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The simple answer made cold anger move beneath my skin.

“Yuri wanted Sergei to have no grave to visit,” Dmitry said. “No certainty. No place to mourn. Bellandi gave the woman her name back. My father never forgave him for that.”

“Yuri is dead.”

“Hatred is inherited more reliably than property.”

“And now you think I’m some kind of payback?”

“No.” Dmitry’s eyes moved over my face. “You’re simply a means to an end.”

“You could kill him directly.”

“Death is too quick. My father taught me better than that.”

Dmitry glanced over my shoulder, and I followed his gaze. Sergei had crossed the gallery with the terrible calm of a man who had already decided how many bones he could break and was now standing beside me.

“Step away from her,” Sergei growled.

“I have not touched her. We’re only talking.”

“You have said enough.”

I slipped my hand around Sergei’s forearm. Dmitry’s eyes flicked down and then back up to my face.

“Your father already saved him once,” he said to me. “Perhaps you Bellandis have a weakness for collecting damaged Russians.”

Dmitry looked around the room. Maxim stood near the main entrance. Ivan remained near Kit’s station. Nikolai had moved closer, though Sloane’s hand rested on his sleeve. Morozov security waited at each exit without making a single overt move. Dmitry set his untouched champagne on the nearest tray.

“Until next time, Morozov,” Dmitry said, then smiled and walked away.

Security followed him at a distance through the gallery, out the east entrance, and toward the waiting line of black cars. The quartet continued playing. Riley intercepted a museum trustee who had begun staring. Sloane moved toward the reporters before anyone could ask any questions. Amy quietly signaled the staff to resume circulating champagne when the invisible tensions magically slowed their tempo.

Sergei’s chest rose once beneath his tuxedo, then again, each breath too deep and too purposeful. His eyes remained fixed on the door Dmitry had used.

“I’m all right,” I said.

His eyes snapped to me.

“Did he touch you?”

“No.”

His jaw locked.

“I’m fine, Sergei,” I insisted.

He looked toward the people around us. Then he took my hand and led me through the side corridor into Aleksei’s private office, closing the door behind us. The moment the latch caught, his hands settled at my waist. He checked my sides, my arms, the back of my neck, and finally the collar. Two fingers slipped beneath the leather while his thumb rested over my pulse.

Then he pulled me against him.

His arms locked around my body, one hand spread between my shoulder blades and the other cradling the back of my head as he buried his face against my hair. His breath came heavy now, hot against the side of my neck, the composure he had held through the gallery finally splintering where no one else could see it.

My arms went around his waist beneath the tuxedo jacket. I pressed my cheek against his chest and felt his heart beating too hard, his body still trapped somewhere in the past.

“I’m here,” I whispered, stroking my hands up and down his back.

“I know.”