Chapter 9
VLAD
The bottle was supposed to take the bite out of my mood, but instead, every swallow of whiskey fans the fire hotter.
I pace the length of the penthouse living room—glass walls on three sides, Manhattan glittering endlessly into the distance—but even the view can’t distract me. Every skewed reflection in the glass looks like Aleksander Volkov laughing.
Dmitri sits in an armchair, nursing his own drink, tracking me with wolf-like eyes. We’ve known each other half our lives. We came from the same Moscow orphanage, both of us receiving our first contract at nineteen, both making the same pledge to elevate the Bratva or die trying.
He rarely sees me rattled.
Tonight, I’m gripping the crystal tumbler so tightly I fear I might break it.
“She’s on the Christmas List,” I say again, hoping they’ll taste less toxic being spoken for the tenth time. They don’t. “Aleksander practically shoved her name down my throat.”
Dmitri sets his whiskey on a leather coaster. “A client that size hands you an order, you chew and swallow. That’s tradition, brother.”
“Tradition.” I bark out a humorless laugh. “I know the rules. But this—” I slam the tumbler onto the wet bar, liquid sloshing. “Teresa Winslow is no cartel accountant or witness. She’s a damn widow. Aleksander wants her dead because he needs a punching bag.”
Dmitri lifts a shoulder. “Grief logic is still logic to the grieving man. His son bleeds out, she walks away alive. She becomes the one he blames every night. In his mind, she’s guilty.”
“It’s ridiculous.” I brace both palms on the bar, head bowed. “I held Maxim in my arms after the bullet hit. Teresa was pinned under the table covered in his blood. How could she orchestrate that?” My voice drops. “How could she be guilty?”
Silence. The only sound is the faint hiss of the winter wind against the windowpanes.
When Dmitri doesn’t answer, I glance over my shoulder. He’s studying the ice in his glass too intently. Something churns behind his eyes.
“What?”
He exhales through his nose, rubs a thumb along his jaw. “It’s not my business.”
“Everything involving that list is your business,” I snap. “Speak.”
Dmitri swirls the whiskey, watching it paint the inside of the crystal before disappearing again. “Aleksander’s obsession may be irrational, yes, but rumors have carried weight among the families. Whispers about Maxim and Teresa.” He pauses, weighing his next words. “Whispers you may not like.”
“I’m not here to like anything.” I stalk back to the sofa opposite him. “Out with it.”
A long breath. “Their marriage was ceremonial, some say. For alliances, not passion. There are stories Teresa was unwilling to produce an heir.”
Unwilling. “You’re telling me she refused?”
“Rumor, remember.” Dmitri lifts both palms. “But it explains Aleksander’s rage. To him, Teresa stole his lineage by not producing an heir. No heir, no continuation of the Volkov bloodline. Combine that with Maxim’s death, and the old man sees nothing but betrayal.”
I sink into the couch, shoulders tense. Images barrel through my skull; Teresa’s wide eyes the night of the gala, her tremble when I lifted her from the floor, the way she bloomed under my hands in the limo.
If Dmitri’s rumor mill holds true, everything between Maxim and Teresa was duty, not desire.
And I broke that duty apart like it was nothing more than a lock I’d been dying to pick.
Dmitri’s voice cuts into the spiral of thoughts. “You asked why Aleksander believes she’s responsible. Easy. In his mind, she denied his son a legacy, then survived what killed him. Insult stacked on tragedy.”
I rake a hand through my hair, heart pounding. “He wants her extinguished to soothe his pride.”
“And to prove nobody escapes Volkov justice,” Dmitri adds. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Refuse this order, Vlad, and you shatter the code. Clients will question us. Our own enforcers may begin to question you.”
I know he’s right. I feel it in my bones. The code is the skeleton of our empire—break the spine and the body collapses. But the memory of Teresa’s pulse beneath my fingertips refuses to fade.
I meet Dmitri’s gaze. “Then we dig. Full background. Her parents’ crash, the brother’s disappearance, her unwillingness to produce an heir, every rumor to the root. If I take a life on Aleksander’s word, I’m going to need proof.”
Dmitri nods once, eyes hardening with resolve. “I’ll start tonight. But Vlad, humor me, brother. Let’s walk through the blast radius if you refuse Aleksander.”
I sigh. “Fine.”
“First, revenue.” He sketches a column of numbers. “Volkov launders roughly three-hundred-million through our freight shells and Swiss guardianship. He pulls that money, we lose twelve percent of annual gross overnight.”
“And the long game?”
“Every other whale notices Angeloff failed to close a contract. Medvedevs, Russo-Colombians… they start fishing for discounts, maybe jump ship entirely.” He taps the paper. “That would be bad.”
I take a swallow of whiskey, the burn secondary to the figures swirling in my skull. “Street cred?”
“Lower-tier capos whisper you’ve gone soft. Chernov’s crew, Sevigny’s shooters—they offer our assassins bigger cuts and a looser leash. Fear keeps them loyal; lose that, and they poach half our talent.”
He scrawls again, an ugly little flowchart that descends into chaos.
“Internal loyalty?” I ask.
“Hard-line enforcers will question your judgment. Rumors such as, ‘Angeloff can’t pull the trigger if the mark smiles at him sweetly’ will start. Someone like Mikhail Petrov rallies half a dozen hotheads, declares a splinter wing, sells Volkov intel in exchange for favor.”
I grit my teeth. “Politics?”
“Volkov owns three city-council seats, two Port Authority votes. If he pulls their strings, we lose zoning favors, shipping cover, overtime hush money.” His voice drops. “NYPD OCCB reopens every file with our name on it. ATF squeezes the Swiss bank.”
I lean back, staring at the ceiling. Each domino falls in my mind—economics, fear, betrayal, law—until the Angeloff structure lies splayed open like a gutted fish.
“Now you understand my caution,” Dmitri says softly.
I nod, throat tight. Yet the image of Teresa’s name inked on that list flares behind my eyelids like a brand. I down the rest of my drink and set the glass aside.
“Caution isn’t the same as cowardice. I just want all the information.”
Dmitri’s silence agrees and disagrees all at once. He clears his throat. “You remember Sochi, 2014?”
A snap of winter salt and diesel rises in my memory. “Another syndicate’s mess,” I say. “Grigoriev’s Bratva refused an order on principle.”
“One teenage boy,” Dmitri reminds me. “Grigoriev thought sparing him would earn goodwill. Instead, two warehouses torched within a week, twenty men buried in ice, and Grigoriev’s top lieutenant selling him to the FSB for protection.”
I remember the photographs: steel beams twisted, smoke and blood staining the snow. “We salvaged what remained,” I mutter.
“Because we answered our contracts,” Dmitri says. “The code is ugly, but it’s rock solid. Bend it too far and it snaps back through your throat.”
I pick up the empty tumbler and roll it between my hands, watching as the lamplight fractures in the cut glass. My own reflection wavers—predator, penitent, fool.
“She might be innocent,” I say. “If we have proof that she had nothing to do with the attack, maybe we can talk some sense into Volkov.”
Even as I speak the words I realize how foolish they are. Volkov’s motivation is based on pure emotion. There will be no talking him out of this without a logical argument, and even that’s a stretch.
“She could be innocent, you’re right about that,” Dmitri agrees. “That’s why I’ll dig until dawn. But if the file comes back clean—”
“I’ll choose,” I finish, my voice flat.
Midnight drags its claws across the windows. Dmitri stands, buttons his coat. “I’ll start with Winslow Transport flight logs, Jack’s gambling trail, Trina’s visits. You’ll have a dossier by sunrise.”
I clasp his arm, our oldest gesture of loyalty. “Thank you, brother.”
He holds my gaze. “Whatever you decide, decide fast.”
The elevator swallows him, leaving the penthouse silent. I walk out onto the terrace, the East River wind whipping my hair, slapping my cheeks raw. The city sprawls below—my domain, my burden.
I light a Sobranie Black, an expensive Russian cigar I allow myself only before a kill. Smoke ribbons into the dark, carried by the wind toward Brooklyn and oblivion.
“Opravdayas, Teresa… ili bog prostit menya.”
Justify yourself, Teresa… or God forgive me.