Page 4 of Crimson Sin
“Noted,” I reply, a faint smile tugging at my lips.
The bartender places a glass of wine in front of her with faint curiosity before he turns away. She thanks him with a distracted smile and turns her attention fully to me. I'm used to being studied, even assessed, but Naomi Carter doesn’t look at me like I’m a threat. She looks at me with curiosity.
“So, what do I call you?”
“Daniil.”
No need for more. If she does her research later, she'll find out everything I want her to know. Obsidian Vault International has an impeccable public reputation. Award-winning security firm. Protector of cultural treasures. Guardian of history's most precious artifacts. The truth lies buried beneath layers of legitimate business, hidden in encrypted files and shell companies that even the FBI hasn't managed to penetrate.
“Naomi,” she responds, adjusting her glasses.
I already knew that. Her folder holds a museum exhibit proposal, full of passion and quiet desperation. She poured her heart out to a stranger she thought was her investor. I listened because, frankly, it was more interesting than anything else I had planned tonight.
“Your exhibit,” I continue. “Cultural preservation. Representation. Education.”
Her eyes light up like I've just handed her the keys to the kingdom. Clearly, she’s not used to being heard or having her ideas taken seriously. But watching Naomi’s face light up as she talks about her work sparks a quiet wonder in me about what it must feel like to care about something that deeply and purely.
“You were listening,” she says, a note of surprise softening her voice.
“You were very passionate.”
She nods, leaning in slightly, and her perfume reaches me. It’s light and floral, unmistakably out of place among the heavy cologne that usually fills the air in here. It’s soft. Unassuming and innocent.
“It matters,” she insists, her voice stronger now. “That children see themselves in art. That marginalized voices aren't erased from history. That we preserve stories that might otherwise be lost.”
“Idealistic,” I respond.
“Important,” she corrects, her chin lifting with defiance.
Her conviction isn't performative. She believes every word she speaks, and that belief runs so deep it's become part of her DNA. In the criminal underworld, conviction is often manufactured, shaped by fear, greed, or the simple desire to survive another day. But Naomi's conviction is the real thing, and that rarity makes it infinitely more valuable.
“Tell me about your background,” I request, swirling my whiskey and watching the amber liquid coat the glass.
She tilts her head, studying me with those intelligent brown eyes. “That's quite a shift in topic.”
“I prefer to understand the people I'm talking to.”
“Fair enough.” She takes a sip of her wine, considering her words. “I grew up in a small town. Driggs, Idaho. The populationis around three thousand. My father worked two jobs to keep us afloat after my mother left.”
The words come out matter-of-factly, but I can hear the old pain underneath. Abandonment leaves scars, and hers run deep.
“How old were you when she left?”
“Less than a year old. I don't remember her.” She shrugs, but the gesture is too studied to be casual. “My father did his best. Worked as a teacher during the day, and at the hardware store at night. He made sure I had everything I needed for school and college applications.”
“Any family left?”
“I have a great-aunt in Idaho. Aunt Meredith. She's in her seventies, still sharp as a tack, but we're not close. Christmas cards and birthday calls, that's about it.”
I file away every piece of information she gives me. Father dead. Mother is absent. One elderly relative living across the country. No siblings. No romantic entanglements based on her presence here tonight. No obligations. No liabilities.
“No ties,” I murmur, more to myself than to her.
She hears it anyway. “Excuse me?”
“Just admiring how free you are.”
She narrows her eyes slightly, and I realize she's sharper than I initially gave her credit for. “Untethered doesn't mean unanchored.”
