“We should find our table,” Alaric says, his hand settling possessively on the small of my back.
The touch sends heat shooting through me. Three days of careful distance, and one simple gesture undoes my composure completely. I can feel the memory of his mouth on my skin, the weight of his body claiming mine.
Focus, Kasi.
Dinner passes in a blur of introductions and careful conversations. I smile at the right moments, laugh at mediocre jokes, and quietly deflect probing questions about our “whirlwind romance.”
“Mrs. Moretti speaks six languages,” Tony Benedetti tells his wife across the table. “Quite impressive for someone so young.”
“I have a gift for languages. Always have.”
“Your Russian was flawless when you spoke with the Petrovs,” Elena mentions casually.
Every conversation stops. The Petrovs are Bratva, and admitting contact with them is dangerous territory.
“Business requires communication,” Alaric says, his voice carrying a warning.
“Of course.” Elena’s smile doesn’t falter. “How practical to have such a talented wife.”
The moment passes, but I catch the looks exchanged around the table.
After dinner, we move to the Egyptian wing for the auction. Wealthy philanthropists bid ridiculous amounts on art they may never display, all in the name of charity. A Monet sketch sells for two million dollars. A Roman sculpture goes for four.
“Boring,” I murmur to Alaric during a particularly intense bidding war over a medieval manuscript.
“Wait for it,” he replies.
The manuscript sells for six million to a tech billionaire who probably can’t read Latin.
“See? Boring,” I whisper.
His mouth quirks up at the corner. It’s the closest thing to a smile I’ve gotten from him since Miami.
The evening drags on. More introductions, more careful conversations, more performances of respectability over cocktails that cost more than minimum wage workers make in a week.
“Mrs. Moretti.” A voice behind me makes my blood freeze.
I turn to find Viktor Petrov’s cousin, Dmitri, smiling at me with too many teeth. We met him briefly in Miami, but seeing him here feels like a threat.
“Mr. Petrov,” I reply carefully. “What brings you to New York?”
“Business.” His English is heavily accented, but his eyes are sharp. “I wanted to say that you handle negotiations well for someone so…inexperienced.”
“Experience is overrated.”
“Perhaps. But loyalty…” He steps closer, invading my personal space. “Loyalty is everything, no?”
Before I can respond, Alaric appears at my side. He doesn’t say a word, just slides his arm around my waist and stares at Dmitri with the kind of stillness that precedes violence.
“Enjoy your evening,” Dmitri says, backing away with his hands raised in mock surrender.
“What was that about?” I ask when he’s gone.
“Fishing expedition,” Alaric says. “Seeing if you’ll turn.”
“Turn?”
“Against me. Against the family.” His arm tightens around me. “Some wives have been known to…change allegiances when the price is right.”
