Page 6

The auctioneer’s grin widened, and I let the silence following the bid stretch long enough for the room to believe I might stay quiet.

Tension coiled in my stomach and stretched across my chest. The moment approached, that pinnacle of a second where the world held its breath and waited. For me. “Twenty million.” My voice carried because I allowed it. Every fucking person in this room knew my voice, and knew to fear it when it concerned them.

The auctioneer blinked, his gavel poised and mouth slightly ajar. Beside me, Kirill released a low breath that might have been a laugh while Roman muttered in Russian about my definition of financial restraint.

The woman stared at me as if she’d misheard. She stared without recognition, because she’d never seen us without our masks, but the sight infuriated me anyway. How dare she not know my face after stealing my money.

The auctioneer swallowed and lifted the hammer. “Twenty million. Do I hear twenty-one?”

A paddle rose three tables from the stage. “Twenty-five.”

The reaction around the room changed instantly.

I recognized the bidder. Sergei Baranov controlled several operations through Jersey and had spent the last year bleeding money. Thick shoulders strained against an expensive suit, and his gray hair had been slicked back so tightly it sharpened a face already unpleasant to look at.

Kirill slid one hand inside his jacket as though adjusting the fabric. “Do we need him alive?”

“For the next five minutes.” I stared at Baranov, considering the possible repercussions of eliminating him here and now in front of a room full of people.

Baranov finally looked at me and smiled, believing he’d turned the auction into a contest. Men like him always made the same mistake. They assumed my silence meant I understood my hands were tied. Usually I was deciding how much damage to inflict. How much pain I could get away with before their bodies broke.

“Thirty.” I finished my drink in one smooth swallow and let my gaze roam over the woman.

Her expression changed as she looked from me to Roman and then Kirill. The auctioneer found his voice. “Thirty million. Do I have thirty-one?”

Baranov’s jaw hardened. Onstage, the guard shortened the woman’s chain when she shifted backward, and her attention darted toward the curtain as if calculating whether she could reach it before someone stopped her.

The auctioneer started the count. Baranov never lifted his paddle, and the hammer came down at thirty million.

Conversation exploded around the room. Kirill rose while Roman buttoned his jacket and spoke quietly to one of our men, already arranging the transfer and our exit. I remained seated for another moment because Baranov had not moved, and a man willing to spend twenty-five million dollars on a woman he had supposedly never met deserved my attention.

The auctioneer leaned toward her and she recoiled, cuffed hands coming up between them, and one of the guards seized her shoulder.

Baranov shoved back from his table. “You can’t sell her to Volkov.” Several conversations nearby died with his demand. The auctioneer’s smile vanished as Baranov started toward the stage with two soldiers following close behind. “She owes me more than thirty.”

Roman shifted to my left, opening his jacket enough to reach his weapon without drawing it. Kirill looked almost pleased now, which was usually the last expression another man wanted to see.

Baranov reached beneath his coat and withdrew a pistol. “She’s my thief!”

3

ROMAN

Well fuck. Baranov’s pistol cleared waist height, the barrel swinging around toward the stage. I shot him through the wrist before his finger tightened on the trigger. He howled, which made me far happier than it should, and slung his hand. The gun skittered beneath a table, and he staggered back, hand clutched to his chest.

Half of his men reached for weapons. The other half ducked in an entirely too predictable manner.

Kirill vaulted the chair between us and drove Baranov’s nearest soldier into a table, the two of them landing hard enough to shatter the thick wood. I’d told them to switch to metal, but they liked the ambiance of wood. Guess they’d be buying more chairs again.

Maksim, unlike the rest of the room, stood slowly, buttoned his jacket, and watched as three dozen armed men made up their minds about whether thirty million dollars of someone else’s money was worth dying over.

He cocked his head in Baranov’s direction. “Take him alive. I have questions.”

Baranov, still clutching his bleeding wrist, trembled as I approached. “She stole from me.”

“So I gathered.” Maksim’s boredom was insulting to Baranov, and we all knew he employed it like a weapon. “That does not excuse your behavior.”

Gunfire erupted near the stage, bringing me around. One of Baranov’s men had decided to risk it, and our security answered with two rapid-fire shots that dropped him beside the platform while the auction guards hauled the woman backward by the chain between her cuffs.