Chapter 24
VLAD
Teresa’s eyes are on me, wide and searching, while her brother’s words hang in the air like smoke.
Killed our parents. Killed Maxim.
The kind of accusations that stain, even if they are lies. Especially when they’re lies.
Jack is breathing hard and fast, wrists biting against the steel cuffs. He’s starting to panic—shoulders twitching, legs bouncing, eyes flicking to the door like a trapped animal. He thinks he’s winning with his accusations. Men like him always mistake noise for power.
I step closer. “You walk into my city, into my territory, and spit fairy tales in my face.” I crouch, level with him, so we can be eye-to-eye. “But here’s the difference between us, Jack. I don’t run when I’m afraid. I don’t hide in motels reeking of cigarettes and bad choices.”
He jerks his chin toward Teresa. “She deserves to know the truth.”
“She deserves better than a coward who drags her into his mess,” I retort, my voice steady and cold. I glance at her, still pale from whatever sent her to the bathroom. My protective heat flares, the kind I can’t control when it comes to her.
Her gaze drops to her brother’s bound wrists. “Vlad. Take off the cuffs. Please.”
I study her for a long moment. Jack’s a shithead, a liability, but he’s still her blood, and she’s not ready to watch him break in front of me. Finally, I nod to Dmitri. The cuffs click open.
Jack stands, rubbing his wrists, and glares at me.
“Listen carefully,” I tell him. “If you try any bullshit, you’re dead on the spot. I’ve killed men for far less than the accusation you just made.”
His throat bobs. He believes me.
“Jack.” Teresa’s voice cracks on his name. “Tell him you’re sorry. Tell him you’ll stay away from Volkov and whatever broker you’re dealing with.”
Jack shifts from foot to foot. “Look, man—”
“Don’t call me ‘man.’” I step closer. The idiot tries to hold my gaze but fails after three seconds, pupils darting sideways like a cornered rat. “You brought armed freelancers to a gala. You let them touch her. That alone should buy you a toe tag.”
Jack’s bravado evaporates. “I didn’t know those guys! I swear!”
Dmitri’s laugh is short, amused. “You’re telling us it was just a coincidence that those thugs were waiting outside?”
“That’s exactly what I’m telling you!”
Teresa’s hand finds my sleeve. “Vlad, please. He’s my only family.”
My only family. Funny how three words can rewire strategy. I glance down at her, those wide brown eyes shining desperation back at me.
I exhale slowly and lift my chin toward Dmitri. “Fine. We keep eyes on him from now on.”
Dmitri pockets the cuffs, expression professionally blank, but I know he’s already arranging contingency plans in his head.
Teresa’s shoulders sag, relief and latent exhaustion overtaking her. She touches her brother’s cheek, whispering something I can’t hear. Jack just nods, guilt and fear flushing his face.
I step into his personal space again and drop my voice. “You stay away from her unless she invites you. You stay clear of Volkov’s orbit. And if any more freelancers try to put hands on her, I will not offer leniency twice. Understood?”
Jack’s eyes flash again. “They weren’t—”
“Understood?” The word explodes from me in a deep bellow.
“Understood.”
I look past him out the window. “Leave. Now.”
He takes one last look at Teresa, then bolts.
Teresa turns to me. She’s still pale, but her undying strength sparks behind the fatigue. “Thank you.” Her voice is small, but the gratitude rings genuine. “I know he’s a mess but...” She shrugs.
“But he’s your mess,” I finish. “I understand loyalty. Come. This place makes me sick.”
The three of us walk toward the SUV. Frost has already settled on the windshield. Dmitri starts the engine, heat roaring. Inside, warmth wraps around us while Teresa buckles in beside me. She holds an envelope pressed to her lap as if it might jump up and bite someone.
“We’ll have our tech team audit those photographs,” I say. “Metadata, chain of custody. If anything matches flight-records or bank transfers, I’ll show you.”
She exhales sharply but doesn’t say a word. Does she still trust me?
Dmitri makes a left out of the lot, tires crunching the icy snow. Newark’s rail yards blur past, sodium lamps turning snowdrifts a vivid orange color. Teresa leans her head back and closes her eyes. I watch her breathe in and out, slow, measured breaths.
For the first time all evening, my anger ebbs, replaced by something sharper—fear.
Not of Jack, not of Volkov, but of losing the fragile trust of the woman beside me.
I lay my hand palm-up on the seat between us.
After a breath she threads her fingers through mine, squeezes once, and leaves her hand there.
Inside that simple contact is a whole treaty—room for proof, room for doubt—but room. And that’s good enough for tonight.
Rain skitters across the windshield in silver lines, blurring Newark’s warehouses into watercolor smears.
Teresa dozes beside me, head tipped to the window, envelope of forged photos on the seat next to her.
Passing streetlights scatter orange streaks across her face.
Jack’s accusation replays in my head on a loop—Angeloff funded the crash, Angeloff shot Maxim—as corrosive as battery acid.
A lie fractures trust faster than a bullet, I think to myself. If she starts doubting my word, I lose more than operational leverage. I lose the woman I’m ready to build a kingdom around. The bruise under my ribs still throbs, but the prospect of Teresa pulling away hurts worse.
“ETA, twelve minutes,” Dmitri says from the driver’s seat. “No tails.”
“Spasibo.”
My fingers stay woven with hers on the leather seat until we arrive home.
When the private elevator opens into the penthouse, Teresa thanks Dmitri then runs for the hall bathroom, one hand over her mouth. The door clicks shut.
I can hear her retching. My fists clench. Every part of me wants to break the door down. She needs space, but she also needs care. The tap runs. I wait.
When she comes out, her eyes are watery. I hand her a cold glass of ginger ale.
“Doctor?” I ask.
She manages a smile. “I’m sure it’s just from all the stress. I’ll be okay.”
I want to call in a doctor, but I let it go. For now.
We sit on the sofa, the fire low and glowing. I tell her the plan: My people will strip the photo files, check the mechanic’s ledger from Saint Petersburg, and trace the IP that sent Jack’s dossier.
She stares at the flames. “Part of me believed him,” she says quietly. “I suppose that’s the way of guilt.”
“Guilt can trap you, or it can guide you,” I tell her. “You choose.”
She moves closer. Her sleeve brushes my hand, sending a spark through me. Then she takes my jacket off, slowly.
“You didn’t have to save me,” she says. “But you did.”
Her hands slide over my holster. I take it off, set it aside. She leans in and kisses my neck, then my mouth—slow at first then deeper.
I catch her wrist, thumb grazing her pulse. “I’d do it a thousand times over, kotenok.” Her breath hitches and she moves closer. I can feel her heartbeat as I pull her against me.
Her lips find my throat, soft and tentative at first, then bolder, kissing along my collarbone. I fight the urge to say I love you, the words burning in my throat, and instead tilt her chin, kissing her deeply, tongue stroking hers, tasting her warmth.
My hands slide under her blouse, easing it over her head and tossing it aside. Her bra and panties follow, her skin glowing in the firelight, curves begging to be touched.
Teresa guides me down onto the rug, her eyes fierce, taking control. “I want you,” she whispers as she straddles me, her pussy brushing my trousers, already wet. I groan, hands gripping her hips as she unzips me, freeing my cock—hard, throbbing, aching for her.
She slides down, kissing my chest, then lower, but I stop her, needing to taste her first. “Not yet, solnishka.”
I roll us, pinning her beneath me on the rug, her thighs parting as I settle between them, the firelight casting golden flickers across her skin.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” I whisper, kissing her navel, tongue tracing the soft curve of her hips, then lower, teasing her clit until she moans, nails digging into my shoulders.
Her pussy’s so wet, glistening, and I lap at her, slow and deliberate, savoring her taste, sweet and heady, knowing she’s mine in every way.
She writhes and gasps. “Vlad, oh my god,” she cries, her voice breaking as I suck gently, pushing her closer to the edge.
My fingers slide inside, curling against that spot that makes her tremble, and she comes hard, crying my name as her body arches. I thrust into her before the orgasm subsides, slow and deep, her tight heat gripping me.
“Mine,” I growl, Russian spilling out. “Moya radost, moya zhiznm,” my joy, my life.
Her moans, her soft cries of “Vlad, yes,” drive me harder, her nails raking my back, leaving trails of fire. “You feel so fucking good,” she says, legs wrapping around my waist, pulling me deeper, her heels digging into my ass. “Don’t stop, please.”
I angle my hips, hitting the sweet spot that makes her shudder, my thumb circling her clit, slick and swollen. “Come for me, kotenok,” I urge, voice thick with love, raw with need. “Let me feel you.”
She shatters, her pussy clenching around my cock, a scream of my name tearing from her throat as another orgasm ripples through her, her body trembling beneath me. I slow, drawing out her pleasure, each thrust gentle but deep, her gasps filling the air.
“I want you on top,” I murmur, kissing her hard, tongue claiming hers.
I roll us again, settling on my back, the rug soft beneath me.
She straddles me, her thighs strong, skin flushed, firelight painting her curves in gold and shadow.
Her breasts sway, nipples hard, as she positions herself, gripping my cock and guiding it back inside her.
Her hips roll, slow at first, her womanhood swallowing me whole, inch by inch, until she’s seated fully, her head thrown back, dark curls spilling over her shoulders.
“Ride me, Teresa,” I growl, hands gripping her hips, guiding her rhythm.
She moves—confident and powerful—her hands braced on my chest, nails biting my skin. Her breasts bounce with each thrust, her pussy tight and slick, sliding up and down my cock, the wet heat driving me wild.
“You’re so deep,” she moans, eyes locked on mine, love and lust swirling in their depths.
“You feel so fucking good.” Her hips grind, circling, her clit rubbing against my pelvis, and I watch her, mesmerized—her flushed cheeks, the sweat beading between her breasts, the way her thighs flex as she rides me harder, faster.
“Fuck, I’m close again,” she gasps, voice breaking.
“Give it to me,” I say, one hand cupping her breast, thumb flicking her nipple, the other sliding to her clit, rubbing tight circles. “Come on my cock, kotenok.”
She cries out, pussy pulsing as her third orgasm hits. Her body shudders as her head falls forward, curls brushing my chest. I thrust up, meeting her, chasing my own release.
“You’re fucking everything,” I groan, coming hard, my cock throbbing inside her as pleasure ripples through me, our bodies locked together.
We collapse, her body warm and perfect on my chest, the fire’s glow softening the room. I pull a blanket from the couch and wrap it around us, my lips brushing her temple.
I hold her close, my heart pounding with words I can’t say. Her eyes meet mine, soft, vulnerable, and I see the same unspoken truth trembling on her lips. She doesn’t say it out loud, fear flickering in her gaze. I hold her tighter, her breath warm against my neck.
This love—fierce yet fragile—could break us both, but I’ll burn the world down to keep it.