“Yesterdaywasanother Tuesday. This is my life, Tony. Explosions. Threats. Violence. It’s normal.”
“That’s depressing.”
“That’s reality.” I hand him a cup of tea. He takes it but doesn’t drink. Americans and their coffee. “I assume you grew up in a normal family, went to a normal school, and enjoyed being a kid. You have no idea what it’s like to grow up knowing that at any moment, someone might try to kill your father. Or your brothers. Or you.”
“You’re right; I don’t, but I know what it’s like to lose people. To watch them die because someone made a bad call or trusted the wrong person. So maybe we’re not so different.”
“We’re very different.”
“Are we?”
The question hangs between us, and I don’t have a good answer. When I don’t respond, he prompts, “Tell me about London.”
“Why?” I ask, tilting my head. “Have you been?”
He nods. “A few times. For work.”
“What kind of work?”
“The kind that required surveillance and patience.” Tony picks up his tea again, takes a sip, and grimaces. “Not my favorite city. Too rainy. Too expensive. Too many people pretending to be something they’re not.”
“Sounds like Moscow.”
“Moscow is honest about its dishonesty. London puts on airs.”
I smile despite myself. “That’s accurate.”
“So, what did you love about it? You said at the wedding that you loved working at Christie’s. What made it special?”
The question surprises me. Not because he’s asking, but because he sounds genuinely interested. The last time we had this conversation, he asked about London as a segue to asking about my family. This time, he seems to care about my answer.
“The independence,” I reply after a moment. “For the first time in my life, I was just Sasha. Not Dmitri Kozlov’s sister. Not part of the Bratva. Just a woman with a skill set and a job I was good at.”
“What did you authenticate?”
“Everything. Paintings, sculptures, jewelry, decorative arts. If it came through Christie’s and needed verification, I examined it.” I sit on the couch, and Tony takes the chair across from me. “The work was meticulous. You’re looking for inconsistencies in brushwork, anachronistic materials, signatures that don’t matchknown examples. One wrong detail can expose a forgery that fooled experts for decades.”
“Like the Fabergé egg at the gallery.”
“Exactly. The craftsmanship was excellent, but the gold alloy was wrong. Modern composition instead of the mix Fabergé’s workshop used. Most forgers focus on getting the surface details right. They forget that materials have signatures, too.”
“How long does an authentication take?”
“Depends on the piece. A painting might take days or weeks. Jewelry can be faster if you know what to look for. But you can’t rush it. One mistake, and you either pass a forgery as genuine or reject something authentic. Both outcomes destroy reputations.”
“Sounds like high stakes.”
“It was. But it was also mine. My reputation. My expertise. Not my family’s name opening doors.” I take a sip of tea. “When I walked into Christie’s, nobody cared who my brothers were. They cared whether I could tell a real Rembrandt from a skilled copy.”
Tony leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “So, why did you come back?”
“At first, just for the wedding. But I stayed because my family needed me.”
“Did they ask you to stay?”
“No. They would never ask. They know how much I loved London.” I stare into my tea. “But Alexei was getting married, and there were threats, and I couldn’t stay away knowing theymight need help. So, I came back for the wedding, intending to return to London right after.”
“But you didn’t.”
