Page 52 of City Of Thieves
Those proud lips press in a thin line.
“Tell me,did you cross your legs just now to hide your uneasiness or to hide the fact that you’re still wet for me?”
“Renzo…” As if drawn by an invisible tether, she leans in closer, her long dark lashes fluttering a few times before a crackle from the podium has her spine snapping straight as an arrow. “It’s starting,” she whispers.
“How many lots until ours?”
“Not many.”
As the auctioneer begins to speak, everything, including Tatiana’s presence, fades to black.This is it.The moment I’ve been waiting for, ever since I walked into a hotel room in Atlantic City and found my brother lying in a pool of his own blood.
Nero’s killer is close. I can feel it.
“Up first, we have an exquisite…” The rest of the auctioneer's overinflated description becomes a stream of white noise as heads turn to watch some hideous portrait I couldn’t give two fucks about being carried to the stage.
There’s an opening bid. Then a counter. Then another. I study the men’s steady chin dips, the slight paddle lifts, the polite warring... It’s like watching a tennis ball being tossed back and forth over the net instead of driven by a hard backhand—the only kind I know how to serve.
Five lots down already.
My patience starts to slip, along with my composure. With each bid, my fists clench, and my blood pressure kicks up higher.
Go faster.
I cast my eye around the room again, seeing nothing but an ocean of easy money and steady bullshit.
Where are you, you asshole?
Dragging my hand across my face, the feel of clean-shaven skin is a stark reminder of just how out of my element I am—of how that question mark etched on Nero’s grave continues to burn brighter and brighter.
I feel Tatiana stiffen beside me as a revered hush settles over the room. Glancing between my spread fingers I watch as the auctioneer nods to his left.
“Up next is our final lot of the day, the ‘Atonement,’ a stunning example of New York Abstract Expressionism from the twentieth century, circa 1952. A delightful burst of multi-tonal, two-color spontaneity…”
The room becomes a vortex of activity. My gaze snaps to where two men in white gloves are carrying in the huge painting.
“Reserve bid of five million.”
The auctioneer catches the eye of a figure at the front.
“Can I hear five-one?”
There’s a faint nod a few rows in front of us from the man in the Savile Row suit. I stare at his profile, dissecting his features...
“It’s not him,” Tatiana whispers, my focus jarred by the scent of sweet perfume and pussy as she leans in again, her shoulder brushing mine. “Only a novice bids first.” Tilting her chin, she arches an eyebrow at me.
She’s referring to the New York auction when I opened the bid for the portrait—the one I bought just to fuck with her. I remember watching both shock and loathing bloom across her face as she glared back at me.
I remember my cock aching because of it.
Later that night, she’d called me a classless savage. If only she’d known how prophetic those words actually were.
She does now.
“He’ll tap out quickly,” she continues, drawing my attention back to those hypnotic jade eyes. “A man with the knowledge to bid on stolen art would have a much better game plan.”
Years of instinct tells me to question her motives, but this is why I forced her to help me. Besides, it’s in her best interest to point the finger now, not deflect it.
As we’re whispering, a bidding war has erupted between the man and some old lady who looks like an extra from Downton fucking Abbey.I tune out the back and forth as Vasily’s “tip” spins through my head.Where’s the Russian?Where’s the black market buyer he insisted was coming to London specifically for the “Atonement?”
