I see him in pieces first.
The same expensive black suit that fits like it was sewn onto his body.
The broad shoulders. The silver at his temples. The dark eyes that had tracked me from the bar.
Gabriel Moretti.
"One million dollars," he says.
The air seems to suck out of the room.
Mick's smile falters. A guy at a front table jolts upright, phone in his hand, muttering in rapid-fire Russian. A woman next to him clamps her fingers around his wrist.
"Mr. Moretti," Mick says, suddenly very careful. "That's a most generous"
"It's not generous," Gabriel says. "And it's not an offer."
He's not looking at Mick.
He's looking at me.
His gaze hits like a hand around my throat.
Claiming.
I lift my chin before I can stop myself.
If he expects gratitude, he is going to be disappointed.
The Russian with the phone stands so fast his chair rocks.
"Do not close the bidding," he snaps. "I must call my boss."
Kolya Sokolov's man, my brain whispers. The name is a rumor around the Belvedere, a shadow on certain guest lists.
Gabriel doesn't even glance his way.
"No," he says.
The denial is absolute.
He steps forward, walking down the gap between tables with the kind of careful, lethal calm that makes everyone sit up straighter.
"You're going to let me take her," he tells Mick.
"Mr. Moretti, with respect, Sokolov's representative is trying to…"
"I don't care what Sokolov's representative is trying to do," Gabriel says. He's close enough now that I can see the coiled tension in his jaw, the control in his shoulders. "If you want to leave this room upright, you're going to hand her over. One million. Now."
Silence slams down.
For a second, I think Mick might actually test him.
Then I realize Mick isn't that stupid.
"Sold," he says, voice thin.
Gabriel steps up onto the stage like he owns the ground.
