Page 4 of Secret Baby of the Bratva
She pulls ahead, shoulders stiff, voice resuming with clipped precision. She describes the next room, the featured pieces, the chandeliers overhead. I hear her, but my focus remains elsewhere. Guards at the far wall. Lock systems. Which doors are left propped open longer than they should be.
She doesn’t notice that she’s guiding me through all the information I came for, though not in the way she intended.
We reach the central gallery, ceilings high enough to swallow the noise of our footsteps. She speaks about security layers, about how difficult tampering would be. My gaze rests on the case, then the lock, then the guard again.
“Layered,” I repeat.
“Yes,” she says sharply. “Which means very difficult to tamper with. Which means you don’t need to worry.”
Her irritation is palpable. She hides it behind professionalism, but I see it in the line of her mouth, the way her hand clenches on the clipboard. She doesn’t like me intruding on her order. She doesn’t like that I’ve unsettled her rhythm.
It makes me want to push further.
We circle back toward the main hall. She keeps her eyes forward, her pace brisk. I slow slightly, letting myself watch her instead of the staff. She’s quick, decisive, anticipating problems before they bloom. Efficient, but that defiance, the way she refuses to temper her words, borders on reckless. Reckless has no place in my world. Reckless gets people killed.
Still, I watch her more than necessary.
“Will you be attending the auction tonight?” she asks, her voice sharper than before.
I let the silence stretch before answering. Her eyes meet mine, unflinching, though her breath catches almost imperceptibly. “Perhaps.”
Her smile is professional, but thin. “Then I’ll see you tonight at the auction.”
She leads me back to the entrance, gestures toward the doors with that same brittle smile. “Thank you for coming by, Mr. Sharov. Enjoy the rest of your day.”
I hold her gaze one last moment. There’s something in it I can’t name, something restless and bright that calls to the part of me I’ve kept buried for years. Then I turn and step out into the gray light.
I don’t look back. I never do.
Except even as the door closes behind me, I know I will not forget the curator with fire in her eyes.
The drizzle thickens into a curtain as I step outside. Damp air clings to my suit, cool against my skin, but I don’t rush. My stride is steady, measured, every movement deliberate. The valet offers me a hesitant smile, but I wave him off. I don’t need anyone handling my car. I came alone, and I will leave the same way.
The black sedan waits at the curb, sleek and inconspicuous, tinted windows beading with rain. I unlock it with a quiet click and slide into the driver’s seat, the door closing with a muffled thud that seals me away from the noise of the city. The engine hums to life beneath my hands. For a moment, I stay still, staring through the windshield as droplets chase each other down the glass.
Her face rises unbidden in my mind.
Annie Vale.
Small but sharp, like a knife with no sheath. The way she stood in front of me, spine stiff, voice clipped, daring me to take offense at her words. Most people avoid meeting my eyes for more than a second. She didn’t. She challenged me, and the spark in her gaze lingered even after she forced herself back into professionalism.
She’s young. Too young. I should dismiss her entirely. But there was nothing soft in her demeanor. The stubborn tilt of her chin, the sarcasm slipping past her lips—those were the marks of someone who hasn’t yet learned the cost of defiance. Reckless. Still…
My jaw tightens as I grip the steering wheel, leather creaking beneath my palm. I find her attractive. More than attractive. The heat that stirred in my chest when she threw my words back at me was unexpected, unwelcome, but undeniable.
Beauty has never been enough to catch my interest. Beauty fades, wilts, bends. She burned with irritation, every word alive with a fire she didn’t bother to hide.
I shift into gear, the car rolling smoothly away from the gallery, tires hissing against wet pavement. My eyes flick to the rearview mirror, out of habit, but no one follows. I didn’t bring backup for this visit. No men trailing in separate vehicles. No second car parked around the corner. Sometimes anonymity is the best shield. No one notices a man alone.
The city blurs past, neon signs streaking against the rain-smeared glass. My mind should be on the meeting scheduled later, on the accounts I need to review, on the rival names whispered in dark corners. Instead, it returns to the auction hall and the woman with a clipboard pressed tight against her chest.
A spark of irritation cuts through my thoughts. Attraction is distraction, and distraction gets people killed. I know this better than most. Yet the memory of her voice curls around me, unshakable.
My phone vibrates against the console, screen lighting up with a familiar number. I answer without hesitation, tucking the device against my ear as I take the next turn.
“Well?” Milan’s voice, smooth and clipped. My cousin, my second in command. He doesn’t waste words, doesn’t bother with greetings. “How did it go?”
I keep my own voice even. “As expected.”
