Snow crystals flicker beyond the headlights as our convoy noses onto the plaza of the Gotham Grand.
Spruce trees wrapped in fairy-lights flank a red-and-gold carpet, flurries catching on them like sequins.
A dozen long lenses tilt our way. The Bratva Ball always draws the paparazzi—half the guest list consists of New York’s power brokers, the other half Russian magnates and men who should be serving life sentences. The press knows a hot shot when they see it.
In the back seat, Teresa smooths the emerald silk over her knees for the fourth time, white-knuckled around a beaded clutch. The gown hugs her ribs, skims her waist, then fans into a mermaid flare that could shame a sculptor.
Her freckles glow under the limo’s interior lights, the diamond stud in her left ear hiding a comms unit pinging Dmitri every thirty seconds. She breathes in deeply, like she’s keeping something inside from spilling out.
I want her. Plain and savage. If there weren’t a dozen photographers waiting to capture our every step, I’d pull her into my lap and see just how smoothly satin slides.
“Ready?” I ask.
“Ask me again in an hour,” she says, smile brave, eyes unsure.
I step out first, cameras flashing, the murmurs of the crowd spiking. I turn back and offer my hand. Cameras pop as she emerges, green satin catching the strobes of light, accentuating every curve exactly as I’ve memorized them, and tonight, the whole damn city gets to see.
My palm is at her waist while we walk the carpet; anyone watching can interpret the gesture for exactly what it is—claimed space, disputed territory no longer up for negotiation.
Inside, the ballroom has been turned into a Slavic winter palace. White fur throws spill over banquettes, twelve-foot ice pillars rising beneath chandeliers that glitter like frozen tears. Ten thousand LEDs web the ceiling, filling the air with soft holiday starlight.
Guests drift between the pillars—women in jewel-toned silk and velvet, men in black ties and winter coats lined with mink. A Mozart quartet begins the opening bars of a waltz as we step beneath the arch.
Teresa leans in, lilac perfume drowned by pond-ice vodka and men’s cologne. “It even smells the same,” she whispers. “Before everything…”
I anchor her hand to my arm, changing the subject. “Ground rules. You stay on my left. Dmitri circles every ten minutes.”
She nods in understanding. We pass the archway of frosted branches and pause by a baroque fireplace. Flames snap around gas-lit birch logs, the heat giving her cheeks a rosy tint. A waiter offers vodka, but Teresa lifts a water glass instead. I swap my vodka for water too. Her glance of surprise lasts only a heartbeat, but the pleased curve of her mouth is worth the sacrifice.
We pause just outside the arch, the waltz curling out from the quartet. I rest my hand at the small of her back, feeling the tension coiled there.
“You’re about to meet some very wealthy, very powerful people,” I tell her. “Old money. New money. A few Russian aristocrats who still expect people to kiss their rings. Smile, speak little, nod politely, and you’ll own the room.”
She gives a quick, nervous laugh. “Still haven’t seen Volkov.”
Her eyes flicker over the crowd, searching for him. Mine do not.
“He’s not here yet. And when he does show up, you’ll be on my arm. You don’t need to think about him tonight.” I feel her tension ease a fraction under my hand.
As I glance around the room, I spot a woman before the herald says her name—tall, poised, draped in black sable over midnight silk, her hair the same polished gold it’s been since the first time I met her in St. Petersburg fifteen years ago. Katya moves like she’s gliding on ice, eyes finding mine with a knowing flicker before sliding to Teresa.
“Countess Katya of Odessa,” I announce. “My date, Teresa Winslow.”
“Vladimir,” Katya says warmly, as though we’d just stepped out of a long lunch on Nevsky Prospect. “You still surround yourself with beauty, I see.” She takes Teresa’s hands, kissing each cheek. “That emerald makes your eyes worthy of Fabergé.”
“Thank you, Countess. A pleasure,” Teresa replies, voice smooth and confident.
“Careful, my dear,” Katya teases, eyes dancing. “Too much poise and the men in this room will think you’ve something to hide.”
Teresa smiles, just enough to suggest she’s playing along. “Then I suppose I’ll have to keep them guessing.”
Katya’s laugh is low, genuine. She flashes me a glance over Teresa’s shoulder, the briefest arch of a brow that says she’s impressed. She bids us farewell, and Teresa’s shoulders drop with the breath she’d been holding.
Good. One down, a dozen to go.
Next come the Yevgeny twins, rail magnates from Novosibirsk. They bow in practiced unison. I remember the older twin has a gambling debt—info that may prove useful when leverage is required. Teresa’s handshake is firm and polite, her confidence growing with each new introduction.
Another twenty minutes pass in a steady rhythm of names, titles, and air-kissed cheeks. Ministers, oligarchs, distant cousins of Romanovs—she meets them all with the grace of someone born to be in this room, even if she wasn’t.Not once does she falter, and when the more barbed compliments come—veiled tests from wives and mistresses—she meets them with just enough wit to turn the exchange in her favor.
