“She should never work in finance again,” Aleksander mumbles.
“She doesn’t,” Vlad says. “Thanks, in part, to your blacklisting.”
I flinch again, heat stinging my cheeks. Aleksander drains the last of his whiskey, then sets the glass down with a click that sounds entirely too final.
“Two years,” he says, his voice low. “Two years, and your ‘investigation’ into my son’s murder has yielded nothing but excuses. Now you shelter the prime suspect under your own roof.”
Prime suspect. The unfairness of it lands like a slap, but still, I keep my mouth shut.
Vladimir’s dark gaze narrows. “My syndicate continues to review every lead. You know how thorough we are.”
Aleksander’s laugh is humorless. “Thorough? I’m not holding my breath.” He reaches inside his suit jacket and removes a slim manila folder, then strides over to the desk. He slaps it on the glass. “A new order.”
The words thud in my chest. Orders in this industry mean contracts—names and numbers that end in gunfire. Vlad doesn’t reach for it right away; instead, he studies Aleksander like a chess piece he might flick off the board.
Slowly, his eyes still on Aleksander’s, he picks up the folder and flips it open.
Aleksander adjusts his cuff links, satisfaction ghosting across his face, and steps back as if he’s already gotten what he wants.
I can’t see the contents, only the way Vlad’s gaze tracks line after line, his features tightening almost imperceptibly, the faintest tick in his jaw. Whatever’s on that page has teeth.
Vladimir’s face remains carved from granite, yet a faint pulse ticks at his temple as he closes the folder. I know that look—anger contained by discipline. Whatever Volkov just handed him carries the weight of the Angeloff code, the kind of contract a man like Vlad is bound to honor, no matter how distasteful.
Aleksander seems satisfied with the effect. He buttons his jacket, offers a curt nod to Vladimir, then turns that glacial smirk on me. “Looking forward to discussing the matter further,” he says, before he strides out and the doors whisper shut.
An uncomfortable silence floods the room. I don’t breathe until a full minute passes. When my lungs finally burn, I push to my feet, smoothing my skirt with shaking hands.
“I’ll get on those Baltimore arrangements,” I murmur, half-bowing toward the desk.
“Teresa.”
His voice stops me mid-turn. Low, almost gentle. Every hair on my arms lifts.
I face him. “Yes, Mr. Angeloff?”
“Be careful.” He lays the folder down carefully. “Old Russian wolves never forget a scent once it’s in their noses.”
He’s warning me, but there’s something else in his eyes—something darker, hotter, dangerously close to possession. The air grows so heavy between us I have to look away.
“Understood,” I whisper.
I collect my tablet and hurry out. The hallway feels five degrees colder. Garlands and baubles blur past—red, green, silver—Christmas cheer reduced to streaks in my peripheral vision as I practically jog back to my office. Elbows brush my ribs, coworkers murmur, but none of it registers over the rapid thud of my heart.
I shut my door and lean against it, finally releasing a breath I’ve been holding for half an hour. My knees tremble so hard I have to lock them to stay upright.
I’m safe. For now.
Except my pulse refuses to settle because the moment the fear loosens its grip, another sensation rushes in behind it—hot, insistent, and entirely inappropriate.
I see Vlad again in my mind—the broad cut of his shoulders, the taut line of his back as he read the order, muscles flexingbeneath his clothes. I picture the way his trousers hugged his perfect ass, the subtle stretch over a body made for power, not show. When my gaze slides lower in memory, heat spikes low in my belly.
Focus, Teresa.
But the fantasy won’t obey. It invades my mind.
He steps around his desk and grips my waist, lifting me onto the polished surface with ease. Papers scatter as I part my legs, waiting for the touch of his hand.
His gaze pins mine, his slacks tent with need, and his breath ghosts over my cheek, rich with whiskey. His big hands slide beneath my skirt, thumb pressing against my…
