“He threatened you, too?” I ask.
Viktor’s grin widens. “Said he’d burn down my garage if I didn’t show.”
Anton snorts—the closest thing to a laugh I’ve heard from him all night.
“Not bad,” I say dryly. “He told me and Anton he’d slit our throats in our sleep.”
Speak of the devil. Maksim appears out of nowhere, wearing that bright, charming smile he wields like a weapon.
“There you are,” he crows, clapping Viktor on the back. “Took you long enough.”
“Threats work fast,” Viktor replies with an eye roll.
Maksim grins, but it falters the instant Anton speaks.
“Tristan called,” Anton says, still studying a painting of wilted roses. “He won’t be making it tonight.”
Maksim freezes. His smile dies at once, and I see a flicker of hurt in his eyes before it morphs into one of anger.
I blink curiously.
Tristan is our family’s lawyer. His father owns one of the biggest firms in the country and has worked with ours for decades. When he retired, Tristan had to return to the States to take over, and he’s been handling our business with efficiency ever since. Smart, polished, always collected. If there’s anyone we trust, it’s him.
“Why didn’t he tell me himself?” Maksim demands. His voice, usually smooth, cracks sharply at the edges.
For once, Anton looks away from the canvas, pinning Maksim with that stern, unreadable gaze of his. “Why the hell would I know that?” he says, tone flat, bored, carrying more weight than any shout could.
Maksim bristles. “You don’t have to be a bastard about it.”
“Why are you annoyed?” I ask curiously.
He glances at me, then away. “Nothing. Forget it.”
A lie. Clear as glass. But I don’t push, because my attention shifts. Across the room, weaving silently through the crowd with a tray in hand, is Lucas.
He’s dressed simply: black shirt, pressed slacks, nothing remarkable—and yet, against the gilded backdrop of chandeliers and suits, he stands out. His blonde curls catch the soft light, his pale, freckled skin a stark contrast against the dark fabric. When those wary, beautiful eyes of his sweep the crowd, searching, cautious, I feel something pull tight in my chest.
He looks tired. Guarded. Like the last place he wants to be is here.
“Earth to Alex,” Viktor mutters, waving a hand in front of my face.
I blink and drag my gaze away. “What?”
“Ah,” Maksim drawls, lips curling into a grin like he’s stumbled onto a secret. “The server, the blonde Kid looks familiar, doesn’t he, dear brother?”
“He’s not a kid,” I grit out, shooting him a glare.
He doesn’t flinch.
Instead, he leans closer, voice dropping conspiratorially. “One of each student’s paintings will be up for auction tonight. And you, Alex, will bid on mine.”
“I don’t need any more of your paintings,” I reply dryly. “I already have enough of them cluttering my place.”
“No,” he muses, smug, “you think you don’t.” Then his gaze shifts past my shoulder, something knowing flickering in his expression. A slow smile curves his lips. “But this? This isn’t just a painting.”
The back of my neck prickles. Instinct. I know better than to ignore it.
I follow the pull before I can stop myself and find him again.
