The waltz guides us near the west loggia, a marble arch opening onto a terrace of sculpted ice.
And there he is. Aleksander Volkov waits there, Trina beside him, champagne in hand. We slow, our final pivot bringing us face-to-face.
Volkov’s eyes give Teresa a once-over, then me. “Angeloff,” he says, voice glacial, “I see you’ve brought quite the date tonight.”
“I have,” I reply confidently.
Trina stands beside Aleksander in black velvet, her hand looped through his arm. Her smile at Teresa is rose-petal soft. “Lovely to see you, darling.”
Teresa’s posture is gracious, her voice warm. “And you, Trina.” But Trina’s eyes flit away too quickly, her fingers tightening on Volkov’s sleeve before she murmurs some excuse and slips off into the crowd.
Teresa exhales. “I think I need some fresh air as well.”
“Step outside for a minute,” I tell her. “I’ll join you shortly.”
Volkov watches her go, then swirls his drink. “Making a point, are we? Parading her around, letting every man in this room see? Men like me?”
“Not everything is about you and your ego,” I reply, meeting his stare without blinking.
A corner of his mouth tilts. “Maybe not. But there are consequences for every decision.” He sips, eyes glinting. “By the way, it’s a shame about that warehouse attack in Jersey. Dangerous times.”
The twin wolf tattoo comes to mind, as well as bleach pooling on concrete. My responding smile doesn’t reach my eyes. “Danger finds those who invite it.”
He tips his glass in mock salute, then turns and disappears into the glittering crowd. I cut through the crowd of furs and tuxedos, out toward the terrace, searching for Teresa. I find her on a winter-garden balcony strung with strands of fairy lights, frosted glass panels trapping the city’s glow. Teresa turns to me, eyes bright with hurt.
“You were attacked and didn’t tell me.” She’d heard Volkov’s rumblings.
“Routine,” I say, shrugging off the bruise under my ribs. “Cost of doing business.”
“It’s risk,” she counters. “To you. To us.”
Us. The word lands heavy. My defenses slip and I cup her face, thumbs brushing warmth into her cheeks. “I wanted you to have tonight without worrying about matters like that.”
“Sharing danger is sharing truth.” She threads her fingers with mine, grounding the words.
Truth. The string-lights paint emerald sparks in her eyes. I lean in and press a kiss to her forehead.
Inside, the orchestra launches a furiousbarynya. Dmitri appears at the doorway and gives the smallest shake of his head, indicating there’s no immediate threat. Then he’s gone once again.
I lift Teresa’s emerald shawl from her shoulders, wrapping it tighter to guard against the chill. “Another dance?”
“Fine, but this conversation isn’t over,” she says firmly.
As we step back inside, I catalog exits again, gauge Volkov’s distance, and note Petrov licking wounded pride in a corner. All variables. But the woman on my arm is non-negotiable. If war comes to this ballroom, it comes through me first.
Let Aleksander test which of us is the hungrier wolf.
CHAPTER 21
TERESA
The orchestra eases into something slower, a last ribbon of music before dinner is called.
Vlad guides me through the final turn, his palm a steady sensation between my shoulder blades. My pulse is still drumming from the confrontation with Volkov. I hate that he can get to me so easily.
We applaud with the others when the song ends, but Vlad’s eyes snag on a figure near the champagne fountain. He’s an older man in a midnight blue tux, white hair slicked back with precision, a cane capped in hammered gold. The crowd parts around him the way minnows slide past a barracuda.
“Konstantin Pavlovich Reznikov,” Vlad murmurs. “Owns the biggest port in St. Petersburg, not to mention a handful of our Bratva’s northern routes.”
