The thought of her walking around with a bull’s-eye painted by my pen makes my stomach crawl. Losing money bothers me less than losing her. The realization sits heavy, like a secret I haven’t admitted to myself yet.
Am I falling for her?
I push the question aside as we pass a squat brick warehouse lit by sodium lamps. The sign over the gate reads Mayflower & Mills Moving, Corporate HQ. It’s one of our smaller, perfectly legitimate fronts. Rows of long-haul trucks sleep behind high fencing. Movers are invisible in this city; their rigs come and go at all hours, and nobody blinks.
A thought sparks.
Dmitri tracks my gaze in the rearview. “Need to move a couch?”
“More like I need a discreet relocation.” I tap the window. “Those trucks have reinforced paneling, GPS blind spots, compartmentalized storage. We could hide the Crown Jewels in one without popping a scanner.”
“Thinking of moving her again?” He raises a brow. “Penthouse?”
I consider it. My building is a fortress—ballistic-glass exterior, private elevator with biometric lock, armed concierge who answers only to me. Teresa would be safer there. Safer under my roof, my cameras.Safer with me.
If she’s within arm’s reach, I can protect her. And if she’s in my space, maybe she’ll feel the weight of that protection and stop looking over her shoulder every five seconds.
“Could work,” Dmitri says, flipping on the turn signal. “But bringing her home changes the optics. Word might get out.”
“She’s already my responsibility. Might as well keep her close. I’ll think on it.”
“Do it fast. If Volkov finds a loophole—say, hires an outside hitter to finish the job—she’ll need walls thicker than a co-op on Seventy-Eighth.”
The city blurs by, headlights carving tunnels through drifting flurries. I imagine Teresa in my kitchen tomorrow morning, wearing one of my shirts, barefoot on heated marble.
She’d be safe.
Watched.
Mine.
We turn north toward the bridge, salt crunching under the tires. Behind my eyelids the fantasy flares again—her lips parted insleep, trust so complete it almost hurts to see. I open my eyes and glance back at the warehouse fading behind us.
Maybe tonight I’ll call the building manager, prep the guest suite. I’m not going to wait for Volkov’s next move to decide how far I’m willing to go. Because the truth is settling whether I welcome it or not… what I bought from Aleksander was nothing more than a reprieve.
The snow starts coming down faster, the city keeps churning, but inside the car a decision is already taking shape, solid and inevitable.
If Teresa is my responsibility, then she belongs where I can reach her, where no one can come between us.
And God help anyone who tries.
CHAPTER 15
TERESA
Bryant Park sparkles with lights dripping from every kiosk, Christmas music bounces off the rink, and my breath shows in perfect little cartoon puffs. For some reason I’m laughing—truly laughing—while Trina waves an enormous pretzel under my nose and puts it into my hand.
“Cinnamon sugar,” she says, but her words blur at the edges, like the speakers suddenly lost half their volume.
“What?” I lean closer. The crowd noise dips too, as if someone pressed mute on the whole scene. I can still see people talking, mouths moving, but the sound is muffled, distant.
Trina’s lips form one clear syllable, “Jack.”
My stomach tightens. “What about Jack?”
She gestures toward the vendors, and there he is. Same copper hair, same bomber jacket. This time there’s no doubt; the air seems to sharpen around him. He meets my eyes, shock flashing across his face, then bolts toward the carousel.
“Jack!” My voice finally breaks through whatever weird sound barrier was stifling me. I drop the pretzel and sprint after him. The fair blurs—candy-cane stripes smearing, lights streaking like comets. My boots pound the pavement, heart smashing against my ribs. I round a corner between gingerbread stalls and?—
