Page 33 of City Of Thieves

“Did you hear what I said, Tatiana?”

I nod weakly, even though he can’t see me. “Yes.”

“You will bid. Youwillwin. And then you will tell the Americanmudakexactly what you have done.”

Thus, proving he’s been right about me all along.

Marchesi won’t just pull a gun on me this time. He’ll pull the trigger.

“If I do this…?”

“Your plane ticket is assured.”

It’s a risk I’m willing to take.

“Okay.”

“Okay.” He laughs, a rough sound full of malice. “It is a pleasure doing business with you once again, Tatiana. And a word of warning… I would not get too attached to Renzo Marchesi,kiska. He will not be alive for much longer.”

Chapter Nine

Tatiana

I’m a bad liar.

That’s what my brother used to tell me.

I never had a problem saying the words out loud, but my actions never matched the crime. Like when I was a kid and they’d accuse me of stealing the last cookie, and I’d swear up and down it wasn’t me—blinking out wide-eyed innocence—even when I had the evidence smeared all over my face.

My body was rebelling against my intentions.

Just like my body is in danger of doing now.

It’s ten past eight. I’m sitting on the bed again, staring at my hotel bedroom door, mentally preparing for the moment Marchesi kicks it down to demand an explanation from me.

I’m scared.

Sacred for me.

Sacred for her.

I have no idea how to make this deception believable tonight. He rattles me like no one else, sliding deep under my surfaces like a bad splinter. My disguise is starting to thaw. She’s been my armor for so long, but with him…

I shut my eyes.

I’m all out of choices. Ineedto buy this painting out from under him. But despite the turbulence of the last twenty-four hours, despite him holding a gun to my head in more ways than one, I don’t want Marchesi to die.Why? Because underneath it we’re the same, just coming at it from opposite ends. His motivation for attending this auction is just as great as my incentive is for derailing his plans.

There’s a knock at the door, and I steel myself to open it. When I do, it’s the pretty receptionist from downstairs, smiling expectantly at me.

“Miss Sanders?”

“Yes?”

“Mr. Marchesi would like you to know that he’s waiting in the bar downstairs for your company.” Her smile falters, and she blushes slightly. “He, ah, he would also like to remind you that the only rules in this game are his.”

Wrong.

So very wrong.