Page 63 of City Of Thieves

“Seb?” I croak. “Is that you?” My words are met with a tell-tale crackle of a long-distance line that has me scrambling up from the bed. “Konstantin?”

He doesn’t reply at first. Instead, I hear soft, sweet laughter in the background, and it pierces my heart like an arrow.

“Oh my God, Anastasia, is that you? Come closer to the phone, baby. I can’t hear you.”

Her laughter stops. There’s a man speaking, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. The next thing I know, my daughter is wailing and crying and clearly terrified out of her mind.

I never knew a sound could hurt so much.

“Anastasia!” I scream, my own anguish echoing around the hotel suite. “Please, Konstantin! Don’t hurt her!”

Eventually, I hear a door slam, and my daughter’s sobs are replaced by heavy, satisfied breathing.

“Kiska,” he purrs eventually. “I think you have some explaining to do.”

“I was the winning bid, Konstantin! I did exactly what you asked of me—”

“And Marchesi?”

“I don’t know where he is,” I say, truthfully. “I’m flying back to New York in the next two hours.”

“One of my best men is dead,kiska—”

“Punish me all you want because of it, but not our daughter!”

“Is that right?” He sucks on one of his disgusting cigarettes and blows out a wretched breath of it.

I can smell it now.Like gasoline and victory.

“Your invitation to Moscow has been rescinded. Perhaps I will reconsider when you learn to behave yourself again.”

I shut my eyes in horror.

“You disobeyed me.” His purr switches to a snarl. “I asked you not to speak to your brother, and you called him three times in the last hour, alone.”

“Are you tracking my phone now?”

“I am tracking every move you make,kiska. Never forget that.”

You fuckingbastard.

There’s a single emotion stuttering back to life inside me... It’s being directed at all he’s done to us, and for all he’s still doing.

“Why do you want these paintings so much, Konstantin?”

He laughs in surprise. I’ve never questioned him about anything before because I’ve been too afraid to. “I like pretty things to look at.”

“Ten paintings in ten months… All from different time periods with no discernible connection. Why?”

“Lower your tone,kiska… I do not expect inquisitiveness from you. I expect obedience. Fly back to New York and await my next instructions.”

He hangs up.

Silence falls again, but my anger lingers. I catch myself making shadow puppets on the far wall. For too long I’ve been that clenched fist, tucked up in a tight ball to protect myself. I want to embody two different shapes now: choice and power. Earlier, Renzo showed me that both are within my grasp, but only if I’m brave enough to embrace them.

There’s another shape I want, too.

It’s called forgiveness.