Konstantin raised an eyebrow. "You have someone in mind?"
"I have an authenticator I've been working with. Independent, Brooklyn-based, impeccable reputation. She's been helping me verify our own collection." I paused. "I can bring her in. But I'll need to come clean about who I am."
The "Victor Harmon" alias had served its purpose. When I'd started building our family's legitimate art holdings two years ago, I'd needed an identity that wouldn't connect back to the Besharov name—something clean, something anonymous, something that would let me move in gallery circles without attracting the wrong kind of attention.
Auralia Hart had been my authenticator for the past eight months. Meticulous. Thorough. The kind of expert who noticed everything and said only what was necessary. She'd authenticated three significant purchases for me, always through encrypted email, always paid in clean wire transfers.
She had no idea who I really was.
"Do it," Nikolai said. "But be careful. We don't need more exposure than necessary."
The meeting continued for another forty minutes—contingencies, timelines, the particular logistics of preparing for war while pretending to maintain peace. By the time we finished, my files were organized and my brothers had their assignments.
As I gathered my papers, Konstantin threw an arm around my shoulders. The weight of him was familiar, comforting in its own way. My older brother had been physically affectionate since we were children, even when he was breaking bones for the family business.
"So, baby brother," he said, and I could hear the grin in his voice. "When are you going to bring someone to family dinner? Nikolai has Sophie, I have Maya, and you have . . . what? Your encryption software?"
I shrugged him off with practiced ease. "I'm selective. Plus, the software is a cheap date."
"You're a hermit," Nikolai said, but there was fondness in it. He was watching me with that particular expression he got sometimes—the one that said he saw more than I wanted him to. "A hermit who paints pictures of buildings instead of talking to women."
"The buildings don't argue back."
Konstantin laughed. "Neither would a woman, if you actually talked to one."
I didn't mention the woman I talked to every night. The one who called me Daddy and made my whole chest ache with wanting. Some things were too fragile for my brothers' teasing.
Later, alone in my apartment, I reviewed the file on the authenticator I was meeting tomorrow.
Auralia Hart. Independent art authentication and provenance research. Ten years in the field, a reputation for near-supernatural expertise in detecting forgeries. Her client list was confidential, but the industry gossip painted a picture: if you wanted the truth about a painting, Auralia Hart would find it, no matter how carefully it had been buried.
She'd been helpful to "Victor Harmon." Now I needed her to help me track Anton Belyaev.
The photograph in my file was a professional headshot—dark hair, intelligent eyes, an expression that gave nothing away. I studied it for longer than I should have, looking for . . . what? A connection I hadn't earned? A sign that she was the kind of person who could handle the truth about who I was?
She was useful. That's what mattered.
I composed a message requesting a meeting. Tomorrow afternoon, if she was available. I had questions about provenance that couldn't be addressed through email. The usual anonymous professional tone I'd cultivated for two years.
Then I closed the file and opened Discord.
The green dot wasn't there yet—too early, she was still working, on whatever it was she did. But it would appear. It always appeared.
I counted the hours until evening, when the woman I wanted would come online, and I could stop pretending to be anyone but hers.
Chapter 3
Auralia
Theemailarrivedat9:47 a.m., while I was halfway through my second cup of tea and engaged in an elaborate internal negotiation about whether I could postpone the Repin authentication report for one more day. Ghost lifted his head from his dog bed, as if the notification sound had personal significance, then settled back down with a sigh that felt like commentary.
The subject line read:Consultation Request – Confidential.
I stared at it for eleven seconds before clicking. I counted.
The sender was someone called Maksim Besharov, a name that meant absolutely nothing to me—no prior correspondence, no industry gossip, no memory of encountering it at auctions or in trade publications. The email itself was brief, courteous, and intriguing in the particular way that made my pattern-recognition brain light up with curiosity and my anxiety brain light up with warning sirens.
Ms. Hart,
