Chapter 11
VLAD
Morning seeps through the blinds in weak stripes, but I’ve been awake long before the light reaches us.
Teresa lies on her side, hair spilled over the pillow like dark silk, one shoulder bare above the sheet. Even in sleep she’s a story of contrasts—soft fullness at the hips, subtle definition along the waist, freckles scattered across tawny skin that speaks to her half-Latina blood.
I let my gaze travel the long line of her back, the curve where it meets the swell of her ass. Warmth pools low in my belly, an instinctive response to the memory of last night’s surrender and the way she clung to me. My cock starts pulsing to life at the sight of her.
I want her again. The urge to roll her onto her stomach, pin her wrists, and draw that sound out of her throat again almost overrides the rational part of my mind.
Almost.
But desire is the easiest impulse to master when you’ve been trained to kill on command. Complications make it harder. There’s no time to confuse the two.
I ease from the mattress, careful not to wake her. Her lashes flicker, but she doesn’t stir. Clothes are scattered across the floor. I retrieve my trousers, shirt, and jacket, dressing in the hush of her bedroom while the radiator ticks in protest at the winter chill.
The living area is one cramped rectangle—maybe four hundred square feet if you measure generously—the kitchen sharing space with a threadbare sofa and a thrift-store coffee table scarred by water rings.
She’s tried to soften the edges with a string of lights over the lone window, a wool blanket draped across the arm of the couch, and succulents on the windowsill beside a sad-looking rosemary plant reaching for the weak winter sun.
But the window faces an elevated train track, the rumble of a passing car rattling the glass.
It’s no fortress, and it certainly isn’t safe.
I fill the tiny kettle and slide it onto the coil burner before searching for her coffee tin.
Halfway through measuring grounds, I hear her footsteps.
She appears in the doorway wearing a faded band tee that swallows her frame, hem fluttering just below the curve of her ass.
Her nipples tent the fabric, drawing attention to her full, perfect tits.
A sliver of lilac lace peeks out when she shifts her weight, drawing my eyes against my will, the ghost of last night’s scratches flaring on my shoulder again.
“Morning,” she murmurs, voice still husky with sleep. She folds her arms across her chest, whether for warmth or modesty, I can’t tell.
“Coffee will be ready in a minute.” My tone is neutral, clipped. A tactical retreat from the impulse to slide that shirt up her ribs and replace it with my hands.
She bites her lip and glances toward the window. “Last night… I should resign before this gets worse.”
I turn, leaning a hip against the counter. “Your resignation is not accepted.”
She blinks. “You don’t even want to hear my reasons?”
“I have plenty of reasons of my own,” I say. “We’ll discuss them at the office.”
Steam begins to whine from the kettle. I kill the burner and pour the water through the grounds, the scent of fresh coffee filling the room. Teresa steps forward to grab two mugs from a high shelf. The movement lifts her tee, revealing more lilac lace and the under-curve of a perfect ass.
A fresh wave of heat rolls through me, but I focus on filling the mugs.
She cradles hers but barely sips, eyes looking up beneath thick lashes. “I don’t know how to act around you now,” she says quietly.
“Act as you always have,” I reply, passing her the sugar. “Efficient. Loyal. Professional.”
Her laugh is brittle. “After… everything?”
“There’s more at stake than you understand.” I’m trying to stay cool, but my tone is sharp regardless. “We keep appearances until I decide our next move.”
“Our next move?” she echoes.
I set my untouched cup in the sink. “I’ll see you at ten. Don’t be late.”
That’s all. No kiss, no comforting touch, because softness right now would break the veneer I need to keep us both alive. She opens her mouth, maybe to protest, maybe to plead, but I’m already at the door, adjusting my jacket, masking the hunger clawing under my ribs.
Once in the hall, I breathe the stale building air and let the door latch behind me. One complication contained, at least for the moment.
Dawn is nothing but a smear of pewter over Queens when I slip out of Teresa’s walk-up, the streets coated in sleet.
A dark gray Rolls waits at the curb. Dmitri opens the rear door without a word. I climb in and immediately notice the folio on the seat beside me.
“Found some info on Teresa,” he says. “But what you’re looking at is something better.”
“What is it?”
He grins. “Possibly the solution to our problem. Read it.”
The first document is a brittle scanned page from 1947.
It shows Aleksander’s father, Viktor Volkov’s looping Cyrillic promising my grandfather two million post-war dollars, interest to be negotiated upon demand.
The second document is new; an accountant’s nightmare turned into a notary’s seal.
Seventy-eight years of compound interest adding up to five percent of Volkov Industries—roughly four-hundred-forty million dollars at today’s valuation.
This is it. This is the way to save her life.
“We go straight to Volkov,” I tell Dmitri. “No calls.”
He meets my eyes in the rearview mirror. “Marching in unannounced is an invitation to get shot.”
“Not in a lobby full of investors,” I answer. “Volkov won’t splash blood on his quarterly report.”
I can’t help but grin.
Volkov Industries sits just off Park Avenue, gray concrete and narrow windows, practically an air-raid bunker disguised as a skyscraper.
At eight-oh-seven we pull up to the curb.
I spot the two guards at the doors straighten when they see the license plate.
One taps an earpiece, summoning reinforcements.
I shed my coat, letting the Angeloff silver tie gleam against my charcoal wool suit, and head to the metal detectors. Dmitri’s jammer hums against his thigh; the arch staying silent though we’re both armed.
Reception tries the usual roadblock, but my stare freezes the clerk’s tongue. “Tell Aleksander I’m here to settle an old family debt,” I say. “He’ll want privacy.”
A senior aide arrives in less than a minute and ushers us into a private elevator.
Aleksander Volkov’s thunder is already rolling when the boardroom doors open.
He’s leaning over the table, berating two suits.
Trina lounges casually beside him, her porcelain smile perfectly composed.
As soon as Dmitri and I step in, her eyes widen in theatrical surprise before she slips me a wink—sweet as poison.
Aleksander straightens, fists braced on the oak. “You arrive without an appointment?”
“To honor a debt before Christmas.” I place the folio on the table. “Your father’s debt.”
The old note lies on top. Aleksander’s complexion goes from pale to scarlet. “That agreement died with its signatories.”
“Debts don’t die, they compound.” I open the second document. “With interest, restitution equals five percent of your company. Effective immediately.”
Trina hides a grin behind her coffee cup. The suits exchange glances like condemned men.
Dmitri steps forward, explaining calmly and precisely what refusal will cost. In the first twenty-four hours, every Angeloff guard leaves Volkov’s shipping lanes, and his Caribbean routes stall.
Within days, our aligned Swiss bank freezes three of his slush accounts, leaving one-hundred-twenty million dollars in limbo.
Any city council contracts we share will evaporate, and zoning probes on his warehouses will resume, while creditors circle and downgrade his bonds.
Within six months, competitors will own his Gulf ports, prosecutors will reopen trafficking cases, and the brand will bleed from the New York Times to Interpol.
I let the picture sink in. Then I offer the balm. “Sign the transfer, and as goodwill, collect an extra two-percent dividend on our freight profits.”
Aleksander’s knuckles whiten as he grips the back of the chair. “And what exactly do you gain, besides the pleasure of humiliating me?”
“Stability. Family honor.” I hold his stare. “And proof that my family settles accounts with currency, not corpses.”
Across the table, Trina studies me.
“Trina, leave, now.” Aleksander growls.
“But Uncle—”
“I said go.”
She glares at me then stands, leaving in a huff.
When she’s gone, Aleksander’s eyes narrow. “This is about the girl.”
“This is about debts,” I retort. “Your Christmas List is separate business.”
He bares his teeth. “Careful. I could add five more names before lunch.”
I let the silence stretch. He understands the threat underneath it—keep escalating and I double the interest demand. The CFO, sweat beading on his forehead, clears his throat and suggests a private sidebar. Aleksander jerks his head toward a corner. I follow, leaving Dmitri at the table.
Aleksander and I step to the farthest window wall, the boardroom murmurs fading beneath the hush of double-paned glass. Park Avenue glitters forty floors below, indifferent to the war being brokered above it.
“Killing Teresa won’t resurrect Maxim,” I say, my voice low. “It will only bleed your empire for the sake of sentiment.”
His gaze is icy, unblinking. “My empire is built on sentiment. Loyalty bought with blood. Your own Christmas List is proof of that.”
“Then settle this debt and take her off the list,” I respond. “Five percent buys you peace. Five percent lets me save face. Everyone lives.”
I watch the calculation twitch along the muscles of his jaw. Grief is heavy, but greed is heavier. After a moment, he jerks his chin toward the table. “Draft the paperwork. Escrow today.”
One of the suits nearly trips racing for his laptop.
It takes nineteen minutes to finalize the numbers, another five for legal to verify accounts. At ten-eleven a.m., the deed flashes green on the screen. Five percent of Volkov voting shares slide into an Angeloff shell without so much as a squeak.
I sign with deliberate calm. On the other hand, Aleksander’s signature is a violent slash that almost cracks the digital pad. The lawyer stamps it while the CFO exhales a breath that sounds like the end of a hostage situation.
Public optics say I settled a forgotten family debt. Private leverage says Aleksander can’t move against Teresa without tanking his own valuation and admitting he was outmaneuvered.
He closes the folio with a snap. His glare could melt steel. “Debt paid. She’s off the list.”
I smile at him. “Pleasure doing business with you, Aleksander.”
He glowers, not saying a word. But his feelings don’t matter. Teresa’s life does.
Dmitri and I take the elevator down in silence. When the doors open into the lobby, at last my lieutenant speaks.
“Expensive gesture,” he says. “You could’ve pressed for more interest, easily.”
“Five percent to save a life is cheap.”
“You bought time, not safety. He could still kill her himself. Putting her on the list was the easiest way to snuff her out.”
I nod. He’s right. Aleksander may not be able to kill Teresa with the ease of putting her on the list, but he can still make it happen if he wants.
We exit into the lobby, ignore the security men pretending not to stare, and slip back into the Rolls parked at the curb.
Inside, I light a Sobranie Black—the second one in two nights—an indulgence I usually reserve for the hour before an execution.
Smoke coils toward the suede roof while Dmitri eases into Midtown traffic.
I replay Teresa’s soft laugh from earlier, the way she mumbled in her sleep and curled against me, trusting a monster to keep her warm. My thumb finds the Angeloff crest on my cufflink, solid as a trigger beneath the silk.
“Stay alive, little one,” I whisper in Russian. “The rest, I will handle.”
The Rolls merges onto Fifth Avenue. Holiday lights streak red and gold across the windows, glittering over a city preparing for celebration.
Beneath the cheer, the promise of war settles quietly into place, sharp as icicles ready to fall.