The Naughty List (Silver Fox Daddies #29)

Chapter 1

TERESA

The violins don't stop when the screaming starts.

One moment there's music, champagne, and my husband Maxim's hand warm on my lower back. The next, masked men flood the ballroom with bullets.

Maxim pulls me down hard, his body shielding mine as we hit the floor behind the banquet tables.

My heels catch. I hit marble hard. The pearl bracelet he gave me this morning snaps, and I watch pearls scatter across the floor.

Smoke. Gunpowder. Screaming.

I tuck my dress tighter and crawl.

“Max—”

“Stay down. Don’t move.”

Through a gap in the tablecloth, I see men in tactical gear. A woman in red crawls past, sobbing.

Breathe, Think.

I map the exits. Service corridor at ten o'clock. Terrace doors at two. We could make it if—

A man in a silver tie moves like water two tables over. Precise. Cold. Dark eyes scanning the room with predator focus. Terrifying.

Vladimir Angeloff.

He fires, covering us. His eyes find mine for a fraction of a second. A command without words: stay low.

Then Maxim makes a sound—low, wrong.

He collapses.

Blood soaks into my dress. My hands shake against his chest. I bite my tongue until I taste copper. Vision blurring.

"Max, please—"

Vladimir keeps firing. Still protecting me. Maxim doesn't move.

The gunfire stops.

The screaming fades.

Everything goes quiet except for my own ragged breath—

"Teresa."

The voice cuts through the memory like a blade.

I jolt upright, gasping. My office swims into focus. The hum of my computer, the gray December light through the window, my hand pressed flat against my desk like I'm trying to remember what's real.

Two years without Maxim, and I'm still replaying the nightmare.

"Teresa," Vladimir Angeloff says again through the intercom, "I need you in my office."

My heart's still pounding.

I press the button. "What's the matter?"

"We'll discuss in person." His Russian accent turns the word "discuss" into something that sounds vaguely threatening. "Now."

My throat tightens. "I'll be right up."

I step onto the main floor of Angeloff Enterprises—sleek glass and chrome, currently strangled by silver garlands and a Christmas tree that looks like it mugged a Tiffany store.

Vladimir Angeloff in the Christmas spirit. Right.

The man probably sends coal to himself.

The decorations soften the razor-sharp aesthetic. Floor-to-ceiling glass overlooks Manhattan, where snow falls in thick, lazy spirals.

Two executives huddle near the wall, voices low.

"Have you seen him today? The big man's in a mood."

"Every department head's walking on eggshells."

When they spot me, they straighten like altar boys caught vaping.

"You didn't hear that from us," one says quickly.

I press the elevator call button. "My lips are sealed." I pause for a beat, then I add, "Pro tip—the walls up there hear everything."

Their nervous laughter follows me into the elevator.

When the doors slide open again, I step into another world: The executive floor.

Dark wood and stone.

Soft lighting.

The kind of hush that makes you lower your voice without meaning to.

The faint scent of leather and something sharper—bergamot, maybe, or expensive cologne.

His name etched in elegant serif across black glass double doors: Vladimir M. Angeloff, CEO.

My palms begin to sweat. I press them against my skirt, then catch my reflection in the chrome door handle.

Green eyes stare back. Sharp, unflinching. Or at least, that's what I'm going for.

Copper hair twisted sleek. My forest green blouse hugs curves I've stopped apologizing for.

I smooth my skirt, square my shoulders, and remind myself: I don't flinch.

Not even for him.

Even if every instinct tells me I should.

Even if there's a debt between us I’ll never fully comprehend.

I've walked through these doors a hundred times. Still, something about Vladimir Angeloff makes my pulse forget its rhythm.

Not fear—though fear would be simpler.

It's more like standing on a balcony with no railing while someone spins the cylinder of a loaded gun nearby.

I need this job. Not just for the paycheck. For proof I still exist.

That my Maxim’s father, my former father-in-law, didn't erase me completely.

After Maxim's death, Aleksander Volkov made certain no bank or firm in New York would touch me. He blacklisted my name, froze my accounts, and shredded my reputation before Maxim's blood had dried on the pavement.

Aleksander knew I'd spent years begging his son to walk away—from the family business, the violence, the blood money that stained everything it touched.

My defiance, it seemed, cut deeper than his grief ever could.

Maxim died protecting me. Aleksander never could accept that.

In his mind, I stole everything. His son. His legacy. The grandson he'd been promised.

Easier to blame the widow than the empire.

The only man who offered me work was Vladimir. The one who saved my life. The one who everyone else feared.

He said he needed someone who didn’t scare easily.

Ofcourse he never promised he wouldn’t try.

But the questions won’t let me sleep.

Why did Vladimir save me when he could’ve let me die?

Why hire me when everyone else wanted me gone?

And why does he look at me like I’m something fragile he’s afraid to break?

I knock once.

A brief pause.

“Come in.”

The door swings open to reveal Vladimir at the window, his back to me, the city beyond a canvas of white and gently falling snow. His shoulders are broad beneath a charcoal vest, the sleeves of his crisp white shirt rolled just enough to show strong, ropey forearms.

One hand rests on the desk, the other in his pocket.

Coiled. Dangerous. Like a man who could end a life before his coffee got cold.

His massive office exudes power—sleek, modern lines of black and chrome, masculine and unmistakably him. The far wall is entirely glass, framing Manhattan like a painting.

The remaining walls are obsidian-black marble, minimalist and cold, accented only by a single abstract painting and shelves lined with leather-bound ledgers.

His desk, vast and polished to a mirror sheen, stands like an altar in the center of it all.

The air feels heavy here.

Expensive. Like even the silence costs money.

“Sit,” he says, without turning.

I do. My spine straightens as he turns slowly from the window.

Every time I see Vladimir Angeloff, my body forgets its loyalties.

My pulse stumbles. My breath fractures.

That dangerous, treacherous heat returns, uninvited and unforgivable, to a widow who still dreams of her husband’s final breath.

His jaw is sharply cut beneath the dark-silver scruff of his beard, his lips full but perpetually unsmiling.

Dark eyes, deep-set and intense, watch me with unreadable scrutiny. A charcoal suit hugs his frame, his broad shoulders tapering to a lean waist.

We’ve never talked about that night, the night Maxim died.

He steps toward the desk, every movement deliberate. “There’s a problem.”

“Problem?”

He picks up a document and glances at it casually. “Your filing. Certain financial disclosures. There’s an error. A serious one.”

“I’m sorry?” I manage, my voice steady despite the accusation.

His gaze pins me in place. “You listed the March transfer incorrectly. Sloppy. I expected better from you, Teresa.”

His voice slides over my name like silk, edged with menace.

He’s baiting me.

Testing me.

“With all due respect, Mr. Angeloff,” I reply, steel threading through my voice, “there is no mistake. The March transfer was filed exactly as required. I checked it myself. Twice.”

He arches an eyebrow, arrogance radiating off of him. “Yet my accountants flagged it.”

“They were mistaken,” I say evenly. I open the slim folder I brought upstairs and calmly slide a printout across his polished desk. “Here. Your accountants overlooked the subsequent amendment. It’s been noted, filed, and signed—three weeks ago. Your signature.”

He doesn't move. Doesn't reach for the document. Just stares at me with those unreadable dark eyes, letting the silence stretch until my heartbeat fills my ears.

Then he circles the desk slowly, each step deliberate. He picks up the document, standing close enough that I catch the scent of his cologne—bergamot and something darker, like smoke.

His jaw tightens. I don’t allow my expression to falter, even though my heart races at the dangerous narrowing of his eyes. He lifts the document, skims over it briefly, then sets it down with barely a sound.

“Very well,” he concedes, the words clearly not sitting easily on his tongue. “I see you’re meticulous, as always.”

“Well...,” I say, daring a small, professional smile. “That’s why you hired me.”

A flicker in his eyes—anger, amusement, something else I can't name. He steps closer, forcing me to tilt my head up to hold his gaze.

“Few people speak to me the way you do.”

“I’m just doing my job.”

“Of course you are” he replies. “But it’s interesting. Rare. Most people wouldn’t dream of it.”

Silence stretches.

Heat simmers beneath my skin.

Finally, he speaks again, businesslike and clipped. “I need the conference room at the St. Regis in Baltimore for Thursday morning. Seven a.m.”

I frown slightly. “Thursday. As in two days from now?”

“Correct. And flights. Myself, Sokol, and the heads of finance. Arrange a private jet, secure the suite.”

I stare at him a beat too long. He can’t possibly be serious. “Baltimore,” I repeat. “Thursday morning.”

“Yes,” he confirms, clearly annoyed by my questioning him. “Is there a problem?”

"No," I calmly reply, "aside from the fact that the St. Regis suite books out weeks in advance. Two days' notice is asking for a miracle."

His gaze cools, his lips forming a straight line. "Then I suggest you start praying."

"Prayer won't get us a conference room. A realistic timeline might."

Something flashes in his eyes—dangerous amusement, maybe. Like a wolf deciding whether you're prey or entertainment.

"Negotiating with me, Teresa?" he says quietly. "Bold."

"I thought you’d appreciate the honesty."

"I appreciate results." He leans forward, palms flat on the desk. The movement is slow, deliberate. Predatory. "But since I’m in the holiday spirit, let's make this interesting."

My pulse kicks up. "Interesting?"

"If you secure the suite and the jet by end of day tomorrow, you get the full Christmas holiday off. December 23rd through January 2nd." His eyes lock on mine. "If you fail, you work the Baltimore trip. All of it. No assistant. No backup. Every meeting, every meal, every late-night revision."

The room suddenly feels smaller. Hotter.

He doesn't give anyone the full Christmas holiday. Ever.

I've heard the other assistants complain about skeleton crews and rotating schedules. Two days off if you're lucky.

"That's one enticing offer," I say, keeping my voice level. "Yet, you're betting against an impossible timeline."

"Then don't accept." He straightens, adjusting his cuff with casual arrogance. "Walk away. I'll find someone else."

He knows I won't. The challenge is already written in his expression.

Bastard.

"Fine," I say. "But when I pull this off—I want that holiday in writing."

His lips twitch. Not a smile exactly, but close enough to unsettle me. "Done."

"And if I need to call in favors from your contacts, I expect full access. No runaround from your people."

He tilts his head slightly, studying me like I'm a puzzle he's deciding whether to solve or discard. "You're pushing, Teresa."

"You're the one who wants this done."

Silence stretches between us. The air feels charged, crackling with unspoken challenge.

"Very well," he says finally. "You'll have what you need. But understand this—" He leans forward slightly, knuckles resting lightly on the desk. Every nerve ending in my body stands at attention. "I don't make allowances. You succeed, or you don't. There's no middle ground with me."

Heat rushes up my neck. "I’d expect no less."

He holds my gaze a second longer before straightening. "Then we have an agreement."

"Yes, sir."

He watches me for another beat, and I could swear something shifts in his expression—something almost like respect, buried deep beneath all that ice.

The charged silence returns. My heart thuds in my chest, his nearness like electricity along my skin.

The intercom crackles abruptly, breaking the tension. "Mr. Angeloff," his secretary's stern voice announces. "Aleksander Volkov is here."

The man who still blames me for his son’s death.

My stomach drops for half a second before I lock it down. I've faced this man across a funeral that felt like an execution.

I've endured his lawyers, his threats, his attempts to bury me alive in legal paperwork and frozen assets.

I didn't break then. I sure as hell won't break now.

But I’d sure as hell prefer to avoid his company.

I glance at Vlad, my expression steady. He reads my resolve instantly and lifts one dark eyebrow.

"Stay," he says quietly.

It's not a suggestion. It's a test. He wants to see if I'll run or if I'll stand my ground.

Fine.

The silence stretches. I could stand. Walk out. Preserve whatever dignity I have left.

Instead, I cross my legs, smooth my skirt, and lace my fingers together like I belong here.

Because I damn well do.

I brace myself for the inevitable shit show to follow.

The doors don't swing open. They're thrust open.

Aleksander Volkov doesn't walk. He claims space.

He's dressed like royalty, as always. A deep navy suit tailored to perfection, a blood-red tie with a gold pin gleaming against his chest. His gray-streaked hair is combed back with surgical neatness, his eyes sharp and glacial beneath heavy brows. Carved from old stone. Absolutely menacing.

When his eyes find me, his face hardens into something worse than anger.

Like I’m a stain that won’t wash out.

A ghost that refuses to stay dead.

“It’s true, then,” he mutters. His voice cold, clipped, final.

Like I’ve already been buried and he’s come to make sure the dirt stays packed.

“Aleksander,” I say firmly.

I don’t call him father. He lost that privilege long ago.

I don’t move. Don’t flinch.

My hands remain folded neatly in my lap.

I sit visible. Alive. In the one place he can’t touch.

Let him choke on that.