Chapter 13
TERESA
The new apartment is nice. Too nice.
White-oak floors that smell like varnish, sleek cabinets that hiss shut on soft-close hinges, a bed big enough to stage a Broadway number on.
Vlad calls the place a “safe-flat,” but it feels more like one of those model units you tour before you sign a lease—spotless, impersonal, staged with exactly two coffee-table books and a fake fiddle-leaf fig.
There’s no dent in the sofa cushions, no water rings on the side tables, no half-dead rosemary plant clinging to life on the sill. I know I’m safer here, but I often catch myself missing my crooked Queens walk-up every time I step over the threshold.
Still, three quiet days have done wonders for my nerves.
Angeloff security—guys in non-descript hoodies and black running shoes—shadow my commute without breathing down my neck.
They stay back a fair distance, peeling off as soon as I disappear into the HQ lobby.
Once I’m in my office, I’m back to spreadsheets and flight manifests, answering Vlad’s encrypted pings.
While trying to decide if I like the taste of chamomile tea, seeing as that’s the only thing in the new pantry, my personal phone lights up. It’s Trina.
Christmas market at Bryant Park tonight? Mulled wine, gingerbread, reckless ornament purchases?
I pause for a moment before texting back. Vlad has been serious as hell about my safety and responding feels like a reckless move.
Tempting. What time?
An hour? 6 p.m. at the rink. Wear something snuggly. Her words are followed by a blue heart emoji.
Something normal. God, I could use some normalcy.
I change into a chunky oatmeal-colored sweater dress, black tights, knee-high boots, and the wine-red wrap coat I bought on an end-of-season sale.
As I lock up, a guard with a discreet earpiece gives me a polite nod.
Vlad probably already knows where I’m going; the man probably tracks my pulse from his phone.
I don’t leave alone, of course. A pair of men dressed all in black sit in a car outside. They roll the window down as I approach.
“Where are you going?” one asks gruffly.
“Bryant Park,” I reply. He opens his mouth to say, “get in,” but I cut him off. “And I want to take the subway. You know, feel like a normal person for once.”
The men share a look that makes it clear they don’t like it one bit.
“I’m staying close,” the passenger guard says. “He’ll meet us at Bryant Park.”
“Fine. But not too close. I’d like to at least pretend I’m not being watched every minute of the day.”
The passenger guard steps out, the driver takes off, and I start down the block. Thankfully, the guard on foot hangs back a bit before following me into the station.
I take the Lexington line downtown, wedged between a Wall Street type and a very determined tourist with a city map.
The train clacks and sways, and for once I don’t mind the sweaty hum of it all.
Living in Manhattan might mean sirens at 3 a.m. and clanging garbage trucks waking you up in the wee hours of the morning, but it also means stepping out of the subway and landing smack in the middle of a Christmas display fit for a Hallmark movie.
Bryant Park looks gorgeous. Little cedar stalls form a circle around the ice rink, roofs dripping with fairy lights.
Sleigh Ride drifts from the speakers, and the air smells like cinnamon, pine, and sweet roasted almonds.
Yesterday’s dusting of snow still clings to the lawn edges, sparkling beneath the bulbs.
Couples shuffle past clutching hot cider.
Kids wobble on skates in puffer jackets.
A stall is selling hand-blown ornaments shaped like tiny galaxies—glass globes swirling with multiple colors.
Another booth offers Bavarian gingerbread the size of dinner plates.
I inhale it all, cherishing the way it makes me feel.
Trina isn’t here yet, so I slow my pace, letting the scene sink in. A charming carousel turns lazily behind the market huts. A street saxophone player belts out Jingle Bell Rock and nails it.
I order a cup of cider and sip, taking it all in, reminding myself that outside this ring of lights there are hit lists and power plays, but inside is just December in New York, and for a few golden minutes, that’s enough.
That calm vanishes the second I spot my guards posted on the street just outside the park.
I’m mid-sip when Trina breezes in from Sixth Avenue, hair bouncing under a cream beret like she just stepped out of a holiday catalog. She spots me, waving so enthusiastically she almost whacks an unsuspecting tourist with her shopping bag.
“Teresa!” She pulls me into a hug, cinnamon and winter jasmine swirling around us. “You look amazing. The Upper East Side clearly agrees with you.”
I laugh. “Amazing is pushing it. I still haven’t figured out how the apartment’s thermostat works. But, yeah, the new digs aren’t bad.” I take another sip of cider, letting the warmth settle.
“Where are you?” she asks.
“I’m on East Seventy-Eighth, between First and York. This amazing little corner Italian place called Al Dente is right near my fire escape.”
“Ooh, Al Dente,” she says. “Their Cacio e Pepe is sinful. You should try it.”
“Noted.” I nudge her as we start weaving through the stalls. “You always did love a good Italian restaurant.”
“What’s not to love?” she says, then links her arm through mine.
We detour into a booth filled with tiny glass nutcrackers.
Trina studies a cobalt-blue one, then switches to a snow-white Santa, eventually buying both because “my tree likes options.” I enjoy watching her haggle with the vendor until eventually the guy gives a baffled shrug and knocks five bucks off each ornament.
We wander past the skating rink, and for a moment I actually feel relaxed. I let the music, the scents, the harmless chaos of kids on skates drown out thoughts of silver-tie shadows and relocation dossiers.
Then I spot him.
Copper-brown hair beneath a gray beanie. Broad shoulders in a bomber jacket. He’s halfway down the row of stalls, in front of the Bavarian gingerbread kiosk, scanning the crowd exactly the way I am.
Jack. My brother. Alive.
My breath catches so hard I nearly choke on it. “Jack?” The name leaves me in a squeak. He lifts his head, eyes locking on mine in recognition, shock, then fear. He turns on a dime, bolting toward the street entrance.
“Jack!” I shout, cider sloshing onto my glove. Without thinking, I shove the cup into Trina’s hands and sprint after him.
Shoppers blur past, an elderly woman yelping as I dodge around her cane. Jack darts between two stalls, nearly colliding with a sugar-cookie vendor, then disappears behind the carousel. I continue to chase, boots slipping on salted pavement, adrenaline burning through my veins.
I round the carousel’s painted horses, but he’s gone, vanished into the city’s maze of lights and skyscrapers.
“Teresa!” Trina calls out. She finds me at the edge of the lawn, breath clouding in little bursts. “Hey, are you okay? Why did you take off like that?”
I scan the crowd, heart hammering. Nothing but strangers in wool coats and hats. “I–I thought I saw Jack.” My voice sounds small against the music and laughter.
“Your brother?”
I nod, too winded to say anything else.
Trina’s expression softens. “It was probably just someone who looks like him. Holiday crowds can do that to the brain.”
I press a trembling hand to my ribs. “No. It was him. I know it.” The words feel weightless the second I say them.
She rubs my upper arm. “You miss him. When I lost my cousin, I swore I saw him in every crowd for months.” She tugs me gently away from the carousel. “Come on, let’s get you something stronger than cider.”
I let her steer me back toward the stalls, my eyes darting toward every man wearing a gray beanie. Maybe she’s right—maybe the stress is painting mirages. But the panic in those eyes looked real. And if Jack is back in New York, the mess I’m already in just got a whole lot deeper.
We huddle near the heaters with fresh mulled wine, mine untouched because my stomach won’t stop flipping. Trina strokes a mittened thumb over the rim of her cup, waiting for me to speak.
“You’ve never really told me much about your brother,” she says when I stay quiet. “I only met him briefly, back when you and Maxim were first married, before…”
Before all of his problems started. She doesn’t say it, but I know that’s what she’s thinking.
“Jack and I were never the cozy-siblings type,” I start, voice shaky.
“He was always off chasing something—poker tournaments, EDM festivals, insane women.” I force a laugh that dies right away.
“Then eventually, he got into drugs and basically drifted out of my life. By the time our parent’s plane went down, his dealer knew more about him than I did. ”
Trina’s eyes soften. “I remember the memorial. He was… absent, even while standing next to you.”
I nod. “Two weeks later he vanished. Sold his Mustang to cover a gambling debt, according to Mom’s lawyer.
I begged him to stay. He didn’t. He hopped a flight to Macau and that was that.
” I swallow hard and push on. “Fast-forward to Maxim’s charity gala.
Jack turned up uninvited, cornered Maxim in the garage.
I walked in as they were shouting. Jack was accusing Max of ‘hoarding Winslow money’ for Volkov expansions, Maxim telling Jack to get clean or get out. ”
“And a guard overheard,” Trina murmurs, putting pieces together.
“Yeah. Somehow Aleksander twisted the argument into proof that Jack and I plotted Max’s murder.” The memory still stings like vinegar in a paper cut.
Trina steps closer, squeezing my forearm. “Uncle Aleksander goes hunting for people to blame when things go wrong. You know that.”
“If Jack really is in New York, your uncle will lose what sanity he has left.”
We fall into a thoughtful silence. Trina finally exhales, the cloud hanging in the crisp air. “Teresa, you didn’t kill Maxim. And Jack—wherever he is—will have to answer for his own sins. Don’t carry that for him.”
I want to believe her. The carousel music suddenly sounds eerie, the fairy lights too bright. I rub my arms as the air feels colder.
Trina notices and rallies. “Enough gloom. I promised Christmas cheer.”
She loops her arm through mine and tugs me toward a chalet-style stall stacked with iced cookies bigger than my hand. I let her drag me along, buying a candy-cane striped bauble and even managing a laugh when powdered sugar snows down her coat.
An hour later, shopping bags in hand and cheeks numb from the wind, we duck into a tiny bistro off Forty-First and split a plate of raclette.
Trina keeps the talk light— office gossip, a disastrous date she barely survived, the eternal Eastside versus Westside bagel debate.
The normal chatter helps. By the time we hug goodbye near the subway entrance, the weight in my chest feels manageable again.
My guards materialize the second Trina disappears down the stairs. The taller one—Mikhail—speaks into an earpiece, then holds the car door for me.
“Mr. Angeloff requests we drive you, Ms. Winslow.”
Translation: the boss is furious they let me ride the subway tonight. I slide into the back seat of an armored Mercedes, clutching my shopping bags while the city flickers past the windows. Was that really Jack? Or stress playing dress-up with a stranger’s face?
Outside my new building, two more guards flank the entrance. They escort me to the elevator, stepping out onto my floor before me to sweep the hallway. Polite, professional, but still unnerving. Once inside the apartment, I flick on the lights, toe off my boots, and drop the bags on the countertop.
Silence hugs me like cold water. I unpack the rose-gold ornament I bought and hold it up to the recessed lighting.
It glitters—pretty, delicate, breakable.
My brother used to call me that when we were kids.
Delicate doesn’t survive our family, T. I set the ornament down before it slips from my fingers.
A prickling awareness crawls over my skin, like the moment just before someone taps your shoulder. The curtains are drawn, the locks engaged, but the back of my neck insists I’m not alone. I spin, scanning the open space, the hallway leading to the bedroom.
Nothing moves. Still, the feeling won’t let up. I imagine an unseen shadow in the dark, a breath I can’t hear. I tell myself it’s leftover adrenaline, that safe-flats come with overactive imaginations.
I cross to the bedroom door, flip on the light, and look around before stepping inside.
This place is supposed to be comforting. Tonight, it feels like danger, about to swallow me whole.