I push through the revolving doors into December’s bite, lungs sucking in frigid air that still feels warmer than the thought lodged in my skull.
Vladimir Angeloff may want me, but if the Christmas List holds, he may also be the man who ends my life.
CHAPTER 9
VLAD
The bottle was supposed to take the bite out of my mood, but instead, every swallow of whiskey fans the fire hotter.
I pace the length of the penthouse living room—glass walls on three sides, Manhattan glittering endlessly into the distance—but even the view can’t distract me. Every skewed reflection in the glass looks like Aleksander Volkov laughing.
Dmitri sits in an armchair, nursing his own drink, tracking me with wolf-like eyes. We’ve known each other half our lives. We came from the same Moscow orphanage, both of us receiving our first contract at nineteen, both making the same pledge to elevate the Bratva or die trying.
He rarely sees me rattled.
Tonight, I’m gripping the crystal tumbler so tightly I fear I might break it.
“She’s on the Christmas List,” I say again, hoping they’ll taste less toxic being spoken for the tenth time. They don’t. “Aleksander practically shoved her name down my throat.”
Dmitri sets his whiskey on a leather coaster. “A client that size hands you an order, you chew and swallow. That’s tradition, brother.”
“Tradition.” I bark out a humorless laugh. “I know the rules. But this—” I slam the tumbler onto the wet bar, liquid sloshing. “Teresa Winslow is no cartel accountant or witness. She’s a damn widow. Aleksander wants her dead because he needs a punching bag.”
Dmitri lifts a shoulder. “Grief logic is still logic to the grieving man. His son bleeds out, she walks away alive. She becomes the one he blames every night. In his mind, she’s guilty.”
“It’s ridiculous.” I brace both palms on the bar, head bowed. “I held Maxim in my arms after the bullet hit. Teresa was pinned under the table covered in his blood. How could she orchestrate that?” My voice drops. “How could she be guilty?”
Silence. The only sound is the faint hiss of the winter wind against the windowpanes.
When Dmitri doesn’t answer, I glance over my shoulder. He’s studying the ice in his glass too intently. Something churns behind his eyes.
“What?”
He exhales through his nose, rubs a thumb along his jaw. “It’s not my business.”
“Everything involving that list is your business,” I snap. “Speak.”
Dmitri swirls the whiskey, watching it paint the inside of the crystal before disappearing again. “Aleksander’s obsession may be irrational, yes, but rumors have carried weight amongthe families. Whispers about Maxim and Teresa.” He pauses, weighing his next words. “Whispers you may not like.”
“I’m not here to like anything.” I stalk back to the sofa opposite him. “Out with it.”
A long breath. “Their marriage was ceremonial, some say. For alliances, not passion. There are stories Teresa was unwilling to produce an heir.”
Unwilling. “You’re telling me she refused?”
“Rumor, remember.” Dmitri lifts both palms. “But it explains Aleksander’s rage. To him, Teresa stole his lineage by not producing an heir. No heir, no continuation of the Volkov bloodline. Combine that with Maxim’s death, and the old man sees nothing but betrayal.”
I sink into the couch, shoulders tense. Images barrel through my skull; Teresa’s wide eyes the night of the gala, her tremble when I lifted her from the floor, the way she bloomed under my hands in the limo. If Dmitri’s rumor mill holds true, everything between Maxim and Teresa was duty, not desire. And I broke that duty apart like it was nothing more than a lock I’d been dying to pick.
Dmitri’s voice cuts into the spiral of thoughts. “You asked why Aleksander believes she’s responsible. Easy. In his mind, she denied his son a legacy, then survived what killed him. Insult stacked on tragedy.”
I rake a hand through my hair, heart pounding. “He wants her extinguished to soothe his pride.”
“And to prove nobody escapes Volkov justice,” Dmitri adds. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Refuse thisorder, Vlad, and you shatter the code. Clients will question us. Our own enforcers may begin to questionyou.”
I know he’s right. I feel it in my bones. The code is the skeleton of our empire—break the spine and the body collapses. But the memory of Teresa’s pulse beneath my fingertips refuses to fade.
I meet Dmitri’s gaze. “Then we dig. Full background. Her parents’ crash, the brother’s disappearance, her unwillingness to produce an heir, every rumor to the root. If I take a life on Aleksander’s word, I’m going to need proof.”
