He grins, predatory, pleased. “Funny you say that. I might have a plan in motion. Maybe I’ll loop you in, maybe not. Depends how loyal you are.”
Cold dread creeps up my spine. He’s not here for reconciliation; he’s here for leverage. Before I can reply, three rapid knocks hammer the door, followed by Dmitri’s bass rumble. “Ms. Winslow, you all right?”
Jack’s face darkens. “Seriously? You called the heavies on me?”
“I can’t trust you yet.”
He mutters a curse and throws a look toward the kitchen window. “Fine. We’ll talk later, sis.” He unlatches the window and swings a leg over the sill.
“Jack—”
Too late. He disappears down the fire escape just as the front door bursts open. Vlad strides in first, coat flaring, two armed bruisers at his back. Dmitri sweeps the room, gun drawn.
Vlad crosses the space in three long steps and grasps my shoulders. “Teresa, what happened?”
My pulse races. I hear a motorcycle howl to life in the alley. “It was my brother,” I whisper. “He went out the fire escape.”
Dmitri darts to the window and leans out. “Motorbike heading east. Black Triumph.”
“Stand down,” Vlad orders. “No street chase.” He pulls me close. “Pack whatever you need. You’re coming home with me.”
“Vlad—”
“You’re mine to protect, and this apartment’s compromised.” The finality in his tone brooks no argument.
Dmitri holsters his weapon and starts giving orders to the other men about securing the perimeter. I’m reeling. I’m about tomove in with the man who literally bought my life, and if Jack’s suspicions hold any truth, might have my family’s blood on his hands. I open my mouth to protest, to ask questions, but nothing comes out.
Vlad’s thumb traces my jaw. “We’ll sort everything,kotenok. But first, you’re going somewhere Aleksander and your brother can’t walk into uninvited.”
I nod. The safe-house was never really home. Now I’m trading it for a gilded cage in a penthouse fortress, and the only keys belong to the man whose protection feels as dangerous as the threats he’s saving me from.
CHAPTER 16
TERESA
The next day…
Ihover in the doorway of what Vlad calls my room, fingers curled around the jamb, trying to process the impossible. Every piece of furniture I owned now sits inside a space the size of my entire apartment in Queens. And somehow, it looks better here, like an art installation curated to prove how small my life used to be.
My dented teak dresser is against the back wall, my thrift-store reading chair right next to it. Even my chipped turquoise mugs line a floating shelf near a minibar stocked with the exact tea I drink when I can’t sleep.
The ensuite bathroom door is ajar, revealing limestone tile, a glass enclosed rainfall shower, and a soaking tub deep enough to dive into.
I lived in comfort with Maxim, but it was comfort built on his father’s indulgence. Maxim was sweet, generous, but still half a boy playing king. Vlad is different. Vlad snaps his fingers and theworld rearranges itself. He decides I need a safer place to sleep, andpoof, my entire existence migrates to Manhattan overnight.
I back away from the door, overwhelmed. My brother materializing in my so-called safe space, secrets about hit lists and family fortunes, now this sky-palace relocation. Which part is my new life, and which part is the discarded shell of the old? My mind chases its tail.
I pivot into the main corridor, breathing in the rest of the penthouse. Two stories of floor-to-ceiling glass overlook the East River, the winter moon hanging like a lantern above the water.
A suspended staircase of black steel and oak curves up to an open gallery lined with bookcases and discreet security glass. Downstairs, cream sofas float on a cloud-gray rug in front of a large wall fireplace.
Art hangs in restful intervals—an abstract splash of midnight blue, a photographic triptych of barren Icelandic landscapes.
The kitchen is all matte black cabinetry and copper fixtures, the island big enough to host a cooking show. I’d only been in the entrance foyer and Vlad’s study; seeing the whole spread now, empty and silent, feels voyeuristic, like I’ve broken into an oligarch’s private museum.
The elevator dings. My pulse spikes. The doors part to reveal Dmitri, hair damp from sleet, a cardboard box under one arm.
He spots me and lifts the box in greeting. “Got the last of your things. Some books, spare chargers, and this little plant that looks on the verge of death.”
