Page 51 of City Of Thieves
Until now.
Unbuttoning my suit jacket, I take a seat beside her, scanning the faces of the bidders as they file in through the double doors. The auction room is similar to the one in New York: a large white space filled with rows of expensive gold chairs, the kind you can’t buy at Walmart even with a fistful of coupons. Rich Brits outnumber rich Americans, meaning that most of this crowd have their noses in the air and sticks up their asses.
Next to me, Tatiana is wound tight like a coiled spring. She’s pissed that I made her sit at the back instead of in her usual place in front of the auctioneer, but there’s something else as well. Something beneath the fading scent of sex and desire. Something that reminds me of pennies and molasses…
“Tell me again why we’re nowhere near the ‘triangle of influence’?” she hisses. “People are looking at me strangely. They know my tactics. From this vantage point, it would take a telescope for the auctioneer to see me.”
“We’re not here to admire the artwork. We’re here to observe.”
“And if this ‘Russian’ sends an agent?”
“Whoever buys that fucking thing is going to be marked, followed, and then taken apart slowly until I get the answers I want.”
“You mean tortured?”
That’s a polite way of putting it.
There’s a pause. “Are you analyzing everyone who walks into the room?”
“Every face, every gesture, every breath.” Then, to remind her what’s at stake, I add, “For your brother’s sake, you’d better hope this Russian and his crew are asunculturedas I am.”
Another uncomfortable stretch of silence passes between us.
Then another.
Then another.
Tatiana keeps shifting in her seat, her long slender fingers brushing over her thigh, repeatedly smoothing out invisible wrinkles on her jumpsuit. Looking about as far from being an Ice Empress as I do.
I try to focus my attention on the doorway, but I find my gaze wandering back to her constantly. Twelve hours ago, I would have inhaled her anxiety like oxygen, letting it fuel the darkest places of my sinner’s soul.
Twelve hours ago, Tatiana Sanders was nothing more than a Bratva-branded pathway to vengeance.
How things change…
She’s more than an ambitious woman with a tantalizing body now. She’s a victim, with deeper scars than the ones marking her flawless skin.
She has a daughter.
I never saw that one coming.
Just like Nero has been my driving force for the past few months, Anastasia has been at the forefront of her every decision. She’s been her motivation, her reason for breathing… The agony of their separation cuts grooves into every move she makes.
I don’t know what forced them apart, but I intend to find out.
My attention shifts toward a balding man in a navy-blue Savile Row suit. I watch him nod in recognition at a stone-faced woman sitting a couple of rows in front of us before taking the empty seat beside her. Without taking my eyes off him, I place my hand over Tatiana’s to still her fidgeting.
“Careful... A ‘tell’ is a dangerous weapon.”
Her fingers curl beneath my palm, as if to push me away, and then she’s dragging her hand out from under mine and crossing her legs away from me.
Now, she has my full attention.
“Regret is a useless emotion,” I murmur.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Less than an hour ago, you had a very different reaction to my touch.” Grabbing her hand again, I turn it over and press the pad of my thumb to the black ink staining her wrist. “You begged for it,dolcezza... Protesting now is a waste of energy. We both know you want more.”
