Chapter 2
TERESA
Bring it on asshole.
Aleksander’s jaw ticks, one vein twitching at his temple as he stalks into the office like he owns the very air we’re breathing.
He doesn’t sit. He doesn’t even glance at Vladimir, not at first. His icy blue eyes are locked on me with such concentrated loathing I feel like I’m being skinned alive in slow motion.
As far as he’s concerned, I all but pulled the trigger when Maxim was murdered.
Vladimir doesn’t move. His stance behind the desk is pure control, hands relaxed at his sides, posture easy, eyes unreadable.
“Get to the point, Aleksander,” he says, firm but respectful. “Why are you here?”
Aleksander doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he slowly lifts one hand and points a finger in my direction.
“Her.” The word lands like an axe. “She’s the reason I’m here.”
I flinch. My throat tightens, and for a moment I forget how to breathe. Part of me wants to speak, to defend myself. Say I didn’t do anything wrong. That I’ve kept my head down for nearly two goddamn years, hiding from this man’s wrath.
But I also know what Aleksander is capable of. I’ve heard the stories. Seen the aftermath. He’s slit throats over small business deals. Ruined lives over minor slights. There are people who have crossed him once only to never be seen again.
So, I stay quiet.
“I recently learned that you hired her. And I want to know,” he growls, turning to fully face Vladimir, “why you did it.”
Vladimir doesn’t blink. “Because I needed a personal assistant. And she fit the bill.”
Aleksander lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Don’t insult me. This is New York City, Vladimir. You think I don’t know what kind of talent this city has? You couldn’t throw a rock without hitting five capable, brilliant young women. Ones who aren’t responsible for my son’s death.”
There it is. Out in the open. The accusation he’s been carrying like poison in his gut.
My stomach twists. The words don’t even surprise me anymore, not really, but hearing them aloud, stated like a fact, still feels like being punched in the chest.
I want to look at him and ask why. Why he thinks I had anything to do with Maxim’s death. Why he sees my grief and my survival as proof of guilt. But I can’t. Because I know if I open my mouth right now, I might cry, scream, or say something that gets me fired… or worse.
Vladimir’s voice slices through the tension like a scalpel. “Watch your tone, Alexsander.”
Volkov stiffens.
“This is my place of business,” Vladimir continues. Still calm. Still composed. “And I won’t tolerate personal vendettas disrupting it.”
Aleksander’s fury knows no bounds, but he shuts it down with the discipline of a man who knows appearances matter.
Without another word, he stalks across the office to the polished black-glass bar.
The decanters are crystal, their contents a deep amber.
He selects a bottle of Dalmore 40—Vladimir keeps it for closing nine-figure deals—and pours a single, measured finger.
The room is silent but for the faint clink of crystal on crystal.
He lifts the glass, turning it once in the light as though judging its value, then drinks slowly, letting the whiskey coat his tongue.
I sit utterly still, palms damp against my skirt, my pulse hammering so loudly I’m convinced they can hear it.
A small, worried voice in my head whispers that he could pull a pistol and end this conversation—and me—before Vlad’s security even reaches the door.
Because that’s the world we live in.
I stare at a point on the floor, fighting the tremor in my knees.
If I lose this job, I have nothing left—no career, no safety, no friends outside the handful who still dare to return my calls.
I’m living on borrowed time and a PA salary, and Aleksander Volkov is the debt collector who always finds you.
At last, he turns, eyes glinting over the rim of the glass. “Fire her.”
The words drop like an executioner’s order.
Vladimir sets his hands on the edge of the desk and leans forward slightly. “No.”
Aleksander’s brows rise. “You must be joking.”
“I don’t joke.” Vlad’s tone stays polite but steely. “You are a valued client, Aleksander, but not my employer. Teresa will remain in her position.”
“She is a liability,” Aleksander snaps. “She will always be a liability. You want a ticking bomb on your payroll?”
“Teresa is a personal assistant,” Vlad replies. “She has no access to critical accounts, no keys to the vault. She screens calls, arranges travel, and prepares files—duties she performs flawlessly.”
“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 flexing beneath 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…
Stop!
I squeeze my eyes shut, mortified by the slick warmth pulsing between my thighs. Maxim flashes through my mind—sweet, gentle Maxim—and guilt punches me square in the chest. Betrayal tastes like iron on my tongue.
If Aleksander ever learned that his son’s widow fantasizes about Vladimir Angeloff, he’d put bullets in both of us and sleep soundly afterward.
I drag in a ragged breath; palms pressed flat against the door. My world now consists of boardrooms and vendettas, contracts that read like death warrants, and a boss whose very presence unravels me. But I survived a ballroom painted in blood; I can survive this too.
I square my shoulders and cross to the desk, opening a new travel request form. The glow of the monitor steadies me.
I will not be pulled into the madness of Vlad’s world.