Page 9 of Crimson Sin
The questions multiply as I type. Then, the most important question of all.What does he get out of this that's worth funding my entire exhibit?
I save the document and close the laptop. My reflection stares back at me from the dark screen. My hair is messed from running my hands through it, my glasses are askew, and my eyes are wide with a combination of fear and excitement.
Still, sleep doesn't come. I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, my thoughts spinning in endless circles. I try to convince myself it's just a weekend. Just a role. A means to an end. But deep down, I know better.
This isn't just about the money, though I desperately need it. It's not just about the exhibit, though it represents everything I've worked for. It's about the way Daniil looked at me. Like I mattered in a way that had nothing to do with my qualifications or my potential usefulness.
I think about the conversation we had about my background, how he listened without judgment when I told him about my father's struggles, and my mother's abandonment. Most people either offer empty sympathy or change the subject when I mention my family situation. But Daniil just absorbed the information, filing it away like every detail about me was important.
The memory of his voice when he commented on my freedom plays on repeat in my mind.“Just admiring how free you are.”There was something wistful in his tone, like freedom was something he'd never experienced himself.
I roll over and stare at the window, where the city lights create patterns on the wall. Somewhere out there, Daniil Zorin might be awake too, making plans, moving pieces on a chessboard I can't even see. The thought should terrify me, but instead, it sends a thrill through my body.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I reach for it, heart leaping with the irrational hope that it's him. But it's just a notification from my email, a reminder about a library book that's due tomorrow.
I set the phone down and close my eyes, trying to force myself to sleep. Tomorrow I'll have to make a decision that will change everything. I'll either take the biggest risk of my life or walk away from the biggest opportunity I've ever been given. Either way, Daniil Zorin has already altered the course of my carefully planned existence. The question is whether I'm brave enough to see where that new path leads.
4
DANIIL
The moment I step into the museum, every polished tile, artfully placed spotlight, and hushed conversation bends toward me. Not because I announce my presence. I don't need to. Presence is something you're born with, not something you declare.
The security guard at the entrance straightens when I pass. The elderly woman guiding a tour group pauses mid-sentence to glance in my direction. A maintenance worker polishing the marble floor looks up from his work. It's not arrogance that draws their attention. It's the gravitational pull of absolute certainty. I know who I am. I know what I want. And I know I'll get it.
The head curator, a prim woman in her sixties with silver hair coiled into a perfect bun, approaches with politeness born from decades of whispering around priceless artifacts. Her heels click against the marble, each step conveying respect without subservience. She's practiced this dance before, probably with dozens of potential donors who hold her institution's future in their checkbooks.
“Mr. Zorin,” she murmurs, extending her hand with cautious respect. “We're honored by your visit.”
I take her hand and nod. “I appreciate the welcome.”
Her grip is firm but brief and professional. She has no idea who I am beyond what the plaque in my file declares: CEO of Obsidian Vault International. That's the benefit of running a legitimate business alongside a criminal empire. Doors open without question. You only have to decide which ones to walk through.
She leads me through the vaulted entry hall. I follow at an easy pace, hands clasped behind my back, eyes drifting over Renaissance sculptures and Indigenous textile displays. The lighting is subtle but effective, creating dramatic shadows that make even lesser-known pieces appear significant. The museum is modest by international standards but respectable. With the right funding, it could evolve into something more substantial.
Which is why I'm here. And becauseshe'shere. Naomi Carter.
I spot her before she notices me. Across the rotunda, half-shadowed by a Greco-Roman column, she's conferring with another intern holding a clipboard that's nearly as tall as she is. She's wearing slate-gray slacks, and a cream blouse tucked in neatly, her auburn hair pulled back, though a strand has fallen loose and dances against her cheek as she gestures animatedly.
She's in her element. Confident and passionate. Completely absorbed in her work. And she has no idea I'm watching.
That first meeting wasn't enough for me. I told myself it was about strategy, securing the marriage to unlock my inheritance, protecting the Bratva's succession, and maintaining power. But that's only part of the truth. The rest lives in the quiet way hervoice caught when she spoke about her father. The unfiltered honesty she laid before a stranger. The fire in her when I mentioned her ideas were idealistic. She stayed in my mind long after I left that bar, lingering in the quiet moments and slipping into every thought I tried to redirect.
She doesn’t realize she’s already drifting in my orbit, too close to break free. The fake marriage certificate is drafted. The lie is set in motion. All I need now is her consent.
The head curator escorts me through the modern wing and into a restricted area where rare manuscripts are kept. We pause at a Romanesque artifact encased in glass, and I deliver exactly what she wants to hear, offering references to temperature-controlled environments, encrypted crate locks, and diplomatic couriers. I mention the firm's London vault, our recent collaboration with the Met, and the planned installation in Berlin. She's hooked.
Her questions come rapidly, each one designed to test my legitimacy. She asks about insurance protocols, international shipping regulations, and climate control specifications. I answer each with the precision of someone who has spent years building this façade. Because that's what Obsidian Vault is, a carefully constructed front that happens to be extraordinarily good at what it claims to do.
I glance again across the hall. Naomi's talking to a volunteer now, something about shifting a display case. She's gesturing with her hands, explaining something with the enthusiasm of someone who genuinely cares about every detail. She tries to hide it, but I see the moment her spine stiffens. Her eyes sweep the room and then land on me.
I don't look away. Neither does she.
The curator begins another story about grant funding, but I raise a hand gently. “Would you excuse me a moment?”
She nods, already pleased with herself for hosting someone of my supposed stature. I leave her to glow in her illusion and cross the floor to Naomi, watching as uncertainty ripples across her expression.
My footsteps echo softly as I walk toward her. Other visitors move around us, but they become background noise, irrelevant to the conversation that's about to unfold. Naomi watches my approach with the wariness of someone who recognizes a predator but isn't sure if she's the prey.
