Chapter 20
VLAD
Snow crystals flicker beyond the headlights as our convoy noses onto the plaza of the Gotham Grand.
Spruce trees wrapped in fairy-lights flank a red-and-gold carpet, flurries catching on them like sequins.
A dozen long lenses tilt our way. The Bratva Ball always draws the paparazzi—half the guest list consists of New York’s power brokers, the other half Russian magnates and men who should be serving life sentences. The press knows a hot shot when they see it.
In the back seat, Teresa smooths the emerald silk over her knees for the fourth time, white-knuckled around a beaded clutch. The gown hugs her ribs, skims her waist, then fans into a mermaid flare that could shame a sculptor.
Her freckles glow under the limo’s interior lights, the diamond stud in her left ear hiding a comms unit pinging Dmitri every thirty seconds. She breathes in deeply, like she’s keeping something inside from spilling out.
I want her. Plain and savage. If there weren’t a dozen photographers waiting to capture our every step, I’d pull her into my lap and see just how smoothly satin slides.
“Ready?” I ask.
“Ask me again in an hour,” she says, smile brave, eyes unsure.
I step out first, cameras flashing, the murmurs of the crowd spiking. I turn back and offer my hand. Cameras pop as she emerges, green satin catching the strobes of light, accentuating every curve exactly as I’ve memorized them, and tonight, the whole damn city gets to see.
My palm is at her waist while we walk the carpet; anyone watching can interpret the gesture for exactly what it is—claimed space, disputed territory no longer up for negotiation.
Inside, the ballroom has been turned into a Slavic winter palace. White fur throws spill over banquettes, twelve-foot ice pillars rising beneath chandeliers that glitter like frozen tears. Ten thousand LEDs web the ceiling, filling the air with soft holiday starlight.
Guests drift between the pillars—women in jewel-toned silk and velvet, men in black ties and winter coats lined with mink. A Mozart quartet begins the opening bars of a waltz as we step beneath the arch.
Teresa leans in, lilac perfume drowned by pond-ice vodka and men’s cologne. “It even smells the same,” she whispers. “Before everything…”
I anchor her hand to my arm, changing the subject. “Ground rules. You stay on my left. Dmitri circles every ten minutes.”
She nods in understanding. We pass the archway of frosted branches and pause by a baroque fireplace.
Flames snap around gas-lit birch logs, the heat giving her cheeks a rosy tint.
A waiter offers vodka, but Teresa lifts a water glass instead.
I swap my vodka for water too. Her glance of surprise lasts only a heartbeat, but the pleased curve of her mouth is worth the sacrifice.
We pause just outside the arch, the waltz curling out from the quartet. I rest my hand at the small of her back, feeling the tension coiled there.
“You’re about to meet some very wealthy, very powerful people,” I tell her. “Old money. New money. A few Russian aristocrats who still expect people to kiss their rings. Smile, speak little, nod politely, and you’ll own the room.”
She gives a quick, nervous laugh. “Still haven’t seen Volkov.”
Her eyes flicker over the crowd, searching for him. Mine do not.
“He’s not here yet. And when he does show up, you’ll be on my arm. You don’t need to think about him tonight.” I feel her tension ease a fraction under my hand.
As I glance around the room, I spot a woman before the herald says her name—tall, poised, draped in black sable over midnight silk, her hair the same polished gold it’s been since the first time I met her in St. Petersburg fifteen years ago.
Katya moves like she’s gliding on ice, eyes finding mine with a knowing flicker before sliding to Teresa.
“Countess Katya of Odessa,” I announce. “My date, Teresa Winslow.”
“Vladimir,” Katya says warmly, as though we’d just stepped out of a long lunch on Nevsky Prospect. “You still surround yourself with beauty, I see.” She takes Teresa’s hands, kissing each cheek. “That emerald makes your eyes worthy of Fabergé.”
“Thank you, Countess. A pleasure,” Teresa replies, voice smooth and confident.
“Careful, my dear,” Katya teases, eyes dancing. “Too much poise and the men in this room will think you’ve something to hide.”
Teresa smiles, just enough to suggest she’s playing along. “Then I suppose I’ll have to keep them guessing.”
Katya’s laugh is low, genuine. She flashes me a glance over Teresa’s shoulder, the briefest arch of a brow that says she’s impressed. She bids us farewell, and Teresa’s shoulders drop with the breath she’d been holding.
Good. One down, a dozen to go.
Next come the Yevgeny twins, rail magnates from Novosibirsk. They bow in practiced unison. I remember the older twin has a gambling debt—info that may prove useful when leverage is required. Teresa’s handshake is firm and polite, her confidence growing with each new introduction.
Another twenty minutes pass in a steady rhythm of names, titles, and air-kissed cheeks.
Ministers, oligarchs, distant cousins of Romanovs—she meets them all with the grace of someone born to be in this room, even if she wasn’t.
Not once does she falter, and when the more barbed compliments come—veiled tests from wives and mistresses—she meets them with just enough wit to turn the exchange in her favor.
When the last well-wisher drifts off toward the champagne tower, I lean in close. “You were remarkable,” I tell her. “Most women would’ve melted under that kind of attention.”
Her lips curve in a sly grin. “Then I suppose you’ve chosen well, haven’t you?”
The line hits me like good brandy—warm, strong, a little dangerous. “I have,” I admit. My hand slides to hers, my thumb brushing the back of her fingers. “Dance with me.”
Her eyes brighten, the answer within. “I thought you’d never ask.”
I lead her onto the floor, the quartet’s waltz sweeping us into its orbit. We dance beneath the crystal chandeliers, the rest of the room fading with every turn until it’s just her, satin and lilac perfume, gliding together to our own rhythm.
My gut tightens. “Shit.”
“What?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the gleam of too-white teeth and a suit that costs more than most of the apartments in Queens.
Leonid Petrov—shipping magnate, part-time investor, full-time nuisance—is cutting a lazy arc through the crowd.
Of course he’s here. No Bratva ball is complete without his brand of opportunistic charm.
I suppress a sigh and roll my eyes toward the ceiling. If there’s a man who can turn a three-minute conversation into an HR violation, it’s Leonid. And he’s locked onto us like a heat-seeking missile.
He saunters up just as the waiter delivers two fresh flutes of Pol Roger into my hands. “Leonid,” I greet flatly, bracing myself.
“Vladimir,” he purrs, his gaze quickly sliding to Teresa.
“Teresa, this is Leonid Petrov,” I introduce, keeping my voice neutral. “Leonid, Teresa Winslow. Leonid runs half the container shipping out of Novorossiysk.”
Leonid’s smile sharpens. “And I spend the more interesting half of my time in New York.” He dips his head slightly, eyes raking over her curves. “Pleasure to meet you, my dear. And might I add, it takes real courage for a woman with such… substance to tackle bias-cut satin.”
Teresa’s shoulders dip, the bright smile she’d been practicing all evening flickering like a blown candle. My vision narrows. I set the champagne on a nearby pedestal and step closer until Petrov’s back meets a marble column with an audible thud. Guests close by fall silent.
“Your mouth,” I tell him, voice low with arctic ice, “is going to get you into serious trouble, Leonid.”
He wheezes a laugh that smells of caviar and champagne. “Just making conversation, Angeloff.”
“Apologize. Now.” My fingers settle on his lapel, applying slow pressure until I feel bone. He pales, glancing around for allies but finding none.
“Ms. Winslow,” he mutters, eyes cast downward, “forgive my… joke.”
I lean in closer. “Your jokes would be harder to mutter with your tongue missing.” I release him abruptly and he stumbles away, face pale.
“My apologies.”
A small, warm hand slips between my chest and Petrov’s. Teresa’s voice is soft but firm. “You promised me a dance, Vladimir.”
Her voice lands like a soothing balm. I register the surrounding stares, cameras angling for scandal. Optics matter. I pivot, capturing her waist instead of Petrov’s throat, and guide her toward the dance floor.
We move into the swirl of couples, but I can still feel Petrov’s greasy words clinging to the air. Teresa’s smile is set, polite for the watching crowd, yet she glances down at herself for a brief second, like she’s replaying the insult.
I dip my head, letting my breath graze her ear. “Don’t give him another thought. He couldn’t handle a woman like you if she came gift wrapped.”
Her lips twitch, but there’s still a shadow of doubt in her eyes.
I tighten my grip on her waist, making sure she feels the full span of my hand against the curve he so blatantly pointed out.
“You look so fucking sexy in this dress, I’m having trouble remembering the steps,” I murmur.
“And when I finally get you home, I’m taking it off you so slowly you’ll beg me to hurry. ”
She finally meets my gaze, eyes bright again, the sting from Petrov’s jab dissolving. And with those eyes gazing at me, the cameras could all vanish for all I care. The only thing worth watching tonight is right here in my arms.
The orchestra glides into Shostakovich’s Waltz No. 2. Flashbulbs pop, but all I see is Teresa. Emerald satin fans as I turn her, the chandeliers sparking green fire along the seams. My palm at her back feels the faint tremor she’s hiding. I slow our tempo, breathing in sync until she steadies.
“I used to count steps with Maxim,” she whispers, watching the other swirling couples.
“Count on me now,” I reply.
She looks up, the shy smile she gives making the room disappear. She’s not shrinking tonight—she owns the floor, the gown, the spotlight I aimed at her. Pride settles within me where anger burned just moments ago.
The waltz guides us near the west loggia, a marble arch opening onto a terrace of sculpted ice.
And there he is. Aleksander Volkov waits there, Trina beside him, champagne in hand. We slow, our final pivot bringing us face-to-face.
Volkov’s eyes give Teresa a once-over, then me. “Angeloff,” he says, voice glacial, “I see you’ve brought quite the date tonight.”
“I have,” I reply confidently.
Trina stands beside Aleksander in black velvet, her hand looped through his arm. Her smile at Teresa is rose-petal soft. “Lovely to see you, darling.”
Teresa’s posture is gracious, her voice warm. “And you, Trina.” But Trina’s eyes flit away too quickly, her fingers tightening on Volkov’s sleeve before she murmurs some excuse and slips off into the crowd.
Teresa exhales. “I think I need some fresh air as well.”
“Step outside for a minute,” I tell her. “I’ll join you shortly.”
Volkov watches her go, then swirls his drink. “Making a point, are we? Parading her around, letting every man in this room see? Men like me?”
“Not everything is about you and your ego,” I reply, meeting his stare without blinking.
A corner of his mouth tilts. “Maybe not. But there are consequences for every decision.” He sips, eyes glinting. “By the way, it’s a shame about that warehouse attack in Jersey. Dangerous times.”
The twin wolf tattoo comes to mind, as well as bleach pooling on concrete. My responding smile doesn’t reach my eyes. “Danger finds those who invite it.”
He tips his glass in mock salute, then turns and disappears into the glittering crowd.
I cut through the crowd of furs and tuxedos, out toward the terrace, searching for Teresa.
I find her on a winter-garden balcony strung with strands of fairy lights, frosted glass panels trapping the city’s glow.
Teresa turns to me, eyes bright with hurt.
“You were attacked and didn’t tell me.” She’d heard Volkov’s rumblings.
“Routine,” I say, shrugging off the bruise under my ribs. “Cost of doing business.”
“It’s risk,” she counters. “To you. To us.”
Us. The word lands heavy. My defenses slip and I cup her face, thumbs brushing warmth into her cheeks. “I wanted you to have tonight without worrying about matters like that.”
“Sharing danger is sharing truth.” She threads her fingers with mine, grounding the words.
Truth. The string-lights paint emerald sparks in her eyes. I lean in and press a kiss to her forehead.
Inside, the orchestra launches a furious barynya. Dmitri appears at the doorway and gives the smallest shake of his head, indicating there’s no immediate threat. Then he’s gone once again.
I lift Teresa’s emerald shawl from her shoulders, wrapping it tighter to guard against the chill. “Another dance?”
“Fine, but this conversation isn’t over,” she says firmly.
As we step back inside, I catalog exits again, gauge Volkov’s distance, and note Petrov licking wounded pride in a corner. All variables. But the woman on my arm is non-negotiable. If war comes to this ballroom, it comes through me first.
Let Aleksander test which of us is the hungrier wolf.