Chapter 16
TERESA
The next day…
Ihover in the doorway of what Vlad calls my room, fingers curled around the jamb, trying to process the impossible.
Every piece of furniture I owned now sits inside a space the size of my entire apartment in Queens.
And somehow, it looks better here, like an art installation curated to prove how small my life used to be.
My dented teak dresser is against the back wall, my thrift-store reading chair right next to it. Even my chipped turquoise mugs line a floating shelf near a minibar stocked with the exact tea I drink when I can’t sleep.
The ensuite bathroom door is ajar, revealing limestone tile, a glass enclosed rainfall shower, and a soaking tub deep enough to dive into.
I lived in comfort with Maxim, but it was comfort built on his father’s indulgence.
Maxim was sweet, generous, but still half a boy playing king.
Vlad is different. Vlad snaps his fingers and the world rearranges itself.
He decides I need a safer place to sleep, and poof, my entire existence migrates to Manhattan overnight.
I back away from the door, overwhelmed. My brother materializing in my so-called safe space, secrets about hit lists and family fortunes, now this sky-palace relocation. Which part is my new life, and which part is the discarded shell of the old? My mind chases its tail.
I pivot into the main corridor, breathing in the rest of the penthouse. Two stories of floor-to-ceiling glass overlook the East River, the winter moon hanging like a lantern above the water.
A suspended staircase of black steel and oak curves up to an open gallery lined with bookcases and discreet security glass. Downstairs, cream sofas float on a cloud-gray rug in front of a large wall fireplace.
Art hangs in restful intervals—an abstract splash of midnight blue, a photographic triptych of barren Icelandic landscapes.
The kitchen is all matte black cabinetry and copper fixtures, the island big enough to host a cooking show. I’d only been in the entrance foyer and Vlad’s study; seeing the whole spread now, empty and silent, feels voyeuristic, like I’ve broken into an oligarch’s private museum.
The elevator dings. My pulse spikes. The doors part to reveal Dmitri, hair damp from sleet, a cardboard box under one arm.
He spots me and lifts the box in greeting. “Got the last of your things. Some books, spare chargers, and this little plant that looks on the verge of death.”
I let out a shaky laugh and cross the sea of gray rug to meet him. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“No,” he deadpans, “just a professional mover, apparently.” He sets the box on the coffee table, then glances over at the massive sofa.
“Sit before you keel over,” I say.
We both drop onto the couch, the cushions plush and soft. Dmitri rests his forearms on his knees, giving the living room a slow once-over. “You think you can be comfortable here?”
“It’s stunning.” My voice is small in the vast room. I clasp my hands together, trying for composure. “Thank you, for getting my stuff. I know it’s late.”
He shrugs. “Boss says move, we move.” A faint smile forms. “Besides, I prefer your mugs in the kitchen to his crystal. Makes the place actually feel lived in.”
I manage a real smile, grateful. The skyline beyond the glass pulses in quiet rhythm, and for a moment the weight lifts just enough that I can let my shoulders slump and simply breathe.
The box on the coffee table looks sad and lopsided, but when I peer inside a sprig of green waves back at me. My rosemary plant, still alive, though one branch is bent at a dramatic angle.
“My little survivor,” I say, cradling the pot. Dirt’s scattered across the packing paper, and it smells like pine and nostalgia. “Pretty sure even you can’t kill him, Dmitri.”
He lets out a low chuckle. “Don’t challenge me. I had a plant once, a cactus. Managed to kill that somehow. Plants are not my thing.”
Instead of carting the plant to my room, I cross to the huge corner window and set it on the steel ledge. Manhattan lights fan out below, and it suddenly looks heroic, claiming its stake against a backdrop of skyscrapers.
“Front-row seat,” I murmur, patting the pot. “Grow big. Prove we belong.”
Behind me, cabinets open with a soft hiss. Dmitri rummages inside, produces a crystal decanter, and pours himself two fingers of amber. “Nightcap?”
I shake my head. “Just water. Alcohol’s been off the menu lately.” I’ve never been a huge drinker, but lately even the thought of alcohol has been enough to send a tinge of nausea through me.
“Smart. Clear head, steady hands.” He fishes a chilled bottle of spring water from the refrigerator and brings it over, clinking it with his tumbler in a muted toast. We sit down once again. He sips his whiskey while I hug the bottle of water as if it’s a life raft.
A long, unhurried silence unfolds. It’s surprisingly comfortable, cozy even, if a multi-million-dollar living room can feel like that. The fireplace flickers, a low ribbon of gas flame.
“So,” I finally say, twisting the cap, “this arrangement. You really think me being here in the penthouse will keep the wolves out?”
“One wolf at least,” Dmitri answers. “Not sure how your brother got into the other apartment, but not a chance he’s getting into this one.”
I nod though anxiety still flutters under my ribs. “I appreciate what he’s doing, looking out for me. But sometimes it feels like Vlad always chooses protect over explain. I don’t know how to read him.”
“He’s protective by design.” Dmitri swirls his drink, ice chiming. “Look, the boss built an empire by minimizing chaos. Violence is bad for revenue streams, bad for morale, bad for banking relationships, bad for sleep. Not to mention the little detail of keeping you alive.”
“And you?” I ask, one brow raised. “You buy that logic? Or are you just here because the pay’s good?”
“Money’s a perk,” he admits. “But Vlad saved my skin when I was sixteen and stupid. Since then, I watch his back, he watches mine. Square deal.”
I study his face. Tough, but there’s real kindness there. “Loyalty like that is hard to find.”
“Tell me about it.” He tosses back the last of his whiskey and sets the glass down. “Meanwhile, I can see you’re busy plotting escape routes.”
My cheeks warm. “Am I that obvious?”
“A little.” He shrugs into his jacket. “It’s fine. Plan all the exits you want, smart people do. Just remember the safest door might be the one that leads back in.”
Easy for him to say. Still, the words stick.
Dmitri heads for the elevator, pausing at the threshold. “Boss is on his way. Thirty minutes, maybe less. If you need anything before then, hit zero on the house phone.”
“Thanks, Dmitri. For everything.”
He offers a half-smile—warm, quick, gone. “Good night.”
The elevator doors open and close. Silence settles again, thick as fallen snow. I take a long drink of my water and wait for the elevator doors to open again.
I do a slow loop of the penthouse, trying to figure out which light switches do what. Past the library alcove and a wall of climate-casual wine racks, I find a glass door marked GYM. Inside, recessed lights glow over matte-black equipment. Everything smells faintly of rubber and eucalyptus.
A workout sounds better than pacing circles in my head, so I duck back to my suite, swap the sweater dress for leggings and a tank, and return to claim the treadmill facing the west windows. The Hudson glitters under the moonlight, cars threading along the West Side like fireflies.
I start at an easy jog, dialing up speed with every song on my playlist. Jack’s face flashes behind my eyes. Would he actually hurt me? Or is this all about money? And though he was trying to play it cool, what if he’s in trouble again, trouble he can’t get out of?
Worry takes hold as the treadmill ticks past two miles, three.
By the time I stop, lungs burning, ponytail plastered to my neck, the readout says five-point-eight miles. No wonder my legs feel like boiled spaghetti.
“Good form.”
I whirl around, my breath catching. Vlad leans against the doorway, drink in hand, dressed in dark jeans and a gray t-shirt stretched over a torso carved out of granite. Black ink curls out from under his sleeve, disappearing up his bicep.
“How long were you watching?” I ask, wiping my forehead with a towel.
He lifts one shoulder. “When you’ve got a view that good, you lose track.” He crosses the room, setting his glass on a weight bench. “You settling in?”
“I think so.” My pulse is already racing, his nearness kicking it higher. “Your gym is nicer than my old building’s entire first floor.”
“Good.” He steps closer, hands sliding to my hips, thumbs pressing just enough. “Because I plan to make the most of you being here.”
The words vibrate low, possessive. Before I can answer, he pulls me flush against him and claims my mouth—hard, hot, no hesitation. All the adrenaline from the run flips into something molten, and for the first time tonight, I stop thinking altogether.