Chapter 6
TERESA
Vlad’s mouth is at my throat.
His shirt is open, hard planes of muscle inked in black and gunmetal grey—a winged blade over his heart, a line of Cyrillic script tracking the ridge of one pec, scars feathered pale beneath the ink.
My calves lock behind his waist, heels digging into the thick muscle of his back as he drives into me deep, each thrust a strike that knocks all rationale loose, my walls clenching around him. I clutch his shoulders and my head snaps back as I hear myself begging for him to bring me over the edge…
Knock-knock.
My eyes fly open to the harsh brightness of my monitor. Desk. Office. Noon. Shit. I jerk upright so fast I almost spill my iced coffee. “Come in!”
Katie from the executive floor pokes her head inside, tablet in hand, ponytail swaying. “Running a Sweetgreen order. You want anything? Kale Caesar? Warm bowls?”
I blink, brain re-threading itself from sex vision to spreadsheet. “Uh, no, thanks. I brought lunch.” I gesture to the Tupperware container of roasted chicken and quinoa sitting on my desk.
She steps inside another foot and squints at me. “You feeling okay?”
“Fine,” I answer too fast.
She tilts her head, studying my face. “You’re flushed. Like, really flushed. Do you have a fever?”
Heat spikes and I slap a palm to my cheek. She’s right, my skin’s on fire. With my mother’s coloring I flush dark. Right now, I probably look sunburned. Great.
“Coffee,” I blurt. “I’ve had—” I count cups in my head, lose track, wave the number off. “Too much caffeine. It happens.”
Katie laughs. “Girl, switch to decaf before you stroke out. I’ll grab you a sparkling water.” She heads toward the door. “Ping me if you change your mind.”
“Thanks,” I manage.
I drop my head into my hands and groan. Fantastic. Office gossip by one p.m. will be: Teresa’s overheating. Correction: Teresa’s overheating because she can’t stop reliving the night she let the boss unwrap her like a Christmas present and screw her brains out by a fire.
That was two nights ago and Vlad’s been a ghost—constantly in meetings, closed-door conference calls, shuttled between armored SUVs and boardrooms. I’ve fielded travel confirmations, patched him into a Zurich teleconference, and rearranged the Baltimore schedule twice, but actual face time has been maybe four minutes total, and all of it strictly business.
Send the draft. Confirm the escrow. Eight a.m. briefing.
No chemistry. No sly looks. Not even a tease about my humiliating search history.
Is he giving me space? Testing whether I’ll crack?
Pretending nothing happened? I chew the inside of my cheek.
Maybe this is mercy. I do need space. Because when I let my guard drop even for a second, my body reruns the scene on a loop.
His weight pinning me, the scrape of his five-o’clock shadow along my collarbone, the way his tattoos moved when he rolled his hips.
The way he growled my name, the shudder of his body when he spilled into me…
I open my calendar to anchor myself in work. One p.m. vendor call. Two-thirty compliance review. Four o’clock travel recon for Vlad/Dmitri Baltimore run. Numbers. Logistics. I can control these things.
I take a long pull from my iced coffee, pressing the cold plastic to my cheeks until the burn dulls. I need to look and act professional. Neutral. Lord knows I need the distance. Because one more night like that and I won’t remember which side of the desk I work on.
My phone buzzes with a text while I’m sorting vendor invoices.
Caffè Trieste at six still good?
My stomach does a tiny flip. Trina Volkov—Aleksander’s niece and Maxim’s cousin. Also the one person in that family who hasn’t tried to ruin me. She was the mediator after the gala, the voice that convinced Aleksander to call off the first wave of lawyers and guns. If she wants to meet, I go.
See you then, I text back and log off for the day.
Caffè Trieste sits on West Broadway, an old brick nook humming with low jazz and espresso steam.
I choose a two-top in the back where the frost on the window blurs passing traffic.
Trina slips through the door in a wool pea coat and dark sunglasses even though dusk is settling.
Incognito, as always. She waves to the barista, then threads her way to me, sliding the glasses into her hair.
“Rough week?” she asks, shrugging off the coat.
“You could say that.” I manage a thin smile. “Latte?”
“Caffeine-sober for a month,” she teases, ordering a chamomile tea instead.
Once we’re settled and have our drinks, she leans forward, fingers laced. “Uncle’s got a bee in his bonnet again. You okay?” The concern in her hazel eyes is genuine, as always.
I sip my cappuccino. “Define okay. He’s had me blacklisted from half the banks on Wall Street. Now he wants me fired from the one job I found that wasn’t in a strip club.”
Her brows knit. “He’s still clinging to that? It’s been two years.”
“Grief has no expiration date and neither does his bitterness, apparently.” I trace a swirl in the foam. “You know he still blames me for Maxim. For everything.”
Trina sighs, tucking a strand of chestnut hair behind her ear. “Let’s back up. Maxim adored you. You two were practically childhood sweethearts.” She softens. “He was gentle, not like the old man.”
He was gentle. It still stings. “And yet Aleksander looks at me like I pulled the trigger.”
“That gala was a bloodbath,” she murmurs. “Nobody saw it coming.”
Maybe not, but I still see it every night when I close my eyes. Gunshots, Maxim’s blood, Vlad returning fire. I swallow hard. “I’ve kept my head down. I never retaliated. But when I accused Aleksander of arranging my parent’s plane crash—”
“—he snapped,” she finishes. “Believe me, the family knows. He’s got your accusation etched into his pride.”
“I accused him because it makes sense,” I reply fiercely. “Winslow Transport merged neatly into Volkov Industries once my parents were gone. If Jack hadn’t vanished, maybe we could’ve fought it. But now, your uncle has possession of everything my parents built.”
Trina rests her hand on mine. “Your brother’s disappearance isn’t on you. As I told you then—I’ll keep Uncle from crossing the line.”
“You mediated the truce,” I say, my voice softening. “He would’ve buried me without you.”
She smiles. “Someone had to be a reasonable Volkov.”
We lapse into silence, nursing our drinks. A thin layer of snow begins to settle outside the window.
“I’ll talk to him again,” Trina says finally. “Remind him the Bratva investigation is still open and that harassing you makes him look desperate.”
“I can’t thank you enough,” I tell her. “Honestly, Trina, you’re the only reason I can sleep.”
She pats my hand. “You’ll owe me a spa weekend when this blows over.” Her playful grin drops into a serious frown. “Stay cautious, T. Uncle’s temper is unpredictable.”
“I’m well aware.”
We pay, bundle up, and step into the street’s glittering twilight. “Text when you get home,” she calls out, hugging her coat close before heading toward SoHo.
I turn toward the subway and freeze. A black BMW sedan idles at the curb. Leaning against its passenger door is Dmitri Sokol, Vlad’s right hand. He’s an Angeloff Bratva legend with eyes like steel. He wears an overcoat dusted with snow, gloved hands folded in front of him.
My pulse skyrockets. “Mr. Sokol?”
He inclines his head. “Ms. Winslow. Mr. Angeloff requests a word.”
The rear window lowers a fraction and Vladimir’s shadowed profile appears. Two nights without him and the memory of his body against mine still burns at the base of my spine.
“Now?”
“Now,” Dmitri confirms, opening the back door.
Snowflakes swirl under the streetlamp like shaken glitter. Trina’s warning about unpredictability echoes in my head, but this isn’t Volkov’s fury. It’s Vlad summoning me and ignoring it isn’t an option.
I pull my coat tighter with trembling fingers and duck into the warmth of the car. The door shuts, Dmitri slides into the front seat, and we pull away from the curb.
Vlad turns to me, eyes dark. “We need to talk.”
The city lights smear across the tinted glass as the sedan merges into traffic, carrying me toward whatever reckoning waits beyond the glare.