Chapter 8
TERESA
The subway car lurches under Canal Street, fluorescent lights flickering, casting the other riders in eerie, ghostly glows.
I grip the strap of my tote with one hand, the other wrapped around the cool metal pole, trying to anchor myself while fighting against my traitorous mind, which keeps pulling me back to Vladimir Angeloff.
His hands, his voice, his everything haunts me, as vividly now as if I was back in the moment. My mind drifts…
“You’re trembling, kotenok,” he growled, voice vibrating through my bones. “Is it fear or something sweeter?”
The subway jolts, snapping me back.
My cheeks burn with embarrassment as if other subway passengers can read my thoughts. Since that night in the car, Vladimir’s been a phantom in the office again. Curt emails, orders relayed through Dmitri, nothing more than a fleeting glimpse of his profile.
Hot, cold, gone. Is this his game? Reeling women in then leaving them aching for more?
Or am I weaving meaning into a man too consumed by his empire to chase a single, breath-stealing moment? My fingers tighten on the pole, the metal cold against the heat of my skin, yearning for answers only he can give.
I don’t like it. Maxim’s face appears every time desire flares, gentle eyes clouded by death, asking whether I’m still his wife in spirit or if I’ve already walked away from our vows.
I always whisper the same apology: I’m not replacing you.
I’m just trying to keep living. The guilt always settles back in, never fully cleared.
The train screeches into Wall Street Station. Doors open, exhaling the stale, electrified air unique to New York’s underbelly. I step onto the platform and join the surge up the concrete stairs into the night.
Above ground, the financial district glitters beneath December’s early darkness—skyscrapers draped in white LEDs, giant wreaths shining like emerald halos over revolving doors, miniature tornadoes of artificial snow swirling in storefront displays.
The city goes all-in on Christmas, and I’ve always loved it—still do—even if the cheer feels slightly out of tune with my life.
However, I’m not here for the lights. I’m here for the packet I stupidly left on my desk—thirty pages of revised escrow terms Vlad needs for an eight-a.m. call to Zurich. No intern is going to trek across the river at nine p.m. to fetch it. I forgot it, it’s my responsibility.
I quicken my pace, heels tapping a brisk echo down the polished canyon of Broad Street. Angeloff Holdings rises ahead, forty stories of glass and steel, its lobby atrium glowing amber like a hearth.
I pull my coat tighter against the wind and pause for half a breath, staring up at the reflections of Christmas lights scattered across the smooth facade. My pulse picks up, accustomed to associating this building with equal parts safety and danger.
A cab whooshes by, kicking up slush. I dodge the spray and stride toward the revolving doors, thoughts already on tomorrow’s agenda and the thin possibility of seeing Vladimir for more than a fleeting second, though I doubt it.
If he’s playing a game, I need to learn the rules fast. If he’s simply buried in work, I need thicker skin.
The doors glide open with a soft sigh, and I step into the hush of marble and evergreen, the scent of fresh pine cutting through the institutional clean.
A solo sax rendition of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” drifts from hidden sound surround speakers.
I ignore the bittersweet pull of it and head for the elevator bank—eyes forward, mind on contracts—pretending my heart isn’t still tangled in the memory of a man who kisses like he wants to devour me.
The office always feels like a church after hours. No one else is around other than a few security workers.
There’s more to do than just grab the folder and leave.
I glance over at my office and sigh, then drop into my seat and start crunching through the forgotten tasks.
I confirm the Zurich dial-in, re-sync Vlad’s next flight, and draft a bullet-point brief on Swiss money-laundering regs.
The glow of the monitor halos the desk, leaving everything else in shadow.
Between clicks I catch myself staring at my reflection in the window. How can a man scare me yet feed every hunger I’ve ignored for years? It’s a question I keep failing to answer.
Thirty minutes later I’m grabbing the cross-border compliance binder I originally came for. Of course it’s in Vlad’s office. He likes resources precisely where he last touched them, often on his desk, even if I filed them elsewhere.
I hesitate because technically I need permission to enter his sanctum when he’s not here. But the binder is due in Zurich’s inbox early tomorrow morning. I exhale and snag my half-finished coffee, promising myself I’ll be fast.
I swipe my keycard and the double doors glide open. Inside, the room is dark except for the city’s holiday neon bleeding through the glass wall. It’s cold and smells faintly of Vlad’s personal scent.
I pause, fantasizing about him pressing me against this very desk, the night skyline flickering behind his broad shoulders as he takes me apart. Heat curls low in my stomach.
Focus, Winslow. Binder.
But lustful imagination ignores orders. I picture him stalking in and ordering me onto the desk, pushing my skirt up to my waist. My breathing hitches.
I step backward, spine brushing the cool ledge of the credenza.
My coffee cup wobbles in my hand and before I can steady it, hot liquid sloshes over the rim—splattering onto the floor and my blouse.
“Shit!” I set the cup down too hard and lunge for the tissue box perched on a low cabinet. My elbow clips a thick leather file resting on top. It tumbles, papers spilling onto the floor.
“Great, Teresa, burn down the office while you’re at it.”
I kneel, blotting the floor with tissues, then gather the scattered pages. My gaze snags on the header stamped across the first sheet:
ANGELOFF LEDGER — CHRISTMAS LIST — CONFIDENTIAL
My stomach hollows. I’ve heard rumors, whispers of a holiday kill docket, the Naughty List for people a syndicate wants erased before the end of the year. I thought it was just Bratva folklore, dark humor over vodka shots.
But now it sits before me, category columns marching proudly down the page.
Name. Offense. Client. Deadline. Status.
Some of the names cross wires in my memory—a banker in Geneva, a mid-level cartel broker in Cali, a journalist I once saw on CNBC. Beside them, Vlad’s neat Cyrillic notes in cold efficiency: C4, parking garage; Sniper, 23rd floor across from Grand Hyatt; “suicide” via morphine push.
Some boxes have already been ticked completed.
I should put it back and pretend I never saw it, but morbid curiosity wins. I flip to the last page.
At the bottom, in a fresh stroke of black ink:
Teresa Winslow — Liability — Client: A. Volkov — Deadline: 25 Dec — Status: Pending
The room tilts. My heart rams against my ribs so hard I feel like I might pass out. Deadline: Christmas Day. That’s in three weeks. Pending. Meaning the plan is still forming but permission granted. I’m on the list, same as the banker, the cartel broker, the journalist who dug too deep.
It hits me. This was the special assignment Volkov had for Vlad.
He wants me dead.
Blood drums in my ears.
Two nights ago Vlad touched me like I mattered, like he cared. Tonight, I find proof he’s obliged by code, by reputation, to kill me if Volkov insists.
The pages shudder in my grip. I slide them back into the folder with trembling fingers, align the leather spine, and return it to the cabinet exactly where it was along with the tissues, all back in place. No evidence, no trace.
I grab my mug and clutch the edge of the credenza to stand.
The office seems to breathe around me—dark, watchful—telling me to get out.
I stride across the polished floor, each step an ice pick through my lungs.
Once in the corridor I break into a jog, pulse pounding all the way to the elevator.
As soon as the doors close I sag against the mirrored steel, clutching the binder I originally came for like a life raft.
When the elevator doors open into the lobby, the security guard glances up from his desk. “Everything okay, Ms. Winslow?”
“Fine,” I lie. “Long night.”
I push through the revolving doors into December’s bite, lungs sucking in frigid air that still feels warmer than the thought lodged in my skull.
Vladimir Angeloff may want me, but if the Christmas List holds, he may also be the man who ends my life.