No one answers but the snow.
The doors swing open on a draft of heat. We enter a foyer the size of a small church. Marble floor in a black and white chessboard pattern. A chandelier throws light across wolves carved in the banister.
They steer me through the echoing hall, our footsteps tapping out a harsh rhythm. Though it’s warm in the house, my body remains chilled. Two more men appear out of nowhere, then melt back into shadows. I glance around, spotting what seems to be a small army of Volkov men posted around the property.
My escorts lead me to a large room with a fireplace as wide as my old kitchen. Portraits look down from the walls—men in suits, women in gowns, a line of stern ancestors watching me.
On a sofa at the far end, one leg casually crossed over the other, sits Aleksander Volkov. He’s dressed in a three-piece charcoal gray suit with a pocket square the color of dried blood. A cigar burns low in a crystal tray beside him, its scent filling the air. He wears a pleased smirk, as if everything is going according to plan.
He doesn’t stand.
“Bring her here,” he says calmly.
They march me across the rug and stop me in front of him. He doesn’t look at the men. He doesn’t look at Jack. He only looks at me, slow and deliberate, as if I’m a painting he commissioned.His gaze lands on my face, drifts to my hands, slides to my stomach, and pauses.
“Mrs. Volkov,” he says.
The title hits like a slap. “Ms. Winslow,” I manage, white-knuckled hands pressed into my coat.
A corner of his mouth twitches. “Ah, yes. You barely wasted any time putting my son behind you after his death, dropping his name.”
Rage fills me at the idea that I cared so little for Maxim. “I took my name back because every time I saw it, it was too painful. All I could think about was him!”
He raises his hand, silencing me. “I’m not interested in your theatrics, Teresa. I know how you feel and what you did.”
“I didn’t?—"
“Jack,” he says, cutting me off and turning to my brother. “You did not mention her condition.” I go rigid. Alexsander sees my shock and smiles slightly. “Surprised that I did my research? Funny how years with my son produced no heir, but a month with thatpridurokVlad and you're already growing fat with his child. Disgusting.”
Jack’s shoes scuff the rug behind me. “I just found out.”
“Spare me,” Volkov says, bored now. He flicks ash. “It doesn’t matter anyway. Well, it does in a sense—killing not only you, but Vlad’s unborn child makes things all the sweeter.”
My stomach does a slow, nauseous roll. The room tilts. “Please,” I say. “Don’t do this. You don’t have to.”
He chuckles dryly. “Mercy. From me?” His gaze flicks to Jack again, amused. “You hear that? The girl wants mercy.”
Jack doesn’t answer. His silence buzzes like a broken fluorescent bulb. I wonder if he’s regretting what he’s done.
Volkov snuffs the cigar with a casual twist. “You cost me my son,” he says, looking at me, eyes empty and dark. “And now you flaunt someone else’s bastard.”
The words hit my chest, knocking all the air out. “No.”
He tilts his head in that slow, infuriating way of men who know their power. “Do not waste my time with your denials. When Maxim lay in a pool of his own blood, where were you?”
“At his side.” The memory rises so fast it burns—the marble cold under my knees, the shock of red on white, the way his hand twitched like he was trying to grab mine. “I was holding him.”
He stares at me. “Someone gave the order, telling them when and where to hit.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You do,” he says, his voice raising.
I want to scream. Instead, I breathe deeply, in and out, because the baby is counting on me not to shatter. “Whatever you think I did,” I say, “you’re wrong.”
“Mmm.” He looks at my stomach again. His eyes blaze with the wicked light of an old grudge held too long. “That,” he says, “should have been Maxim’s child.”
Every muscle in my body tightens. The tremor starts in my thighs and crawls upward. I will it to stop. “He’s gone. Nothing you do changes that.”
