Dmitri clears his throat, pulling the room back into motion. Vlad nods to the men and they peel away to their posts, the space feeling different as soon as they’re gone.
Vlad looks back at me. “Pack a go-bag,” he says. “Warm clothes, documents, anything you can’t stand to be away from. Leave it by the bedroom door.”
“Okay.”
“And Teresa, if anything feels wrong—a noise, a shadow that shouldn’t be there—don’t second-guess it. You call my name.”
It’s not meant to be a romantic line, yet it lands like one.
I go to the bedroom, shutting the door behind me. It feels too still. Not the peaceful kind of still… more like the quiet before a storm.
I cross to the window and watch the city glitter below. I press my hand to my stomach. No bump yet. Just the knowledge of a second heartbeat buried so deep I almost convince myself I can hear it. Vlad’s face flashes in my mind—jaw tight, eyes lit up with rage and resolve. I’ve never seen him look like that. It’s terrifying and comforting at the same time.
I wonder if this side of him has always been there, beneath the surface, just waiting for the right excuse to show itself.
I think about the helipad, the idea of being lifted out of the city at a moment’s notice. Out of the fight. Out of Volkov’s reach.
I sink onto the bed, staring at the ceiling until I can no longer keep my eyes open.
CHAPTER 30
TERESA
Iwake the next morning to a tray on the credenza. Oatmeal, berries, ginger tea, and a note in Dmitri’s neat handwriting. The bedroom fireplace crackles gently. For a second, everything feels normal, nice.
Then I remember yesterday. The bodies, the blood in the snow, how close we all came to… God, I don’t even want to think about it. I look over at the empty side of the bed, wishing Vlad was laying there beside me.
I haven’t seen him since last night. No text beyond a single check in at 4:12 a.m.
Working. Call if anything feels off.
He didn’t add where he was or what he was doing, and I appreciate the omission. The less I know, the safer I am. At least, that’s what I tell myself.
I sip the ginger tea and watch the snow fall. I think of Vlad out there, calculating, hunting.
I try to work. Nika has pushed the morning meetings to video, and my laptop chimes with calendar invites—all remote. I answer two emails, then slam the laptop shut, nausea rolling in on a slow, queasy wave.
I breathe through it. Ginger helps, just like Vlad said it would. So does the promise I made myself at three in the morning when sleep wouldn’t come—hold it together for the baby. I lay my palm low on my stomach and imagine something the size of a blueberry. I can’t help but smile.
My phone buzzes with a text from Trina.
You okay? I’ve heard Vlad is on a tear through the city. What’s happening?
God, where to even begin?
I hesitate. Guards are here, one posted outside the foyer doors, one at the elevator, probably one on the roof. I’m not supposed to talk to anyone but Vlad until this blows over and only on the encrypted phone he gave me.
But Trina was the only person from my old life who didn’t turn into a ghost when Maxim died. She brought me flowers when I had no one. She answered calls at two a.m. She wrangled her uncle long enough for me to breathe. She has to be safe.
I’m okay. It’s just a lot.
Can you talk? On the phone, not text. Better for… everything.
I glance toward the double doors to the study, where someone in a silver tie is pretending not to hear me live my life. I take my personal phone into the master bedroom bath and close the door. Ridiculous but necessary. I sit on the edge of the tub and call Trina.
She answers on the first ring.
“Teresa,” she answers warmly. “I’ve been sick with worry. Are you alright? I saw the shooting in Central Park on the news. It had Bratva written all over it.”
