Page 29 of Auctioned Innocence
“Dmitri Volkov?” The guard checks his tablet, eyes flicking between my face and the ID.
If he notices any discrepancy between the photo and the man before him—now sporting grayed temples and subtle facial prosthetics that took Mario’s best specialist four hours to apply—he doesn’t show it.
I let my lips curve in the cold smile I’ve practiced for hours in front of the mirror until it felt like second nature.
“Is there problem?” The Russian accent rolls off my tongue, perfected over a sleepless night of listening to recordings and drilling vowel sounds until my throat was raw.
“Not at all, sir. Welcome to The Gilded Rose.”
The guard steps aside, revealing the sweeping driveway leading to a mansion that screams old money and older secrets.
The estate sits on at least thirty acres of manicured grounds, surrounded by a forest that provides both privacy and natural security.
One night of surveillance has shown me the patrol patterns, the guard rotations, and the blind spots in their security system.
I hand my keys to the waiting valet, not missing how the young man’s hands shake slightly when our fingers brush.
Smart kid. Everyone should be afraid here.
Especially of me.
The grand foyer drips with wealth—crystal chandeliers that catch light in fractured rainbows, marble floors imported from Carrara, artwork I recognize from museum catalogues.
Renoir on the east wall.
Possibly a Monet in the drawing room glimpsed through French doors.
The kind of place that’s seen generations of dirty money made clean, laundered through art and antiquities.
My designer shoes click against stone as a sleek woman in red approaches.
She moves with the liquid grace of a predator, her gown the exact color of arterial blood.
Late forties, though she’s had work done to maintain the illusion of thirty-five.
Her eyes miss nothing, finding details about me that most people wouldn’t notice.
Professional. Dangerous.
“Mr. Volkov.” Her smile is practiced, predatory.
Perfect white teeth behind lips painted the same crimson as her dress. “I’m Madame Rouge. We’re so pleased you could join us for the preview evening.”
Preview evening.
Such a delicate way to describe what’s about to happen.
My hands itch for my gun, for the comfort of steel and the finality of a trigger pull, but Dmitri Volkov wouldn’t carry something so crude.
No, my new identity prefers to let others do the messy work.
“I come long way,” I say, accepting a crystal glass of champagne from a passing server whose bland expression can’t quite hide her dead eyes.
Another victim, I suspect, now serving her captors. “Your reputation, it precedes you.”
“As does yours.” Madame Rouge’s painted lips curve knowingly.
Her French accent is subtle but authentic—not the affectation I’d expected.
