The silver ring catches the light. My breath stalls. That’s it, the same crest etched in black, unmistakable even from across the hall. He’s saying something to the man beside him, voice too low to catch, but the others listen carefully, nodding at whatever verdict he gives.
I feel Clara at my elbow again, following my gaze. “New collector?” she jokes, misreading my stillness. “Looks like he eats art dealers for breakfast.”
I don’t answer. My mouth is dry. The man lifts his glass, eyes scanning the crowd, and then he sees me.
For one suspended second, the air seems to vanish. His gaze is a punch: cold, deliberate, not a flicker of surprise or curiosity. Assessing. Dangerous. I remember the photo from Enzo’s drawer: that same jaw, the crooked scar, the weight in hisposture like he expects trouble and knows he’ll win. My hands tremble around the stem of the glass.
He doesn’t look away. The crowd moves between us, bodies drifting past in waves of laughter and cologne, but his focus never wavers. My chest tightens, heat crawling up my neck. I force myself to breathe, to hold his stare, but it’s like standing on the edge of a ledge. One wrong move and I could fall.
Clara whispers, “Izzy?” but her voice is just background noise.
Every nerve is tuned to the man across the room. His eyes flick down, almost lazy, as if cataloging every detail—my dress, the way I hold the glass, the little badge clipped to my jacket. For a moment, I wonder if he knows me already, if this is some twisted echo of a meeting I’ve forgotten.
Then I see it—a faint twist of his mouth, not quite a smile, more of an acknowledgment. A warning, maybe.
He turns back to his companions, saying something that makes the men around him stiffen, then move. Two of them drift into the crowd, scanning the exits. I realize I’m holding my breath. I let it out, slow, careful, and try to swallow the rising panic.
Is this him? The man Enzo met on that rainy night—the one with the ring, the Russian connection, the reason my uncle started locking the doors?
I watch as he slips his phone from his jacket, glances at the screen, and then back at me. Something in my gut twists. If he’s involved, if he’s the reason Enzo…
No. Not here, not now.
I duck away before he can catch my eyes again, letting the tide of the crowd swallow me. Clara tries to follow, confusion etched on her face, but I wave her off with a weak smile.
“Just need a breath of air,” I lie.
I step into the hall, heart pounding, the sounds of the party muffled by thick glass doors. I grip the rail and count backwards from ten, trying to steady the riot in my chest. I force myself to replay what I saw: the ring, the scar, the set of his shoulders. It matches, all of it. The man from the photograph. The ghost in my nightmares.
He isn’t a ghost. He’s flesh and blood, standing in the same room as me, and if I’m right, he knows exactly who I am.
I close my eyes. My skin feels hot, my head light. I want to run, to scream, to march across the hall and demand the truth, but I don’t move. Instead, I let myself breathe in the city air leaking through the door, the distant rumble of Manhattan outside, and try to remember why I came here at all.
I came for answers. For Enzo. For the truth, no matter how sharp it cuts.
Tonight,I think,the hunt finally begins.
Chapter Four - Emil
The gallery is full of noise, but none of it matters. Old men with too much money stand in little clusters, hands tucked behind their backs, pretending to debate the merits of Soviet oil paintings and American postwar sculpture.
There’s a string quartet tucked into one corner, every note so soft it disappears beneath the low tide of chatter and laughter. Waiters pass by with silver trays, glasses catching the light, the scent of perfume and gin layered over wet wool and expensive cologne.
I stand at the center of it, rooted like a monument. Lukyan wanted me here, so I came—suit pressed, shoes polished, jaw clenched tight.
Eyes follow me. Some pretend not to notice, but I see the flickers, the quick glances over crystal rims, the little shivers of recognition. The Sharov name travels far in rooms like this. Some people get bold, think a handshake with me is worth the risk. Most know better.
I tune them out. I’ve learned the art of boredom: how to let conversation slip by, how to nod at the right moments, and let my expression rest in careful indifference. Still, there’s a restlessness under my skin tonight. Maybe it’s the business in the back office, the silent deal riding on three paintings in the main gallery, or maybe it’s something I haven’t quite named.
A flicker of movement draws my focus. There, just beyond the marble bust of some dead Frenchman, slipping through a crowd of chattering wives and gallery donors. Chestnut hair, pulled back loose, a line of tension in her shoulders that doesn’t belong here. She isn’t wearing the kind of smile that comes easy.There’s a clipboard clutched tight to her chest, a pair of low heels she keeps shifting on as if she wants to run.
She moves with intention, pausing to adjust a plaque, answer a question, direct a guest. Not a socialite.
Not one of the investors’ wives. She belongs to the art, not the party. For a moment, she looks up, scanning the room, and I see her eyes: sharp, curious, dark as mahogany. They catch on me and linger just a heartbeat too long before she looks away, color blooming in her cheeks.
Something about the line of her jaw feels familiar. The urge to chase that memory pulls at me, but then she’s gone, swept up by a knot of guests near the north exhibit.
I watch her disappear into the crowd. The sense of déjà vu lingers, irritating. I mentally run through the usual places: old deals, lost years, faces from my father’s world and my own. No answer comes. Lukyan would say I’m seeing ghosts.
