“For fuck’s sake, Sebastian,” Roman snaps. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“What do you want?”
“I sent you a text. The Mikhailov family was watching the engagement. Be careful.”
My spine straightens.
“What?”
“One of our guards caught someone lingering near the perimeter. He admitted he works for Viktor Mikhailov. Do you have any active business with him?”
The word active hangs between us.
Do I?
Not anymore. Not for years.
“No,” I say.
Roman goes quiet for half a beat. Then, “They don’t just watch people for fun. You should come back to the villa. You’ll have access to Rusnak resources and full security. Marko isn’t enough now that you have a fiancée.”
I don’t respond.
He swears under his breath and hangs up.
The line goes dead.
I lower the phone and lean back into the chair, staring at the ceiling as if the answers might be written there.
Viktor Mikhailov.
Mid-forties. Art trafficker. A parasite wrapped in silk. His galleries front illegal auctions; his collectors bankroll wars; his forgeries circulate quietly through Europe, destabilizing markets without ever making the news.
He was once a client of mine.
Once.
He admired my work. Revered it. Until I refused to belong to him—to work exclusively under his name.
He called it betrayal.
He promised I’d regret it.
I let out a slow breath and smile faintly.
I’ve always stayed three steps ahead of my enemies. That’s why I’m still alive. That’s why Viktor hasn’t touched me—yet.
I’m not afraid of him.
The smile fades.
A different thought slips in, unwelcome and sharp.
Sienna.
My posture stiffens.
Does she have ties to the Mikhailovs?
