Her posture shifts: shoulders squaring, chin lifting slightly, fingers tightening around her paddle. Whatever this ring is, it matters to her. Not casual interest. Personal stakes.
The bidding opens at five hundred thousand euros. An older man jumps in immediately, followed by a woman who screams new money desperation. Then a younger man who bids like he’s buying lunch.
The woman in black doesn’t move.
I watch her instead of the screen, reading the micro-expressions that flicker across her face. She’s tracking the pattern, waiting for the right moment. Calculating odds and ceilings and when to strike for maximum impact.
When she finally raises her paddle, the number that comes out of her mouth makes Dimitri choke on his champagne.
“Two point five million euros.”
The room goes silent.
It’s not just the amount—though that’s aggressive enough to shock. It’s the certainty in her voice, the way she doesn’t hesitate or second-guess. She knows exactly what she’s doing, knows the value of what she’s bidding on beyond what the catalog says.
That triggers something in my memory.
Lawrence.
The name surfaces slowly, connected to old files and older grudges. European holdings, shipping contracts, real estate across three countries. A family that used to mean something before they made the mistake of thinking they could play both sides.
Walter Lawrence specifically—a man who partnered with Bratva interests when it benefited him, then turned state’s witness when the walls started closing in.
He betrayed people I knew. People who died because of his cooperation.
This woman… I pull up the mental file, sorting through intelligence reports and surveillance photos. Not his wife. Not old enough. The daughter. Elena. The youngest one, if I’m remembering correctly. The one who doesn’t appear at many public events, who stays out of the spotlight while Daddy pretends his empire isn’t bleeding out.
Enemy blood.
The younger man who was bidding has turned to look at her, irritation clear on his face. But his paddle stays down. He’s not stupid enough to go head-to-head with that kind of opening salvo.
The auctioneer waits, clearly hoping for another bidder.
I raise my paddle without thinking about it. “Three million.”
Dimitri’s head snaps toward me. “What the fuck are you doing?”
I ignore him. My eyes are on Elena Lawrence, watching her turn in her seat, watching the exact moment she sees me for the first time.
Her breath catches. I can see it from here, the slight hitch in her chest, the way her pupils dilate before she controlsher reaction. Good instincts. She recognizes danger even if she doesn’t know my name yet.
She’s beautiful up close—or as close as five rows allows. Sharp features, intelligent eyes, mouth pressed into a line that suggests she’s biting back her first response in favor of her second.
The auctioneer confirms my bid. Elena Lawrence doesn’t look away from me.
Then she raises her paddle again. “Three point seven million euros.”
Dimitri leans close. “Brother, what are you—”
“Quiet.”
The ring doesn’t matter. I could buy a dozen like it if I wanted.
The way she’s looking at me right now, chin lifted in defiance, refusing to back down even though she should—that matters.
I want to see how far she’ll go. Want to test the limits of her pride, her resources, her spine.
“Four million,” I say, keeping my voice level and my eyes on her face.
