Steam begins to whine from the kettle. I kill the burner and pour the water through the grounds, the scent of fresh coffee filling the room. Teresa steps forward to grab two mugs from a high shelf. The movement lifts her tee, revealing more lilac lace and the under-curve of a perfect ass.
A fresh wave of heat rolls through me, but I focus on filling the mugs.
She cradles hers but barely sips, eyes looking up beneath thick lashes. “I don’t know how to act around you now,” she says quietly.
“Act as you always have,” I reply, passing her the sugar. “Efficient. Loyal. Professional.”
Her laugh is brittle. “After… everything?”
“There’s more at stake than you understand.” I’m trying to stay cool, but my tone is sharp regardless. “We keep appearances until I decide our next move.”
“Ournext move?” she echoes.
I set my untouched cup in the sink. “I’ll see you at ten. Don’t be late.”
That’s all. No kiss, no comforting touch, because softness right now would break the veneer I need to keep us both alive. She opens her mouth, maybe to protest, maybe to plead, but I’m already at the door, adjusting my jacket, masking the hunger clawing under my ribs.
Once in the hall, I breathe the stale building air and let the door latch behind me. One complication contained, at least for the moment.
Dawn is nothing but a smear of pewter over Queens when I slip out of Teresa’s walk-up, the streets coated in sleet.
A dark gray Rolls waits at the curb. Dmitri opens the rear door without a word. I climb in and immediately notice the folio on the seat beside me.
“Found some info on Teresa,” he says. “But what you’re looking at is something better.”
“What is it?”
He grins. “Possibly the solution to our problem. Read it.”
The first document is a brittle scanned page from 1947. It shows Aleksander’s father, Viktor Volkov’s looping Cyrillic promising my grandfather two million post-war dollars, interest to be negotiated upon demand. The second document is new; anaccountant’s nightmare turned into a notary’s seal. Seventy-eight years of compound interest adding up to five percent of Volkov Industries—roughly four-hundred-forty million dollars at today’s valuation.
This is it. This is the way to save her life.
“We go straight to Volkov,” I tell Dmitri. “No calls.”
He meets my eyes in the rearview mirror. “Marching in unannounced is an invitation to get shot.”
“Not in a lobby full of investors,” I answer. “Volkov won’t splash blood on his quarterly report.”
I can’t help but grin.
Volkov Industries sits just off Park Avenue, gray concrete and narrow windows, practically an air-raid bunker disguised as a skyscraper. At eight-oh-seven we pull up to the curb. I spot the two guards at the doors straighten when they see the license plate. One taps an earpiece, summoning reinforcements.
I shed my coat, letting the Angeloff silver tie gleam against my charcoal wool suit, and head to the metal detectors. Dmitri’s jammer hums against his thigh; the arch staying silent though we’re both armed.
Reception tries the usual roadblock, but my stare freezes the clerk’s tongue. “Tell Aleksander I’m here to settle an old family debt,” I say. “He’ll want privacy.”
A senior aide arrives in less than a minute and ushers us into a private elevator.
Aleksander Volkov’s thunder is already rolling when the boardroom doors open. He’s leaning over the table, berating two suits. Trina lounges casually beside him, her porcelain smile perfectly composed. As soon as Dmitri and I step in, her eyes widen in theatrical surprise before she slips me a wink—sweet as poison.
Aleksander straightens, fists braced on the oak. “You arrive without an appointment?”
“To honor a debt before Christmas.” I place the folio on the table. “Your father’s debt.”
The old note lies on top. Aleksander’s complexion goes from pale to scarlet. “That agreement died with its signatories.”
“Debts don’t die, they compound.” I open the second document. “With interest, restitution equals five percent of your company. Effective immediately.”
