Page 137 of Mafia Obsession

“Volkov is registered for a private auction at Bedell. This afternoon.” She hands me a hacked confirmation ticket at the exclusive auction house. “I booked you a seat.”

“Auction?”

“An estate sale.” She shrugs. “Mostly artwork.”

“Who would have thought Kirill cared about art?” I push away from my desk and slip a knife into my suit jacket.

“Can I make one suggestion before this meeting?” Daria says, her expression neutral but with a calculating look that makes me brace for impact.

This is not our relationship. I ask for strategies and solutions. Rarely do I get unsolicited advice. But she piqued my curiosity. And I trust this woman with my life.

“Speak.”

“We canusethe sister,” she says cautiously. “Ask for control of Winterhall. I looked at their books. The profits they rake in are?—”

“No,” I interrupt, the word absolute and unyielding.

“I’ve analyzed that video more,” Daria persists. “Whoever Sandrine was before the accident, she loved him. She can learnto love him again.”

“That’sher.And he may have been a different person five years ago, too. Now he’s a cruel, lethal monster. I won’t subject that delicate young woman to a life with Kirill.”

That statement makes me think about myself. Am I different from the man who fought the Irish? Am I tame enough to be a good husband to Lourdes? That’s not a question I care to examine right now.

“Sandrine stays where she is.” I check my watch and come around the desk to stand before Daria. “I don’t care what she and Kirill had before her accident. She is disabled and not in a position to be a pakhan’s wife.”

“Ares, I’ve gone through her father’s journals. They were not accounting ledgers for Yuri.” She sent one of her assistants to the penthouse while Lourdes and I were out to make photos of everything.

“What the hell were they?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know, I couldn’t figure it out. It was…gibberish.”

Or coded.

“Fuck, I was hoping to have something tangible to trade instead of Sandrine if Kirill makes this a war.”

“I can put it through more thorough decoders.”

“Let me talk to Volkov first.” I walk past Daria, checking my watch again. “Are sharpshooters in place?”

“They are,” she says. “Good luck, Ares.”

She walks out without another word, her shoulders pitched back, head held high.

The tone of her voice and the lilt of disappointment over my refusal to hand over Sandrine stay with me in the elevator, as well as the lobby, and in my car as my driver navigates the frozen January streets of Manhattan.

At Bedell Auction House, Kirill Volkov wears an impeccable three-piece suit, sitting in a chair on a raised dais, paddle in one hand, vodka in a frosted glass in the other. After paying an exorbitant service fee for the late entry, I step onto the dais as well with a deliberate sweep of my long legs.

When I’m no longer a shadow, Kirill lifts his head, and we make eye contact. His face rearranges into something on the border of amused and impressed. Impressed that I didn’t hit back in the cover of night. He struck me hard and thinks I’m here to make him pay for that.

The auction starts, and I don’t hear the auctioneer’s opening bid. But Kirill raises his paddle.

Staring ahead, he says, “It took you long enough to face me.”

“I had to get new guards.” I sit next to him. “You didn’t need to killallof mine to get your message across.”

When a higher bid is presented, I raise my paddle to keep Kirill’s attention on me.

“My demand remains the same,” he says and raises his paddle to beat my bid. “Give her to me.”