Chapter 7
VLAD
The engine settles into a low hum as Dmitri pulls the BMW onto the FDR. Teresa sits beside me, hands braided tight in her lap, eyes fixed on the blurred glow of the East River. Tension ripples off her in the subtle clench of her jaw and the bouncing of her leg.
Good. Fear is honest; it leaves no room for performance.
I open the arm-rest bar and uncap a crystal flask. “Drink?”
She flinches. “You said we needed to talk.”
I pour two fingers of Oban into a cut-glass tumbler. I take my time swirling the amber whiskey before reaching forward and tapping the partition. Glass rises with a hush, sealing us off from Dmitri and the city’s white noise.
She watches every motion with wide eyes.
People harboring guilt tend to crack under silence. They fidget and overshare. Teresa sits still now, her breathing shallow but steady. Not guilt, just uncertainty. Interesting.
I sip slowly, allowing the smoke and sea salt to roll over my tongue before setting the glass on the armrest. “Why were you meeting with Trina Volkov?”
Her head snaps toward me. “Excuse me?”
My voice remains calm. “Simple question. You’re not on speaking terms with her family, yet you met with her.”
Her lips part, releasing a sharp exhale. “Aleksander is the one with the problem. Trina isn’t his attack dog.”
“Still curious,” I say, fingers tapping against the tumbler. “A Volkov offering friendship when her uncle is sharpening his knives. I assume she’s gathering intel.”
“She’s always been good to me,” Teresa fires back with the spark I expected. “One of the few who have. I’m not in a position to refuse support.”
She folds her arms defensively, her gaze flicking over my face, searching for judgment. The cabin light highlights her features, a faint flush still lingering from the café’s warmth. I remember that color spreading down her throat two nights ago, the sound she made when I bit her shoulder…
Focus.
“Support can be expensive,” I murmur. “Especially when the bill arrives soaked in blood.”
Her eyes flash. “Not everything is a transaction, Mr. Angeloff.”
“In our world it is,” I correct softly. “The universe runs on debts and payments. The moment you forget that, you lose more than your job.”
She swallows hard. Silence falls again, but she holds my stare—a small gesture I can’t help but to respect.
I raise the glass, letting the whiskey wet my lips. “Tell me what you two discussed.”
“She wants to convince her uncle to leave me alone,” she says, voice edged but honest. “That’s all. I’ve been blacklisted from my career, living paycheck to paycheck, dodging threats. If Trina can change his mind, I’ll take the help.”
The desperation behind her calm hits harder than I expect. I drain the glass and set it down.
“And you think Aleksander Volkov will listen to reason?”
“I have to hope.” Her shoulders sag, courage fraying at the edges.
“Hope’s cheap.”
And dangerous.
The car turns off the freeway toward Midtown. Her reflection flickers in the window—tired, stubborn, a woman walking unarmed through a minefield. The Volkov’s, the Bratva code, my own self-restraint, all circling like wolves.
She thinks the conversation is done. I can feel her easing back, shoulders loosening as if she’s bought a moment’s safety. That’s a mistake. Letting her relax now would be unkind in the long run and detrimental to the truth.
I unbuckle and slide across the seat until only a hand-span separates us. The air between our bodies is charged with the memory of skin against skin. Teresa’s breath stutters. Good. She can claim innocence all day, but her body knows exactly who controls the room the moment I close the distance.
“Mr. Angeloff?” Her voice is steadier than her pulse; I can see it hammering at the soft hollow beneath her throat. “What are you doing?”
I don’t answer verbally. Instead, I take the lapel of her coat between my fingers—politely, almost delicately—and straighten it. She smells of espresso and winter air, and beneath that, perhaps a note of fear. Anticipation.
“You trust Trina,” I say quietly. “Convince me why I should trust your judgment.”
Her chin lifts a fraction in defiance. “I’m alive, aren’t I? She could have handed me over to Aleksander at any point.”
I angle my body, bracketing her against the door without touching. “Or she could be waiting for the perfect moment to trade you for something she wants more.”
Her eyelids flutter, but she doesn’t retreat. “She has nothing to gain from my downfall.”
“Everyone has something to gain,” I reply. “Aleksander wants your life. Trina wants his empire. Where do you imagine that leaves you, kotenok?”
Her breath catches at the endearment. I let the silence stretch until she’s forced to fill it. Classic interrogation, though the heat blooming between us twists the tactic into something far from clinical. Her lips part then press together again as she wrestles for composure.
“You think I’m naive,” she finally says. “I’m not. I know the risks. But I also know kindness when I see it.”
“Kindness,” I echo, tasting the word. “You confuse strategy for virtue.” I shift closer, the scent of her jasmine shampoo brushing my senses.
“Aleksander plays chess with actual people. Trina is his protege whether she admits it or not. And you, Teresa, are the queen he’s willing to sacrifice in order to win. ”
Her lashes lower, but she stubbornly meets my gaze through them. “And what chess piece are you, Vladimir?”
“Board and player,” I tell her. “And tonight I’m also the timer.”
She shivers. Whether from the metaphor or the proximity, I’m not sure.
Doesn’t matter. The point has been made.
I can apply pressure without raising my voice, without lifting a single weapon.
I place my hand against the seat back, my jacket opening just enough for her to glimpse the holster beneath.
When she registers the glimpse of steel, her gaze flicks back to my face. Color rises in her cheeks. Not only from fear—desire also lives in that flush—equal parts betrayal and need. She despises that I can read her so easily. I savor it.
I lean in, voice low and cold. “Tell me, Teresa, if Trina does betray you, will you still call her kind?”
She swallows, throat working. “If she betrays me, I’ll know I was wrong. But you…” She lets out a shaky breath, then pauses. She’s acting braver than she feels. “You might be wrong too. About her, about me.”
An amused smile curls my mouth. “Then we are both gambling.”
We’re close enough that a single bump in the road would force us together. Outside, the lights of Manhattan blur past the windows like distant constellations. Inside, the temperature spikes on barely controlled breathing and the ghostly touch of two nights ago.
I inhale slowly, letting the moment hover, letting her sit with the delicious, terrifying uncertainty of what I might do next. But I do nothing more than simply hold her gaze, closer than propriety allows, until the tension hums like a live wire straining for a spark.
Teresa’s eyes are wide, caught in my gaze like prey, her breath shallow, betraying the pulse hammering at her throat. My fingers linger on her coat lapel, knuckles grazing her collarbone, and I feel her shiver—a spark that sets my blood alight.
She’s trapped, my presence wrapping around her like an invisible net. Her thighs press together, and I know she’s already wet, her body betraying her before I’ve even begun.
“You’re trembling, kotenok,” I murmur, my voice dropping to a growl I know will ripple through her. “Is it fear or something sweeter?”
My hand drifts lower, fingers tracing the edge of her blouse, brushing the soft skin above her waistband. She swallows a gasp, her body arching toward me instinctively, hungry. The sight of her—flushed, fighting herself—makes my cock twitch to life.
“Mr. Angeloff,” she whispers, her voice cracking, raw with a need she can’t fight. I smile, sharp and deliberate, leaning in until my lips graze her ear, her scent flooding my senses.
“Let’s find out,” I say, slipping my hand beneath her blouse, calloused fingertips skimming her trembling stomach. I unbutton her slacks, her breath catching as my fingers slide beneath her panties, finding her slick heat.
“Fuck, Teresa,” I growl when I feel how wet she is, my voice rough with want.
She whimpers, gripping the leather seat as I explore her, slow and deliberate, circling her clit with just enough pressure to make her squirm.
“Look at you,” I whisper, holding her gaze, watching her revel in my touch. My thumb presses harder, setting a rhythm that makes her hips buck against my hand. “That’s it, kotenok. Show me how much you enjoy this.”
Her head tips back, a moan slipping free as I slide one finger inside, then another, curling them upward, making her clench around me. The tight heat of her drives me wild, but I control myself, savoring her surrender, her pleasure.
“Vladimir, please,” she gasps, her voice a desperate plea.
“Please what?” I tease, my free hand gripping her thigh, spreading her wider. “Tell me what you want, Teresa. Tell me you want my fingers fucking you until you come.” I quicken my pace, thrusting deeper, my thumb relentless on her clit, her body trembling.
“I want you to make me come,” she chokes out, uncertainty and desire warring in her eyes. Her words are a surrender that sets my blood on fire.
“Good, because I intend to,” I reply. Her body responds, a fresh wave of slickness coating my fingers. I drive deeper, faster, her moans filling the car, obscene and perfect. Her nails dig into my wrist as I push her to the edge with precision. “Come for me, Teresa. Let me feel you shatter.”
She cries out when her climax hits hard, her body pulsing around my fingers, thighs shaking.
I draw it out, milking every shudder, every gasp, until she’s limp and panting, clinging to me.
I withdraw slowly, fingers glistening, and bring them to my lips, tasting her with a groan that makes her eyes widen.
“Perfect,” I murmur, then adjust her clothes so carefully it feels like a lie against the hunger roaring inside me.
The car rolls to a stop. I slide back, unbuckle, and open the door, the city’s chill rushing in. My place isn’t far from here, a good distance for a winter walk.
“Dmitri,” I speak through the intercom, voice calm despite the ache in my trousers, “take Ms. Winslow home.”
She’s dazed, lips parted, eyes glassy with want. “Vladimir?” she whispers, yearning for more, for me.
I pause, half out the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow, kotenok.”
I step out and shut the door. Dmitri drives off, and I’m left with the taste of her on my tongue, the desperate need in her eyes burned into my mind, counting the hours until tomorrow.