Page 7 of Sinful Blaze

But I am going to take what I’m craving the moment I see opportunity open the door.

3

PASHA

Everyone takes a seat so the auction portion of the evening can begin. The auctioneer steps up to the podium, clears his throat, and opens up the bidding with some small landscape by a minor artist. An ice breaker, of sorts.

I sit and drift off in my thoughts as one lot after another is rattled off. I came here tonight with a singular purpose: find the most expensive S.C. Ewing I could get my hands on and have it delivered to a certain amoral politician who has been nothing short of a pain in my ass.

For months, Senator Scott Brennan has hemmed and hawed as we hashed out the details of our arrangement. I’ve showered him with gifts he doesn’t deserve, complimented him at dinners where criminals like me didn’t belong.

This is the final straw. The last attempt at bribery. If it doesn’t work, and if he doesn’t approve the military arms importing deal I’ve shoved across his desk time and time again, then we’re switching tactics.

He’ll get whiplash from how fucking fast the carrot is exchanged for the stick.

Fine by me. I much prefer wielding the latter.

At the sound of a cleared throat, I wrench my attention back to the proceedings. The feature of this evening, Conrad’s so-called “life’s work,” is the final item up for bid. The auction team wheels it on stage and whips off the curtain, and people gush over the fucking scribbles.

I glance across the room in time to see Daphne roll her eyes. She’s been quiet and subdued throughout the earlier pieces, but this one? This one keeps crawling under her skin.

I have plans for it.

“We’re opening the bid at fifty thousand dollars,” the auctioneer says. “Do I hear fifty-five?”

Some scarf-wearing art critic in the back raises their card.

I raise mine, too. “Seventy.”

The auctioneer blinks his surprise at the quick escalation. “Seventy thousand from the gentleman in the front. Do I hear seventy-five?”

Another patron, a snooty woman in a feather boa, raises her card.

“Ninety,” I counter.

Daphne shifts uncomfortably in her seat. I stay focused on the bidding.

The bids keep climbing, and I refuse to back down. More jump in as others jump out. None of them deter me.

The auctioneer looks positively giddy as the numbers grow and grow. “Do I hear nine hundred thousand?”

Boa Lady raises her card. I have no idea what the fuck she wants with some misogynistic fever dream covered in Jackson Pollock-styled paint jizz.

I do know she won’t be getting it.

“Two million.”

The auctioneer sputters at my response. “Two… two million! Do I hear?—”

“Two and a half!”

I roll my eyes. Now, the mudak in the Coke bottle glasses wants to participate and be a fucking hero? I raise my card again and shoot him a dangerous glare. “Three.”

Boa Lady bows out with a mutter and a grimace.

Critic huffs. “Three and a half.”

I’m done playing games. “Five million.”

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