Page 46 of City Of Thieves
He lets go of me, the atmosphere leaden and oppressive. There are too many unanswered questions. Too much he wants to know…
“I had your suitcases brought into my room. You’ll find them in the closet.”
“Thank you,” I say softly.
“Oh, and Tatiana?” He reaches out to cup my cheek, but there’s a fierce possessiveness in his touch that makes it more of a claim than a concern. “Don’t think I’m done with you after last night,” he says roughly. “Once this auction is over and I get what I came for, we’ll be picking up right where we left off.”
Chapter Thirteen
Tatiana
Like most ofthe places in London,Weatherby’sAuction Housecomes with a history and a warning. Built in the heart of Mayfair, the Georgian building with its white stone frontage has a bright red canopy that looks like a slash of blood in the snow.
As our car pulls up to the front steps, it feels like a premonition for how this day is going to end. I know Konstantin. He likes to toy with his victims before making the kill. Despite what I said to Renzo, I know that the car chase yesterday was implemented on his orders, the same way I know that thepatsanwho was sent to beat loyalty into me was sent to hurt Renzo, too. Konstantin wants to scare me and punish me, but the next time he comes for Renzo, it’s going to be fatal.
The guilt of knowing what Ido cuts deeper than it should. Many times on the journey from Soho to Mayfair, I’ve opened my mouth to warn him, but each time I see Anastasia’s face pressed up against the window again.
What’s worse, Konstantin has stopped answering his phone. My only chance of seeing Anastasia now is to acquire the ‘Atonement’ and then return to New York as a cowering submissive with a dead body in the cargo hold of the man who’s making me feel something for the first time in years.
Holding the door open for me, our shoulders brush as I exit the car—that single touch affecting my lungs more than the bitter chill in the air.
“You look good,” he says, appraising my designer black silk jumpsuit, the one that’s clinging to my body as the winter wind whips up and down the street.
“Chanel,” I mutter, pulling my coordinating cashmere coat tighter around my shoulders.
“Sounds like a drink. I could use a double.”
I turn to scowl at him, and he gives me the faintest trace of a smirk. He looks good too,more than good actually, in a similar three-piece black Brioni to the one he wore in New York, with a black dress shirt and a crimson tie. He’s wearing his dark heritage front and center today—an underground king being forced to the surface.
I pause. Caught up in a whirlpool of a moment. Feeling the need to kiss him again, to take more strength from him… To be back in that shower cubicle, with his face between my legs, moaning out his name as he deadens me to all life’s hurts and disappointments. He’s not so much an electric storm on my horizon anymore as the rider of both our tempests.
Just then, the wind changes direction, blowing my hair straight into my face, and chasing the moment away. When I manage to get my dark strands under control, he’s already on the curb. Hands in his pockets. Waiting impatiently.
“You ready?”
No.
“Yes.”
He narrows his eyes as I approach. “What’s wrong?”
“We’re both wearing black,” I observe. “Anyone would think it’s an omen.”
“Story of my fucking life.”
Mycontact, Ivan Volkov, is waiting for us in the reception area. I’ve known him for ten years. He worked for my mother in New York before he and his husband moved to London. He’s used to me pulling in favors, but I get the impression he’s doing it more for my mother than for me.
Not that I blame him.
Everyone loves her. She’s smart, kind, and funny, with a core of steel that keeps the worst of my father in check. Sometimes I miss her so much that a death by a thousand cuts would be a pleasure and a mercy.
“Good morning, Tatiana… Mr. Marchesi.” Stepping forward with his hand outstretched, Ivan takes mine first, and then offers it to the tall brooding figure behind me. I watch his face pale at Renzo’s firm grip. “We’ve, ah, prepared the viewing you requested.” He withdraws his hand quickly. “It’s in a private space adjacent to the main auction room… If you’d both like to follow me.”
“Thank you for organizing this, Ivan,” I say, slipping into perfect Russian. “I know it was very short notice.”
“No problem at all,” he answers with a smile. “Here is another copy of the condition report on the ‘Atonement’, should you require it.” He hands me a neat white folder embossed with the red Weatherby’s logo. “It’s authentic, I can tell you that much. We have excellent in-house experts here, and I oversaw the process myself. Our reputation depends on the validity of every piece that passes through these doors. It gives our elite buyers the confidence that they’re spending their money on a Van Gogh and not a knock-off.” He side-eyes me with a slight frown. “I have to say, Tatiana, I was a little surprised by your request.”
“You know I never buy an exclusive piece without inspecting it myself.”
