Page 5 of Secret Baby of the Bratva
“Did you see what you needed?”
“Yes.” My gaze flicks to the side streets, then back to the road. “The layout is predictable. Security is tight enough for appearances, weak enough in practice. Nothing surprising.”
There’s a pause on the other end, the faint scratch of his lighter as he inhales. “The staff?”
My grip on the wheel tightens. Annie’s face flickers again in my mind—the stubborn set of her mouth, the way she tilted her chin when I told her order was fragile. My tone sharpens unconsciously. “Competent.”
“Competent?” Milan repeats, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Or something else?”
I don’t indulge him. “I’ll decide at the auction.”
Silence hums between us, broken only by the low growl of the engine. Then his laugh, low and dry. “Always so cautious.”
“Caution keeps us alive,” I reply, voice clipped.
“True. Still, you sound… interested.”
My teeth grind, but I don’t rise to the bait. “I’ll call after tonight.”
I end the call without waiting for a response, sliding the phone back onto the console. The screen goes dark, the rain continues to beat against the car, and the city stretches ahead in endless gray.
I should put her out of my mind. I should file her away with the dozens of faces I pass every week, irrelevant beyond the roles they play. She is an assistant, a gallery employee, nothing more. She doesn’t belong in my world.
Yet, I know I’ll be looking for her tonight.
I press harder on the accelerator, the car surging forward into the storm, and try to convince myself that it’s strategy, not curiosity, pulling me back.
The storm thickens as I drive, rain smearing the glow of traffic lights into streaks of red and green. My thoughts should be sharper, anchored to numbers, shipments, and the men waiting for my orders. Instead they drift, circling back to her. Annie Vale. The name fits her—short, sharp, easy to remember. Too easy.
I see her again as she stood in the gallery, chin lifted, voice steady despite the weight pressing down on her. Most people crumble under less. She didn’t. That spark could be a liability, or it could be something else entirely.
I tell myself it doesn’t matter. She doesn’t matter. The auction is what matters—its security, its use as a meeting ground, the alliances and enemies that will show their hands tonight. Still, a part of me is already anticipating her presence there, imagining how she’ll look under softer lights, without the clipboard clenched to her chest like armor.
The wheel vibrates under my hands as the tires cut through water pooling on the road. I push the thought aside,locking it down where it belongs. I’ll see her again tonight. Then I’ll decide what to do about Annie Vale.
Chapter Three - Annie
The auction winds down in a blur that tastes like stale champagne and relief. Paddle numbers drop to their owners’ laps; glittering smiles stretch for the photographers; the chandelier light has that soft evening haze I always love and never get to enjoy when I’m working.
The final gavel echo fades into the carpet, and a buzzing pride starts in my chest, the kind that usually carries me through cleanup and the postmortem with Dana.
I should be riding that hum. I should be thinking about how well the lots performed and how the press will frame the human-interest angle tomorrow.
My feet ache so much I can feel the outline of each strap. The neckline on this dress scratches at a spot on my shoulder where the tag refuses to lie flat. I haven’t had water in hours, only a few sips of terrible coffee that turned my mouth dry.
Staff weave through clusters of donors with practiced smiles; I spot one of our interns walking a little too close to a sculpture on loan and signal her to give it more breathing room. A server tips a tray, recovers before anything shatters, and flashes the kind of grin that pretends nothing happened. We’re good at pretending.
“Invoice for Lot Sixteen?” one of the registrars asks as she passes me a stack of foam sleeves. Her voice threads through the background noise and snags the part of my brain that never sleeps.
“It went to storage while the buyer finished paperwork,” I say. “If the sheet wandered off, it’s probably in the back. I’ll check.”
Dana is still near the dais, shaking hands with a board member, laughter ringing a touch too bright. I tip my chin toward the side corridor so the nearest guard knows where I’m going, then slip out of the main hall.
The carpets back here are thicker and swallow the spill of sound with a steady hush. The air cools by a few degrees; the scent shifts from perfume and wine to glass cleaner and old paper.
Somewhere deeper in the building a fan clicks on with a low mechanical thrum.
I pass a pair of staff-only doors and the locked gallery that houses the works we don’t talk about in press releases. Rain needles the windows in a silver pattern. The storm has stayed, moody and stubborn, and it presses against the glass with little taps that feel too quick for the night we’ve had. I breathe in the calmer air of the service wing and let my shoulders drop.
