“Jack and I were never the cozy-siblings type,” I start, voice shaky. “He was always off chasing something—poker tournaments, EDM festivals, insane women.” I force a laugh that dies right away. “Then eventually, he got into drugs and basically drifted out of my life. By the time our parent’s plane went down, his dealer knew more about him than I did.”
Trina’s eyes soften. “I remember the memorial. He was… absent, even while standing next to you.”
I nod. “Two weeks later he vanished. Sold his Mustang to cover a gambling debt, according to Mom’s lawyer. I begged him to stay. He didn’t. He hopped a flight to Macau and that was that.” I swallow hard and push on. “Fast-forward to Maxim’s charity gala. Jack turned up uninvited, cornered Maxim in the garage. I walked in as they were shouting. Jack was accusing Max of ‘hoarding Winslow money’ for Volkov expansions, Maxim telling Jack to get clean or get out.”
“And a guard overheard,” Trina murmurs, putting pieces together.
“Yeah. Somehow Aleksander twisted the argument into proof that Jack and I plotted Max’s murder.” The memory still stings like vinegar in a paper cut.
Trina steps closer, squeezing my forearm. “Uncle Aleksander goes hunting for people to blame when things go wrong. You know that.”
“If Jack really is in New York, your uncle will lose what sanity he has left.”
We fall into a thoughtful silence. Trina finally exhales, the cloud hanging in the crisp air. “Teresa, you didn’t kill Maxim. And Jack—wherever he is—will have to answer for his own sins. Don’t carry that for him.”
I want to believe her. The carousel music suddenly sounds eerie, the fairy lights too bright. I rub my arms as the air feels colder.
Trina notices and rallies. “Enough gloom. I promised Christmas cheer.”
She loops her arm through mine and tugs me toward a chalet-style stall stacked with iced cookies bigger than my hand. I let her drag me along, buying a candy-cane striped bauble and even managing a laugh when powdered sugar snows down her coat.
An hour later, shopping bags in hand and cheeks numb from the wind, we duck into a tiny bistro off Forty-First and split a plate of raclette. Trina keeps the talk light— office gossip, a disastrous date she barely survived, the eternal Eastside versus Westside bagel debate. The normal chatter helps. By the time we hug goodbye near the subway entrance, the weight in my chest feels manageable again.
My guards materialize the second Trina disappears down the stairs. The taller one—Mikhail—speaks into an earpiece, then holds the car door for me.
“Mr. Angeloff requests we drive you, Ms. Winslow.”
Translation: the boss is furious they let me ride the subway tonight. I slide into the back seat of an armored Mercedes, clutching my shopping bags while the city flickers past the windows. Was that really Jack? Or stress playing dress-up with a stranger’s face?
Outside my new building, two more guards flank the entrance. They escort me to the elevator, stepping out onto my floorbefore me to sweep the hallway. Polite, professional, but still unnerving. Once inside the apartment, I flick on the lights, toe off my boots, and drop the bags on the countertop.
Silence hugs me like cold water. I unpack the rose-gold ornament I bought and hold it up to the recessed lighting. It glitters—pretty, delicate, breakable. My brother used to call me that when we were kids.Delicate doesn’t survive our family, T.I set the ornament down before it slips from my fingers.
A prickling awareness crawls over my skin, like the moment just before someone taps your shoulder. The curtains are drawn, the locks engaged, but the back of my neck insists I’m not alone. I spin, scanning the open space, the hallway leading to the bedroom.
Nothing moves. Still, the feeling won’t let up. I imagine an unseen shadow in the dark, a breath I can’t hear. I tell myself it’s leftover adrenaline, that safe-flats come with overactive imaginations.
I cross to the bedroom door, flip on the light, and look around before stepping inside.
This place is supposed to be comforting. Tonight, it feels like danger, about to swallow me whole.
CHAPTER 14
VLAD
Nighttime in Manhattan always reminds me of a living machine.
I sit in the back of the car and track the motion beyond the glass. Sometimes the constant flow loosens ideas that refuse to budge at a desk. Dmitri knows the drill; he just drives and lets me do my thing.
“Volkov looked ready to chew glass this afternoon,” he says, merging onto the FDR. Wind slaps sleet across the windshield, the city lights smearing into neon watercolors. “We could’ve twisted harder and got a third of the company, easily.”
I lean back, one fingertip tracing condensation on the window. “If you wring a sponge too dry, you get dust, not water. If I had pushed for more, he might’ve taken things personally. Well,morepersonally. Five percent was enough.”
“Was it?” He glances at me in the rearview mirror. “Tens of millions left on the table, for Teresa.”
I let the name settle between us, a pebble dropped into deep water. “You think I played a bad hand?”
Dmitri shrugs. “I think you exposed your tell. Anyone with eyes could see you tied that debt to her life, not the bottom line. Volkov’s no idiot. He knows now what you truly value, and that’s Teresa. If he wants to get at you, he knows where to hit the hardest.”
