Page 14 of City Of Thieves

A million.

Tears prick my eyes. There are only three things I want in this life, and two are sliding out of view faster than an avalanche of shit.

I give another nod.

“A million, ten.”

“Two million,” Marchesi calls out loudly, and the ensuing gasps are of a different kind.

I slump back in my seat, beaten. Two million is a lottery ticket. I don’t even know if the painting is authentic. Still, the conflict is real. There’s a ten-year-old voice inside screaming at me to continue, and another of a woman who knows exactly what’s at stake.

I listen as Richard and Marchesi play tag up to the tune of two and a half million, and then Richard is grimacing in defeat as well. When the gavel finally falls, my eyes never leave the stage. I refuse to give Marchesi a sliver of magnanimity.He can rot in hell, for all I care.

The next lot appears, and I dutifully bid my way to a grim-faced purchase for Konstantin.

As soon as the auction ends, I’m sweeping my sunglasses onto my face and bolting for the double doors at the back of the room. Marchesi has gone, replaced by a tepid wall of art enthusiasts who, on seeing my chilly expression, can’t part ways for me quick enough.

Sliding into the backseat of the car, I reach for my phone.

Done.

Tossing itonto the empty seat next to me, I close my eyes in misery. When I do, I see the downcast face of“Mary”...

All I want to do is call my mother and tell her all about it.

My phone beeps. It’s a warning—a chastisement for straying too close to doing something I know he’ll make me regret.

Steeling myself, I glance at my device, but for once the message isn’t coming from one of Konstantin’s burners...

Now that I have your attention, I’ll see you tomorrow night at 8 p.m. sharp.

Chapter Four

Tatiana

“Good afternoon, Miss Sanders.”

My assistant, Erika, rises from her seat as I glide through the glass doors of my gallery half an hour later, still clutching my phone. “Your one o’clock appointment has just arrived. He’s perusing theGray Griscollection in the atrium while he waits. His credit checks and budget are excellent. I thought you’d like to start with the gallery’s top tier.”

“Thank you, Erika,” I say, tossing my black gloves, purse, and sunglasses onto her desk, grateful, as ever, for her quick thinking and brisk efficiency.

Hiring her last year was like striking gold. I have no interest in small talk, and neither does she. Our only common denominators are my hectic work diary and the priceless artwork that breezes in and out of these doors.

It’s going to hurt like hell when I have to let her go, but I can’t think about that right now.

“How was the auction?” she asks, collecting up my belongings and turning toward my office, her blonde ponytail flicking from one slim shoulder to the other in a neat little dance of Aveda.

“Interesting.”

Truth is, I’m still smarting about losing “Mary” to a classless savage who will never treat her the way she deserves.

“Oh?”

Smoothing down the faint wrinkles in my designer black pencil dress, I glance toward the atrium and brace myself for my next battle of the day. “I acquired an eighteenth-century portrait for ‘Mr. X.’ Please invoice him accordingly.”

There’s a small pause. “I’ll do that right away.”

Erika is familiar with the pseudonyms I use for my clients. Konstantin, for example, is an elusive man who changes names on the regular like a spinning alphabet wheel. What’s catching her off guard is the fact I bid on something that wasn’t created in the twentieth or twenty-first century.