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Dimitry

London, England

“It’s bloody cold.” Pete Chalmers hunches his shoulders inside a heavy sheepskin jacket and eyes the sullen mist over the Thames balefully. “I’d say the convicts sent to Australia got the better end of the deal.”

I chuckle. “Probably true.” I nod to a pub on the corner. “I can’t imagine the dress fitting is going to be a quick one. Fancy a pint?”

His eyes brighten. “First good idea I’ve heard since the wordweddingwas mentioned.”

We take a seat in the dim pub and order two pints, sitting in companionable silence for a while, just watching the midday crowd mill through the Kensington streets.

“Good thing you’re having this wedding in Australia,” Pete says eventually. “And plan to live in Spain.” His eyes catch mine in the mirror behind the bar. “At least the weather is decent over there.”

I hold his eyes. “You’re okay with us staying in Spain, then?” I take a mouthful of Guinness. “I thought Suze might... Well, Australia is Abby’s home.”

He shakes his head with a rueful smile. “Hasn’t been Abby’s home in a long while, Dimitry. Can’t imagine it ever will be again. Maybe for a visit or two. But she belongs on this side of the pond. Even I can see that.” He gives me sideways look. “And she belongs with you, mate.” He raises his pint to me. “God help her.”

I laugh quietly as we clink glasses.

“Besides,” Pete goes on, “Suze was always on at me about traveling. Now that she’s got the mother of all excuses, I predict we’ll be regular visitors. So you don’t get off that lightly.”

“You’re welcome anytime. Although I have to warn you, between the renovations and Darya’s baby, it’s not overly peaceful.”

“Ah.” He claps me on the shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll have some of your own soon enough. Then you’ll really know the meaning of the wordpeace. Which is to say, you’ll never have any.”

I laugh, tilting my glass to the mirror. “Something to look forward to.”

“So you’ve opened a gallery, huh?” Pete gives me a quizzical look. “Never picked you for the arty type, to be honest. Then again, I guess you had to put that unholy haul you took out of Myanmar somewhere.”

I laugh into my beer. “You saw my father’s art dealership yesterday, just around the corner?”

He nods.

“Well, I’m opening up a second branch. We’ll run auctions, too, and exhibit new artists.” I grin. “Like your daughter, for example.”

Pete tilts his head, but he still looks skeptical. “And that’s it, huh? You’re just going to be selling art to rich people?”

I grimace around my pint, avoiding his eyes. “Well. More or less.”

He snorts into his pint. “More or less.” He nods. “Right,” he says, in a voice heavily laced with sarcasm.

I roll my eyes. “There’s really no point fucking with you, Pete, is there?”

“After Myanmar?” He raises his glass at me. “No. Not really.”

I can’t help but laugh. I glance along the bar, but it’s entirely empty, the barman off talking to the chef at the other end of the room. “Turns out, there’s a lot of interesting people involved in the rare art black market,” I say in a low voice. “The kind of people who move between governments, borders, and businesses relatively unseen. My father has spent a lot of years becoming... a kind of hub within that community.” I shrug. “You might say he deals as much in secrets as he does in art. Sometimes, those secrets are more valuable than the art he sells.”

“Ha.” He nods slowly. “To be honest, I kind of figured as much. Your father didn’t really strike me as the arty type either.”

I glance at him. “I’ll keep Abby out of that end of the business,” I say quietly. “She’ll be safe, Pete. You have my word.”

He clasps my shoulder briefly. “I know that, mate.”

We drink the rest of our pints, then order two more.

Pete nods at my phone. “Why don’t you call your father, ask him to join us?”