I knock, three brisk taps that sound braver than I feel. The door opens two inches, security chain catching. Jack’s face appears in the gap—sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, face pallid.
“Teresa?” He blinks like he’s seeing things. “What are you?—”
“Open the door, Jack.”
He hesitates for a beat, glances back into the room, then slides the chain off. Inside, a blast of stale heat and cigarette funk hits me. The room is tiny, paneled in fake wood, bedding patterned with moons that look more like coffee rings. An old TV plays a daytime quiz show. The unmade bed is untouched. He’s been pacing, not sleeping.
“You followed me.” He says it like an accusation, though he backs up and lets me step in anyway.
“I hired a PI.” I close the door, the soft click feeling eerily final. “I wanted to know why my brother was playing waiter at a Bratva gala. But more importantly, why you ran.”
Jack rubs his jaw, cigarette trembling between his fingers. “I was there because I wanted to keep an eye on you. Maybe talk you into coming with me.”
“In the middle of a ballroom full of mobsters? Why there?”
He shrugs. “What the hell else was I supposed to do? Vlad’s place is like a military fort. No way I’m getting near you otherwise.”
“Then why run?”
His eyes flick to the floor. “Because I thought Vlad spotted me and I panicked. And then,” he grimaces, “those guys showed up.”
“The ones who grabbed me,” I say, the memory burning fresh.
“Yeah.” He drags hard on the cigarette, like it might erase the shame on his face. “I didn’t plan for that. I didn’t even know they were there. I swear, Teresa, I screwed up. I’m sorry.”
I want to trust him. God help me, I want to.
“And I wanted to show you this.” He exhales smoke toward the ceiling, ash drifting onto the carpet like gray snow. Then he rummages under a pillow and pulls out a battered envelope, sliding it across the scarred dresser toward me. “Evidence.”
Inside are grainy telephoto shots. Vlad near a private jet on a snow-covered runway, the date reading six years ago. Another shows him shaking hands with a blonde mechanic outside Winslow Air’s maintenance hangar. The next photo is of our parents boarding their plane the week before it crashed.
My stomach flips as vertigo sharp as the first drop on a roller coaster takes over.
Dad’s laugh echoes a clipped memory:Just a quick hop to Miami, mi hija. We’ll bring you back some key lime pie.
“Angeloff’s network owns that hangar,” Jack says quietly. “He funded the sabotage. Same crew that killed Maxim. You’re sleeping with our parents’ killer.”
Air whooshes out of me. I stare at the photos until their edges blur. Vlad’s face is younger, colder, but it’s still him. Could he really have orchestrated that disaster?
“Where did you get these?”
Jack’s shoulders twitch. “Doesn’t matter. What matters is it’s evidence that your precious Vlad isn’t what he seems. And my guy who provided them says he has more… for a price.”
There it is—money. Always money. I notice faint track marks peeking out from his cuff. Old alarm bells clang. “So, you sell me a horror story, I bankroll your habit?”
His eyes slide away. “It’s not like that.”
Silence swells. I press the envelope to my chest, heartbeat thudding against cheap paper. “If Vlad did this, I need real proof. Not grainy pictures of him at a business he owns. He could have been there for legitimate reasons.”
Jack steps closer, breath sour with coffee and cigarettes. “Help me pay the broker. We can push Vlad out of the picture, figure out a way to get our company back from Volkov. We do that, we get our inheritance back. We can start over, be normal finally.”
Normal. The word sounds laughable inside these nicotine-stained walls.
He reaches for my wrist, his grip a little too tight, and instinct flares. I yank free, lifting my phone just enough for him to see Dmitri’s contact photo. “One word,” I warn, “and Vlad’s people flood this motel.”
Jack’s bravado deflates. He backs up, hands raised. “I would never hurt you.”
“You already did.” My voice is shaky, but the words land. I tuck the envelope into my purse. “I’ll think about the money. No promises.”
