Tony shoves up hard and moves. He draws a handgun from under his jacket—fast, practiced, not dramatic. The grip is scuffed and familiar. He moves forward in short, efficient steps, using the wreckage for angles instead of charging straight at his target.
The last one runs.
Smart.
Whatever they came for, they didn’t get it.
Sirens wail in the distance, growing closer. The three disabled men don’t move. One is unconscious, and two are groaning and clutching injuries. Tony crouches beside the nearest one and pats him down.
I push myself up to sit with shaking hands. Not from fear; from adrenaline. “What the hell was that?”
Tony doesn’t look at me as he searches the attackers. “Pretty bold, huh? Hitting a gallery during an opening.”
“That’s not what I meant.” I stand and brush plaster dust from my dress. My heart hammers as I clarify, “You just dropped three armed men in less than five seconds.”
He finally looks up with a prideful smile and asks, “You okay?”
“You’re not a journalist,” I accuse, shaking my head.
“Sure I am.” He stands and slides the weapon back into his jacket. Now that I’m looking, the holster outline at his side is impossible to miss. “I just have varied life experiences.”
“Life experiences.” I let out a laugh that sounds a little too high. “Is that what we’re calling advanced combat training?”
He opens his mouth to respond, but Andrin stumbles out from his hiding spot, white-faced and babbling in rapid Russian about calling the police. More sirens join the first. This place will be swarming with law enforcement in minutes, and the last thing I need is my family name tied to another crime scene.
Tony seems to reach the same conclusion. He gently takes my elbow and steers me toward a service exit half-hidden behind a curtain.
“Where are we going?”
“Away from here before the police arrive and start asking questions you probably don’t want to answer, considering who your brothers are.” He pushes through the door into a narrow service corridor. “Unless you want to explain to them why Dmitri Kozlov’s little sister was authenticating Imperial eggs at a gallery that just got robbed.”
We slip into the alley behind the gallery. Cool air hits my overheated skin, and I drag in a breath to steady myself. My dress is ruined—torn at the hem, dust everywhere—and my carefully pinned hair is falling out.
Tony releases my elbow and scans the alley. Even now, in the aftermath, he’s checking for threats.
“Who are you?” I ask, taking a long step backward.
“Just as I told you at your brother’s wedding. Tony Haugh, journalist with?—”
I slice a hand through the air, cutting him off. “Stop lying.”
He cocks his head, and there’s that infuriatingly gorgeous smirk again. “What makes you think I’m lying?”
“Journalists don’t carry concealed weapons or clear rooms like Spetsnaz operatives.” I step closer, and he doesn’t retreat. “They don’t move the way you do. Or react the way you do. So, who are you, and what were you doing at my brother’s wedding, asking questions about our business?”
“You really want to know?”
“Yes.”
“Former military. Special operations.” He shrugs. “I got out a few years ago, needed a career change. Journalism seemed like a good fit. Still gets me into interesting places, still lets me ask questions people don’t want to answer.”
It’s still not the whole truth. I can hear the omissions in what he’s not saying. But I suspect it’s the most I’m going to get out of him.
“And the gun?”
“Moscow’s a dangerous city for foreign journalists asking uncomfortable questions. Your brothers know that better than anyone.”
There it is again—that pointed reference to my family. He’s fishing for information, trying to see what I’ll reveal, just like he did at the reception.
