtle clench of her jaw and the bouncing of her leg.
Good. Fear is honest; it leaves no room for performance.
I open the arm-rest bar and uncap a crystal flask. “Drink?”
She flinches. “You said we needed to talk.”
I pour two fingers of Oban into a cut-glass tumbler.I take my time swirling the amber whiskey before reaching forward and tapping the partition. Glass rises with a hush, sealing us off from Dmitri and the city’s white noise.
She watches every motion with wide eyes.
People harboring guilt tend to crack under silence. They fidget and overshare. Teresa sits still now, her breathing shallow but steady. Not guilt, just uncertainty. Interesting.
I sip slowly, allowing the smoke and sea salt to roll over my tongue before setting the glass on the armrest. “Why were you meeting with Trina Volkov?”
Her head snaps toward me. “Excuse me?”
My voice remains calm. “Simple question. You’re not on speaking terms with her family, yet you met with her.”
Her lips part, releasing a sharp exhale. “Aleksander is the one with the problem. Trina isn’t his attack dog.”
“Still curious,” I say, fingers tapping against the tumbler. “A Volkov offering friendship when her uncle is sharpening his knives. I assume she’s gathering intel.”
“She’s always been good to me,” Teresa fires back with the spark I expected. “One of the few who have. I’m not in a position to refuse support.”
She folds her arms defensively, her gaze flicking over my face, searching for judgment. The cabin light highlights her features, a faint flush still lingering from the café’s warmth. I remember that color spreading down her throat two nights ago, the sound she made when I bit her shoulder…
Focus.
“Support can be expensive,” I murmur. “Especially when the bill arrives soaked in blood.”
Her eyes flash. “Not everything is a transaction, Mr.?Angeloff.”
“In our world it is,” I correct softly. “The universe runs on debts and payments. The moment you forget that, you lose more than your job.”
She swallows hard. Silence falls again, but she holds my stare—a small gesture I can’t help but to respect.
I raise the glass, letting the whiskey wet my lips. “Tell me what you two discussed.”
“She wants to convince her uncle to leave me alone,” she says, voice edged but honest. “That’s all. I’ve been blacklisted from my career, living paycheck to paycheck, dodging threats. If Trina can change his mind, I’ll take the help.”
The desperation behind her calm hits harder than I expect. I drain the glass and set it down.
“And you think Aleksander Volkov will listen to reason?”
“I have to hope.” Her shoulders sag, courage fraying at the edges.
“Hope’s cheap.”
And dangerous.
The car turns off the freeway toward Midtown. Her reflection flickers in the window—tired, stubborn, a woman walking unarmed through a minefield. The Volkov’s, the Bratva code, my own self-restraint, all circling like wolves.
