Chapter 39
TERESA
The sky is slate gray with a sullen shimmer when they march me through the French doors and across the back stone terrace. Snow drifts down in delicate little flakes.
If I weren’t about to be murdered, I’d think it was pretty.
The Volkov garden looks like a mini Versailles.
Clipped boxwood hedges, marble nymphs with strategic drapery, a long reflecting pool glazed with ice, and dead center, the fountain I remember from the galas here—a four-tiered structure crowned with a stone angel.
The water hasn’t frozen yet; it bubbles beneath a thin crust of ice.
“On your knees,” one of the goons says.
I move like I’m obeying, letting my knees bend, and I notice a loose chunk of the fountain’s base, fist-sized, veined with ice.
I snatch it up, whipping around in one swift motion, focusing all of my anger, all of my rage.
The stone connects with the guard’s temple, a sound between a knock and a thunk.
He staggers back, eyes widening, blood streaking down his face.
“Fuck...” He goes for his gun, raising it slowly toward me.
Time stops. A shot cracks through the air. I don’t feel anything except winter licking at my cheeks.
For a second, my brain tries to compute that I’m dead and just haven’t realized it yet. Then I notice the guard staring down at his coat where a dot of cherry red is blooming. He blinks, confused, then tips over into the snow covered pathway.
Everything stalls before the world detonates.
More gunfire, this time from the tree line, short, controlled bursts that chew up hedges and snap branches.
A second guard drops so fast you’d think he slipped on the ice.
The remaining two are smarter; they pivot and return fire, pushing me toward the fountain’s stone bowl.
I duck, pressing my back to the opposite part of the fountain’s base.
Shouts ripple from the terrace. Doors bang open. More Volkov men spill into the garden, weapons up. In the same breath, shadows peel off the hedgerows and statues. They move quickly, precisely, and eerily silent except for the metallic cough of suppressed fire.
Silver ties flash in the snow-muted light.
Angels of Death.
They fan out and the garden becomes a warzone, muzzle flashes blinking like fireflies. One of ours somersaults behind a statue and uses a marble nymph as a firing rest. It would be impressive if I weren’t trying not to die.
A voice cuts through the chaos. “Teresa! Move! Now!”
Dmitri. Thank God. He’s somewhere to my right, half-hidden behind a low hedge, trading shots with a pair of Volkov men. He jerks his chin toward the house.
I keep low and do my best to stay out of the crossfire. Bullets ping off stone. Shouts ring out in Russian.
The terrace steps feel like a small mountain, but my adrenaline pushes me forward.
I take the stairs two at a time, clutching the banister.
I run through another set of French doors into a long hallway.
Gold-framed portraits stare at me. I aim for the foyer, hopeful there will be fewer bullets—wrong.
There’s a gun battle at the front of the mansion too.
From my vantage point, I see the entry hall explode as the main doors slam wide and snow gusts in. Outside, black SUVs are angled nose-to-nose, gunfire flashing against the marble columns, men ducking behind planters, barking into radios.
Vlad strides through the doorway with a squad of his men at his back, their weapons up, returning fire with brutal precision.
He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t duck. Snow clings to his hair, his charcoal coat open over a black shirt and silver tie. He moves like he owns every inch of air in this house, and for one breathless second, I can’t think of anything except how beautiful he is.
“Teresa!” he roars, spotting me.
The sound rips through the hall, the air itself seeming to stagger aside to make room for it.
He locks onto me like nothing else exists, and something deep inside unclenches so hard I nearly collapse.
I move toward him. A gunshot rings out. A Volkov traitor pivots toward me, his muzzle flaring.
The round punches into the plaster just inches from my head. I freeze.
Vlad closes the distance with terrifying calm, his hand snapping out. One shot—fast, merciless—drops the man to the marble like a sack of meat. Vlad doesn’t even glance down. His eyes stay on me and only me.
I’m halfway to him before I even realize I’m moving again. His hands roam across my body, making sure I’m still in one piece.
“Are you—”
“I’m okay,” I interrupt, breathless.
His eyes sweep my face. He leans down and presses a firm kiss against my forehead. “We’re leaving. Now.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere that isn’t here. Come.”
He turns me so I’m on his left, his body between me and the door. His right hand skims my lower back, steering me past the staircase, down a corridor, through a pair of double doors. I hear Dmitri bark an order and the sudden thud of retreating footsteps—our men peeling off to cover us.
We reach a gallery lined with glass cases filled with weapons that are hopefully decommissioned. Vlad pauses, listening.
Two figures break from a side passage—Trina’s men.
Vlad doesn’t give them the formality of a warning.
The first drops before his pistol is fully levelled.
One sharp crack, chest folding inward like he’d been yanked by a string.
The second barely raises his weapon before Vlad’s round takes him in the throat, clean and final.
It happens so fast I almost don’t process it—two men down, Vlad not even winded. No bravado. Just work.
In that moment, I don’t see Vlad the man. I see something cold, carved from the same stone as the angels on cathedral walls—the kind who come not to protect, but to extinguish.
An angel of death.
My angel of death.
I should be horrified. But I’m not.
I’m in love with him for it.
Vlad doesn’t look back at me. He doesn’t need to. He knows I’m following, that I’ll let him carry the weight of this necessary violence while I carry our future. His hand finds my back again, grounding me, and we keep moving.
“Service wing,” he says. “There’s a back staircase, then the garage—”
“Going somewhere?”
We both turn. Trina steps out, pistol in hand, a cold smile plastered on her face. She looks at me, clearly disappointed that I’m still breathing, then shifts to Vlad. “You’re late, Angeloff.”
“Traffic,” he replies.
Her gaze drops to where his hand rests at my back. “How sweet.”
My heart slams so hard against my ribs it’s painful. Vlad’s hand presses tighter against my skin.
“Step aside,” he tells her.
“Or what?” Trina tilts her head. “You’ll kill me in my uncle’s gallery? He’s bleeding out two rooms away, if you want to say hello.”
“Trina,” I say, my throat dry, “this doesn’t have to—”
“End?” She smiles again, thin and final. “Everything ends, darling.”
Vlad’s hand shifts at my back, a tiny press.
It’s a warning. A countdown.