“And we keep Teresa locked down,” I add. “If Volkov wants revenge, I’m going to make it very, very hard for him.”
He smirks, the cool air turning his breath to smoke. “Never thought I’d see you playing white knight.”
“Survival,” I say, stepping down to the lot. “And maybe something more.” The wind cuts sharp, but purpose burns hotter.
The deeper we dig, the messier this will get, but credibility is a currency, and I intend to spend it only if it guarantees the Angeloff’s stay on top.
And Teresa stays breathing.
CHAPTER 19
TERESA
The hum at Angeloff HQ is extra sharp this morning—phones chirping, printers whirring, conversations pitched a notch higher than normal. Everyone is talking about the Bratva Christmas Gala.
I pretend not to hear the whispered betting pool on who’ll waltz with whom, burying myself in flight manifests for Vlad’s next meeting. Anything to keep my brain from replaying the events of the other night; Jack breaking into my apartment, scaring the hell out of me.
You’re safe now, I tell myself. Not a chance in hell Jack could break into Vlad’s place.
Or could he?
I’m so deep in gate assignments that I don’t notice the hush rolling across the executive pod until the faint cedar-and-whiskey scent reaches my desk. I look up and almost choke on my coffee. Vlad stands next to my desk in a charcoal suit that makes even the air feel more expensive. No entourage, no subtle throat-clearing from Dmitri to announce him.
“Morning, Ms. Winslow.” His voice is polite, but his eyes hold an unreadable heat.
“Mr. Angeloff.” I manage to set my mug down without spilling. He’s never just appeared at my workstation before. Normally, it’s intercom calls where he tersely demands I come to his office.
He produces a thick ivory envelope stamped with the Angeloff crest, placing it atop my keyboard like a law being passed. My name shimmers in gold script beneath his.
“What’s this?”
“Open it.”
Inside, embossed card stock listsMr. Vladimir Angeloff & Ms. Teresa Winslowas joint guests of honor at the Bratva Christmas Gala, three nights from now, at the Gotham Grand Hotel. I swallow.
“You want me to attend?” My voice squeaks on the last word.
“I want you visible,” he says calmly. “Under my protection. Publicly. Irrevocably.”
The wordirrevocablysinks like a stone in my chest, equal parts refuge and shackle.
Dmitri appears, as if materializing from the carpet, tablet in hand. “Armored Mercedes, two-person close detail. You carry a clutch only, earpiece disguised as a stud. We cue extraction at your word.”
“But—” I glance down at my off-the-rack blouse, then back at Vlad. His gaze tracks the fabric, softening.
“We need a dress,” Vlad decides, like it’s as simple as ordering an espresso.
The town car slides through Midtown traffic, city lights strobing across the glass. I press cold fingers to my temples, heartbeat drumming. Last time I wore a gown to a gala, I became a widow.
Volkov will be at the gala. He’ll see me on Vlad’s arm.I dodge the thought by staring at the skyline but thrill sneaks in anyway. Vlad wants me beside him, not hidden.
He doesn’t speak, just works his phone in quiet bursts. I recognize that zone—when he’s feeding pieces to a board only he can see. Finally, he pockets the device and studies me.
“You’re safe,” he says, like he’s stating a proven fact.
“He’ll see us,” I say finally, voice low. “Volkov. His people. If we walk in together, it’s a billboard. Or worse, an insult.”
Vlad’s hand finds mine on the seat, thumb circling heat into my knuckles. “Good.”
