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When Amy finally declared me ready, I left the private office and made my way downstairs.

The staircase opened onto a small reception area just outside the main gallery floor, close enough that I could hear the string quartet and the low murmur of conversation beyond the wide entrance.

Sergei waited near the foot of the stairs in a black tuxedo that made him look less like security and more like the reason anyone might need it. His close-cropped hair had been freshly cut that morning, and the formal jacket he was wearing emphasized the breadth of his shoulders.

His gaze found me before I reached the last step.

Nothing about him appeared restless. Only someone who knew him would notice that his attention completed the same circuit every few seconds: doors, windows, service hall, but mostly me.

“You’re staring,” I murmured when I reached him.

“Yes.”

“Aren’t you supposed to pretend to be subtle?”

“Definitely.”

His eyes moved over the gown, the armor hidden beneath it, and finally returned to my face. “Comfortable?”

“Mostly.”

Sergei offered his arm rather than placing his hand against my back. I took it because I wanted to, and we entered the room together.

The effect was immediate. Conversations paused. Heads turned. Camera shutters clicked near the entrance.

Sloane had arranged the narrative carefully. I was not the abandoned daughter returning to the fold or the dancer discovered beneath a stage name. I was Alessia Caruso, Raffaele Bellandi’s American heir, appearing beside a Morozov at an elite fundraiser supported by both families.

Nothing had been announced about Sergei and me, which only made people more curious.

“Smile,” Sloane said through my earpiece.

“I am,” I replied through gritted teeth.

“You look like you know where the bodies are hidden. Think of puppies instead.”

“I don’t trust anything that happy.”

Riley passed us and smiled brightly enough for both of us.

The first hour moved according to plan. I spoke with donors, accepted several compliments about a father I barely knew, and listened to an importer explain Mediterranean shipping as though my name didn’t sit on companies that moved more cargo than he would see in his lifetime. Amy introduced me to the director of a small design house interested in performance clothing. A man laughed near the champagne table. Another raised his paddle for a silent-auction lot no one had announced yet.

When I had a free moment, I turned toward the mirrored sculpture and saw a man standing near a large abstract canvas on the opposite wall, dressed in a dark tuxedo that fit his size too well to have been rented. He was larger than everyone around him, though he had learned how to occupy space without appearing to push into it. His nose had healed slightly crooked, and a faint ridge remained above one eyebrow. He held a champagne glass but never raised it to his mouth.

“Dmitry’s here,” I whispered into my earpiece.

Three seconds passed.

Then Kit said, “Facial match confirmed.”

Sergei started across the room.

“Hold,” Maxim ordered through the channel.

Sergei stopped immediately, but Dmitry caught his movement. His mouth curved, the expression too small to call a smile, and he turned toward me, knowing that, for the moment, he was safe here. The rules protecting him right now weren’t legal ones. They were older and, in this room, just as binding, maybe more so. Every donor had passed a weapons check upon entry. Political figures, reporters, and representatives from several families stood within sight.

Violence beneath the host’s roof would not remain private and would not be tolerated.

Dmitry had chosen the gallery because he knew we would not drag him into a service corridor in front of cameras unless he gave us no other choice.