I light a Sobranie Black, an expensive Russian cigar I allow myself only before a kill. Smoke ribbons into the dark, carried by the wind toward Brooklyn and oblivion.
“Opravdayas, Teresa… ili bog prostit menya.”
Justify yourself, Teresa… or God forgive me.
CHAPTER 10
TERESA
Idump the contents of my dresser onto the bed—jeans, sweaters, an old university hoodie—stuffing whatever lands closest into a battered carry-on.
My hands are shaking so badly items keep falling to the floor. Flight? Bus? Cargo ship to Iceland? I don’t know. I just need distance between myself and Vladimir Angeloff’s kill list.
Halfway through cramming toiletries into a zip pouch, I freeze. If I simply vanish and don’t show up for work, he’ll know I saw something. A hunted animal runs; a smart one lays a scent trail in the opposite direction. I grab my phone, thumb out a text.
Mr. Angeloff, apologies for the hour. I’ve come down with some sort of stomach virus. Managed to get a last-minute doctor’s slot tomorrow morning. I’ll need to take the day.
Polite, vague, overshare-y enough to be plausible. I hit send, then mute the phone so I can’t hear any buzzing death sentences in all caps.
I step into the living room, clutching the carry-on. My apartment is tiny—exposed-brick walls, thrift-store rugs,various succulents on the sill. It smells of peppermint tea and the vanilla candle I left burning too long. Not much by New York standards but it’s mine, earned one brutal paycheck at a time after my former father-in-law blacklisted me from real finance work.
Now I’m about to abandon it with less ceremony than taking out the trash.
I sink onto the sofa. Tears hit, hot and humiliating. A week ago, my worries were over Vlad’s mixed signals and Maxim’s ghost. Tonight, I’m planning a midnight jailbreak because the man who sets my skin on fire could also be obligated to put a bullet in my skull.
I sob until my chest aches, until the ugly sound gives me a headache. I tally realities: four-hundred and twelve dollars in checking, fifty-nine in savings, one half-maxed credit card. A bus ticket west will eat half of that. Motel rooms and food the other half. No plan beyond keep moving.
If Vlad wants me dead, state lines won’t save me for long. Still, motion feels safer than staying static. Predators know where to find sleeping prey.
An hour later, I’m ready to go.
Wiping my tears with the back of my hand, I unzip a second duffel and toss in my laptop, passport, and the small wooden jewelry box that holds Mom’s wedding band and Dad’s fountain pen. My whole life, condensed to this. I shoulder both bags and click off the lights. The candle’s still flickering, and I smother it with its lid—no need to burn the place down on my way out.
The hallway air is sharp with disinfectant. I lock up, heart pounding so loudly in my ears I barely hear the bolt slide. I turn and stop dead.
A tall figure detaches from the shadows beside the stairwell. Black coat, dark eyes. The corridor’s single overhead bulb halos him like an angel of death.
Vlad.
My pulse implodes. The duffel slips from my shoulder and down my arm, landing on the floor. My breath stalls halfway up my throat.
He takes a step closer. “You don’t look sick to me,” he says, voice low, almost gentle, which makes it worse.
My heartbeat finally kicks back in to fight or flight, a panicked rabbit scramble. But my feet stay rooted, caught by the fatal gravity of his gaze.
Is this it? Has he come to kill me?
He reaches me, one hand settling lightly on the small of my back, guiding me toward the door I just locked. “Inside,kotenok. Let’s talk where the neighbors can’t eavesdrop.” Vlad doesn’t raise his voice; he doesn’t need to.
My knees threaten to buckle, but I move anyway. I pick up the bags. Keys rattle as I unlock the door. I step over the threshold and set the bags down. He closes the door behind us with a soft click, scanning the tiny living room, the half-packed chaos, the tissues on the coffee table, the life I’d planned to abandon.
“Tell me,” he says, tone gentle yet simultaneously sharp as a blade. “Why are you running?”
My heart hammers against my ribs. I cross my arms to keep from shaking. “I—” The words knot in my throat. “I went into your office to get the Zurich file. I spilled coffee and knocked over a folder. It was your?Christmas list.” My voice breaks. “My… my name was on it.”
All the fear I’d been holding back erupts, hot tears spilling before I can stop them. “You’re going to kill me,” I whisper. “I thought you… I don’t know what I thought.” My shoulders heave. “I have nowhere to go.”
I feel like I’m giving too much away. But it doesn’t matter now. There’s nothing else I can do. If he’s here to kill me, then these are my last moments.
