The name means nothing to me. I shake my head slightly, still caught in that pale blue stare.
“Bratva,” Yusuf continues, each word careful and deliberate. “Authority over multiple territories across Eastern Europe. He doesn’t attend auctions, usually. Odd.”
Ice slides down my spine.
“He shouldn’t be here,” Yusuf adds, tension threading through his usually calm tone. “And he definitely shouldn’t be interested in an eighteenth-century signet ring with no particular strategic value.”
He was interested. Is interested? He’s still looking at me, even as the next lot begins bidding, even as the woman besidehim tries to get his attention with a delicate touch to his arm that he ignores completely.
I understand then, with sudden and terrible clarity, what just happened.
I didn’t just lose a ring tonight. I challenged the wrong man.
My pulse hammers in my ears as I stand, movements controlled despite the tremor in my legs. I need to leave. Need to get out of this room and away from those eyes that see too much. Yusuf rises with me, his hand hovering near my elbow again, protective without being obvious.
I turn toward the exit, keeping my chin up, my stride measured. I won’t run. Won’t give anyone here the satisfaction of seeing me rattled.
I feel Aleksandr Sharov’s gaze follow me all the way to the door, heavy and inescapable as a brand.
Chapter Two - Alexandr
I fucking hate auctions.
The opera house reeks of old money trying to pretend it’s still relevant, all gold leaf and marble that hasn’t meant anything in decades.
My brother Dimitri insisted I come tonight, going on about interesting vintage pieces and strategic networking opportunities. What he meant was he wanted an excuse to drink expensive champagne and flirt with the kind of women who collect husbands the way other people collect art.
I should be in Warsaw right now, handling the logistics issue with the Polish border routes. Or in Moscow, dealing with the Volkov family’s latest attempt to muscle into territory they have no claim to.
Instead, I’m sitting in a velvet chair that costs more than most people’s cars, watching rich idiots bid on things they don’t need with money they didn’t earn.
Dimitri leans over from the seat beside me, smelling like cologne and smugness. “See? I told you this would be worth it. That case went for nearly half a million.”
“Thrilling,” I say, not bothering to hide my boredom.
He laughs, undeterred. He’s used to my moods. Has been since we were children and I was already learning that sentiment was a liability our father would beat out of us one way or another.
The next lot appears on screen. Ming dynasty porcelain. I tune out the auctioneer’s voice, letting my gaze drift across the crowd instead. This is the only useful part of events like these—seeing who shows up, who bids on what, which alliances areforming or fracturing based on seating arrangements and subtle gestures.
Oligarchs cluster near the front, their security fanned out in careful patterns I recognize immediately. Old European money sits stiff-backed in the middle rows, pretending they’re not bleeding cash and relevance. New money fidgets near the back, eager and obvious.
Thenshewalks in.
I notice her immediately, which is unusual. She’s not the most beautiful woman in the room, not the most expensively dressed.
There’s something in the way she moves: controlled, deliberate, aware of every eye without performing for any of them. She doesn’t want attention, which makes her more interesting than anyone who does.
Dark hair pulled back. Simple black dress that probably cost a fortune but doesn’t advertise it. She accepts champagne from a passing waiter but doesn’t drink it, just holds the glass like a prop. Smart. Stay sober, stay sharp.
The man behind her is harder to miss. Older, built like he’s spent serious time in the field, eyes constantly scanning. Not a lover. Not family. Security or fixer, someone who’s been doing this long enough to move like a shadow.
She takes a seat three rows from the back, and I find myself tracking her even as the auction continues. Watching the way she studies faces, catalogs threats, maintains perfect composure while her fingers tap once against her thigh—the only tell that she’s not as calm as she appears.
The lots continue. I don’t bid. Dimitri raises his paddle twice for things he’ll never use, showing off more than acquiring.I’m about to tell him we’re leaving when lot seventeen appears on the screen.
An emerald signet ring. Eighteenth-century, gold setting, decent craftsmanship. Nothing I’d normally give a second glance.
The woman in the back row goes absolutely still.
