Page 3 of Secret Baby of the Bratva
Instead, it’s something heavier, sharper. An irritation I can’t name, paired with the echo of his eyes holding mine. I shouldn’t care. He’s another arrogant donor, nothing more… but the weight of him lingers, like the aftertaste of strong liquor, impossible to wash away.
I turn sharply on my heel, forcing my attention back to the chaos of the auction preparations. My voice snaps across the room, sending interns scurrying, my pen scrawling notes against the clipboard with unnecessary force. If I bury myself in tasks, maybe I can scrub his presence from my mind.
Even as I bark orders about lighting angles and table placements, my thoughts drift back. To the way he looked at exits before he looked at art. To the silence he carried like a weapon. To the low timbre of his voice when he said,“Perhaps,”as though the entire decision rested in his hands.
Hours later, when the gallery finally hums with order again, I’m still replaying it. Still seeing his dark silhouette against pale walls, still feeling the prickle of his attention on my skin.
I tell myself it’s annoyance. That’s safer than admitting the truth.
The truth is I can’t get Dimitri Sharov out of my head.
Chapter Two - Dimitri
The gallery smells faintly of polish and expensive perfume when I step through the doors. It’s quiet in a way that isn’t silence at all, but a hum of work being done—heels tapping, voices low, fabric rustling as staff rush to prepare.
The moment I enter, the rhythm falters. I’ve seen it before, the way a room bends without anyone asking it to, how space clears as though I’ve dragged a shadow in with me.
My gaze cuts across the pale walls, past the glowing canvases and glass display cases. The art is fine, beautiful even, but meaningless to me. Paintings don’t matter when exits sit unguarded, when a guard forgets to keep his back to the wall, when a security camera has a blind spot in the corner of the hall.
That’s what I’m here to see. The rest is decoration.
She appears before I hear her.
“You must be the mysterious benefactor we weren’t expecting.”
Her voice is sharp enough to draw my attention away from the angles of the room. Small, young, clipboard clutched against her chest like a shield. Hair loose and untidy, eyes bright with something more dangerous than nerves. Defiance.
I turn toward her fully, let my eyes take her in. Up close she’s wiry, quick, all restless energy wrapped in pale skin and stubbornness. Not polished like the others, not smiling for approval. Interesting.
She thrusts out her hand. “Annie Vale. Assistant coordinator.”
I take it briefly, enough for formality. “Dimitri Sharov.”
“Mr. Sharov,” she says, pulling back. “Normally donors let us know when they plan to arrive. Helps us keep the chaos to a minimum.”
“This is a public place, guests rarely need permission.” My tone is even, but the flicker in her eyes tells me she heard more than words.
Her mouth twists. “Some of us like order. It keeps things from falling apart.”
Order. A fragile illusion, but she says it like a rule she lives by. I let my gaze linger on her, let her feel the weight of it. “Order is fragile.”
Annie stiffens, but doesn’t drop her eyes. That alone puts her apart from most.
Silence stretches. I should turn away, finish what I came for, but she fascinates me more than the blind spots I’ve already marked. She’s young, untested, yet her irritation with me is immediate, unsoftened. Most people with sense smooth their words when speaking to me. She doesn’t.
At last she exhales, voice clipped. “Fine. I’ll walk you through the gallery.”
I follow.
Her heels ring lightly on the marble as she leads me past paintings, explaining with careful professionalism. Her words are efficient, but I’m not listening to the art history. My attention slides past frames and colors, noting cameras in corners, how staff circulate, how the storm outside makes the windows gleam like warning lights.
“This room will host the preliminary exhibits before the auction begins. Guests will circulate here for cocktails. Lighting has been adjusted for optimal—”
“Two entrances,” I murmur.
She halts, looks back at me, brows lifted. “Yes. Entrances. Convenient for flow… you’re casing the place like a security consultant.”
The bite in her tone almost makes me smile. Almost. I let the faintest curl tug at the corner of my mouth, then let it fall. No need to show her how much her sparks amuse me.
