Chapter 3
Nikolai
TheSidorovauctionhousesmelled of old money.
Tobacco. Leather. Blood.
I sat in the third row, the velvet seat beneath me plush and clearly expensive. We’d been here hours already. I glanced at Maksim. He yawned.
Lot 34 was on stage. Three paintings in ornate frames, Impressionist works stolen from the Gardner Museum in 1990. The auctioneer's voice boomed through speakers: "Sold for one point two million dollars to the Sokolov representative."
Polite applause. Professional. Like they'd just bought art at Sotheby's instead of stolen property at a criminal auction.
Viktor Sokolov stood to claim his purchase. White hair, dead eyes, the kind of man who'd watched people die and felt nothing. He nodded once. Two of his men moved toward the stage to collect.
My attention drifted. So many lots already, and none of them mattered. The weapons we'd come to assess went to the Kozlovsan hour ago. The intelligence files we'd considered went to the Morozovs. There was nothing left on the roster that served Besharov interests.
Except I was still here. Watching paintings get sold to dead-eyed old men at 9:47 PM on a Thursday.
My jaw clenched. I forced it to relax. Counted to four.
Anton Belyaev sat five rows ahead. I'd been tracking him since we arrived. Heavy men flanked him—all armed, all scanning the crowd with professional paranoia. More security than anyone else brought. The Kozlovs had four men. The Morozovs had three. We'd brought two—Kostya beside me, Maks three seats down.
The Belyaevs had six. Which was either paranoia or preparation.
I counted them again. Confirmed. Six.
The one on Anton's immediate right was the most dangerous. Broad-shouldered, scar bisecting his left eyebrow, hands that never stopped moving. Checking his weapon. Adjusting his jacket. Scanning. A soldier who'd seen combat and expected more.
The others were competent but less experienced. Younger. Eager. The kind of men who'd follow orders without questioning whether those orders were strategically sound.
Anton himself sat perfectly still. Dark hair slicked back, expensive suit, the kind of handsome that looked manufactured. But his eyes were wrong. Flat. Empty. Shark eyes in a human face.
He'd bid on four lots so far. All strategic acquisitions. Lot 18: military-grade weapons, outbid by the Kozlovs but he'd driven the price up. Lot 23: encrypted data drives containing port authority schedules, purchased for three hundred thousand. Lot 27: a shipping manifest showing Coast Guard patrolpatterns, purchased for one-fifty. Lot 31: a crate of surveillance equipment, purchased for two hundred thousand.
They weren't here to liquidate assets. They were here to build an arsenal.
For what? The Belyaevs were new to New York. Less than two years establishing operations. They should be focused on consolidating territory, building relationships, proving they could play by the old codes.
Instead they were stockpiling weapons and intelligence like they were preparing for war.
Against who? Us? All five families?
The thought made my chest tight.
Beside me, Kostya shifted in his seat. The velvet groaned under his weight. My middle brother was built like a tank—six-five, two-forty, all muscle and violence barely contained in tactical gear. He'd refused the suit I'd suggested. Said he wasn't here to look pretty, he was here to protect me.
"When are we leaving?" he muttered in Russian. His voice was low but impatient.
"Soon," I replied.
"Why not now?"
Good question. I didn't have a good answer.
The weapons were gone. The intelligence was gone. There was nothing left tonight that justified staying. We should have left an hour ago. Should be back at the compound, analyzing what we'd seen, planning our response to the Belyaevs' obvious preparations.
Instead I was sitting in an overpriced chair watching art and assets change hands.
