Page 58 of Auctioned Innocence
Carlo has been reliable for years—a cousin of Dominic’s who turned informant after Anthony had his brother killed over a gambling debt.
His silence now is a warning sign I can’t ignore.
A knock at my door interrupts my thoughts.
Three quick raps—efficient, professional.
I slide both phones into hidden pockets, settling Dmitri’s identity back over me like a second skin.
“Mr. Volkov? Madame Rouge requests all buyers join her for breakfast.”
I school my features into Dmitri’s mask before opening the door—cold eyes, slight smirk, the expression of a man accustomed to getting exactly what he wants. “Lead way.”
The guard—different from last night but with the same military bearing—nods and steps aside.
I follow him through the mansion’s opulent corridors, mentally updating my internal map of the building.
Two additional guards at the east staircase.
New security camera in the north hallway.
Small changes that suggest someone is nervous.
Someone’s expecting trouble.
Good. They should.
The morning room is a study in intimidation.
Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the armed guards patrolling the grounds—a not-so-subtle reminder of the security surrounding us.
Priceless art lines the walls—I recognize a Monet, a small Degas, what appears to be an early Picasso.
Old wealth, old connections.
At the head of the long table, Madame Rouge holds court like a queen, dressed impeccably in cream silk that presents a startling contrast to her signature red accessories.
“Ah, Mr. Volkov.” She gestures to an empty chair halfway down the table, positioned strategically between other buyers. “I saved you a place of honor.”
I take the seat, noting the other buyers filing in.
Old faces from the previews.
Some new ones that I mark automatically—a Saudi prince whose oil fortune masks his family’s involvement in regional conflicts, an American hedge fund manager whose firm has been investigated three times for money laundering, a Japanese tech mogul whose factories have been linked to multiple suicides.
My attention catches on a man near the far end—sharp Slavic features, expensive watch that isn’t obvious about its price tag, something familiar about the way he holds himself.
Military background, like me.
The kind of dangerous that doesn’t need to announce itself.
“Coffee?” A server appears at my elbow.
Jonah looks pale but steady.
His hands no longer shake as they did last night.
He’s found his courage.
