“Boris? Dmitri’s head of security?”
“Yes, he’s been with our family since before I was born. Taught me most of what I know about surviving this world.” I pick up my cards and study them. The hand is decent. Not great. “He’s the closest thing to a father I’ve had since mine died.”
“How old were you?” he asks.
I rearrange my cards, buying time before I answer, “Seven. Dmitri was seventeen. He basically raised me and Alexei after that.”
“That’s a lot of responsibility for a teenager.”
“Dmitri doesn’t know how to be anything other than responsible.” I lay down three of a kind. “Your turn.”
Tony inspects his cards, then sets down a full house. “I win again.”
“You’re definitely cheating.”
“Prove it.”
I can’t, which is frustrating. But watching him shuffle the deck with a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth, I realize I don’t mind losing. Not when the alternative is sitting in silence for the remaining two hours to St. Petersburg.
“One more round,” I demand.
“You’re a glutton for punishment.”
“I’m a fast learner.”
This time, I watch his hands instead of my cards. The way he holds certain cards slightly longer before discarding. The barely perceptible twitch of his thumb when he draws something good. By the fourth hand, I’ve figured out his tells.
“Full house.” I spread my cards on the table. “I win.”
Tony’s eyebrows rise. “You caught on.”
“I told you. Fast learner.”
“That you are. Your brothers trained you well.”
“They trained me to survive. Reading card sharks wasn’t in the curriculum.”
“Same skill set, different application.” He gathers the cards and tucks them into his jacket pocket. “You’d make a decent operative, you know. If you ever get tired of authenticating art.”
“I’ll keep that in mind if the gallery business dries up.”
The train sways as we round a curve, and I watch the Russian countryside rush past the window. Snow-covered fields. Bare trees. The occasional village with smoke rising from chimneys. It’s beautiful in a stark, unforgiving way that reminds me why I left for London.
“You’re quiet,” Tony notes after a moment.
I shrug and reply, “Just thinking.”
“About?”
“About how this feels less like a work assignment and more like something else.”
He doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Is that a problem?”
“I don’t know yet.”
We sit in comfortable silence for the rest of the journey. When the train pulls into the St. Petersburg station, Tony grabs ourbags before I can reach for mine. A small gesture, but it makes something warm bloom in my chest.
The gallery is in a converted warehouse near the Neva River. The owner, a nervous man named Deny, meets us at the entrance and starts talking too fast.
