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I suppress the urge to tell him to fuck off. “I’m trying.”

He smiles at another bidder passing our table. “Try fucking harder.”

I want to scream with frustration. Our position is behind most of the people in the room. Lucky is looking around with the same desperation.

How the fuck are we supposed to see anything from here?

The dim lights beneath the tables fade, making it even harder to make out anyone in the room. The low chatter subsides as the spotlight at the center of the dais grows, highlighting a lone box on a stand beside the auctioneer’s block. It’s covered by a black cloth.

Lucky’s hand slips into mine. “I cannot see him,” she breathes in my ear.

I grip her hand tightly. “Me either.”

Rodrigo’s arm still lies around my shoulders, his fingers pressing into my skin hard enough to leave marks, but for once, I suspect the pressure has more to do with tension than an actual desire to inflict pain.

A man walks out onto the stage, and I feel a shock of recognition. I was expecting Leon.

Instead, the man on the stage is Pavel—Roman Stevanovsky’s chief cyber geek.

But this isn’t the same Pavel I’ve met before at Darya’s family gatherings or playing around on a laptop with Mickey.

That Pavel was a rather plump tech geek, with thick glasses and a beard usually liberally splattered with pizza crumbs.

He wore action hero T-shirts and loose track pants and was always spinning some gadget in his fingers.

This Pavel has clearly been spending some time training in the ring with Mickey.

He’s lost at least fifty pounds, shaved his beard, and is wearing an impeccably cut tuxedo.

His dark hair is swept back from his face, which is surprisingly handsome, and he’s swapped his glasses for contacts.

He stares out over the room with an almost commanding air.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he begins smoothly. “Welcome to an extraordinary offering. My name is Dariush Azad, and I will be your host this evening.”

By the polite ripple of applause, it seems Pavel’s assumed name is a familiar one.

“First,” he goes on when the applause subsides, “allow me to remind you all of the conditions of tonight’s auction.

” He looks down at a piece of paper on the auction block.

“As you were all advised prior to arrival,” he says, “no surrogate bids will be accepted. The man—or woman—who places the winning bid tonight will be expected to make payment in person. Payment will be made immediately upon conclusion of the auction, via the Mercura platform. No other form of payment will be accepted. Receipt of the goods will occur when payment has been verified. Are we all clear?”

There’s a murmur of assent from around the room. I study each of the figures, but again, I can’t make out any faces clearly.

Nerves claw at my belly. How am I supposed to identify Jacey if I can’t see anyone’s face?

“You each have a digital control,” Pavel goes on.

“Each attendee has been assigned a number linked to the control, displayed on this board.” He gestures behind him and a screen comes to life, displaying the numbers one to twelve.

“Bids will be taken by pressing the black button on your control. Before we begin, we will test each control, on my command. Number one.”

He looks at the screen as he calls each number in turn. A green light comes up next to the number as each attendee presses their button. A light also flickers on their chair when the button is pushed.

“Excellent,” Pavel says as the roll call comes to an end. “So. Let me introduce the piece in question.”

He nods to the corner of the room. A beautiful girl, whom I’ve seen during my Loop runs but who is now dressed in a scarlet figure-hugging evening gown and wearing the strained rictus smile of all the compound girls, comes forward and slips the cloth off the glass box.

The small gathering gasps.

Even I suck my breath in.

I’ve heard about Fabergé eggs before, and Dimitry even showed me pictures of some of the ones he’s handled during his time in Miami.

But this is completely different to anything I’ve seen—and utterly magnificent.

Gold feathers fan delicately around the egg like living things, vivid jewels at the end of each gleaming indigo, blue, and rose in elongated teardrops.

Pavel first describes the origins and manufacture of the egg.

Then he enters a code, and the glass case opens.

He manipulates a hidden catch on the egg, and it opens to display a diamond mountain and tiny peacock inside, which elicit further gasps from the crowd.

Again, I’m more than a little impressed—not to mention secretly amused—by his transformation.

I always knew Pavel was a tech genius. I just never imagined him in a tux, expounding confidently to an entire room of rare art connoisseurs.

“The legendary peacock egg was thought lost by the art world,” he says as he locks the glass case again.

“Rumor had it the egg was placed in safekeeping by those close to Mariya Stenyavina, the tsar’s mistress, for whom it was made.

But with the years those stories faded, as did her family name.

Until recently, when, as many of you already know, the Naryshkin treasures were revealed to have survived the revolution and began to enter the market once more. ”

Another ripple of interest goes through the crowd.

I know about the rare treasures kept for decades beneath Darya’s family home, of course, since Dimitry was employed in the task of distributing them.

But until now, I hadn’t given much thought to the impact those pieces might have made on the art market.

“The strict rules of this auction were set by the owner of this egg, who is the direct descendant of Mariya Stenyavina. The seller has requested to remain anonymous, which I’m sure you can all understand.”

Again, there’s a smattering of laughter.

“And with that,” Pavel says, smiling courteously around the room, “let us begin. Bidding goes in increments of one hundred thousand US dollars. Starting price is ten million. Who will give me ten million one hundred thousand?”

The chairs flash green in rapid succession, numbers lighting up on the board as the price swiftly moves up through the millions.

Even though the auction itself doesn’t mean a thing to me, I can feel the edgy excitement in the room, exacerbated by the shadowy anonymity of the bidders.

It’s difficult to see who is bidding from our position, though Pavel clearly has a direct view.

Rodrigo is stiff, his thumb pressing the button so fiercely I think he’ll break the control; Viktor, on the other hand, lounges in his chair with the air of one who is no stranger to bidding a small fortune for rare goods.

I study every corner of the room, searching for something, anything, that will give Jacey’s presence away, but all I see are silhouetted figures.

Where is he?

I’m trying not to let the tension get to me, but it’s impossible. With every incremental price rise, my panic rises too. Lucky is equally anxious, leaning forward as she attempts to get a better perspective on the faces in the room.

Where the fuck is he? I strain to see through the dim light. And where is Dimitry?

If Pavel is here, I know Dimitry must be somewhere close by. But not knowing where, or what exactly he’s planning, is killing me.

I guess it makes sense they used Pavel for the auctioneer—it’s hardly like Leon can auction off his own possession. Still, it makes me wonder where Leon is in all of this.

Not for the first time, I have a slight twinge of unease about him.

What if he’s been working for Jacey all along?

Something has been niggling at the back of my mind from the moment I laid eyes on Leon. Certainly since we talked on the patio at the villa. It isn’t that he gives me a bad feeling. On the contrary, I’ve found him oddly comforting to be around.

But that doesn’t mean he’s to be trusted.

And it doesn’t mitigate my sense of having met him somewhere before.

Well, Abby, too late now. I swallow hard on my nerves. If he’s fucked you over, you’re about to find out.

I shift uncomfortably, then wince as Rodrigo’s hand tightens on my arm. “Fucking number,” he breathes into my ear, his thumb white on the button. “We’re close to the end.”

“I can’t see ,” I whisper fiercely.

“Thirty million, five hundred thousand,” Pavel is saying on stage.

“Do I hear six hundred? Yes—number four, your taste is exquisite. This piece would look amazing displayed beneath that Rembrandt you certainly didn’t recently acquire.

” There’s a ripple of laughter around the room at what is clearly an inside joke.

It’s hard to believe the suave, charming man on stage is the same one I’ve seen lounging about in sweat pants, joking with Mickey. I’m grateful for his skill as he continues to tease out the auction, clearly drawing it out as long as he can.

But not even his asides can hold back the inevitable end. And it’s coming closer.

“Seven hundred,” he continues as Viktor’s chair flashes. “Eight... We’re at thirty-one million, thank you, number eleven. And number eight... Number nine, you take it to thirty-one, three.”

The bidding continues.

Somewhere in this room is the man who plans to kill me, at a time of his choosing. A man who has killed more people than I care to think of.

And if I can’t find him, that death is going to come sooner rather than later.

Fuck. I sit rigidly on the leather seat, my breath coming in shallow, nervous huffs as I strain my eyes around the room, searching for any hint that might give Jacey away.

“Forty million, two hundred thousand.” On stage, Pavel pauses, staring at the board. “Do I hear forty, three hundred thousand?”

There’s a pause.

Rodrigo presses his buzzer. “Hurry the fuck up,” he whispers through gritted teeth as Pavel announces his bid .

Then, in the corner, a lighter clicks.

A flame flares as the bidder lights his cigar, highlighting the face beneath. The cold, dark eyes locked on the auctioneer’s block.

It’s the briefest moment, there and then gone.

And it’s enough.

Lucky turns to me, her eyes wide with fear and excitement. I nod slowly and put my mouth close to Rodrigo’s ear.

“Number eleven,” I breathe.

He tenses beside me. “Number eleven,” he murmurs, and I realize he must be wearing radio comms.

That means Dimitry is somewhere close. Listening.

Relief floods through me like a river after a drought, roaring in my ears so Pavel’s next call seems to come from a distance.

“Forty million, three hundred thousand,” he is saying again. “Do I hear four hundred?”

There’s another pause. I can almost feel the sweat beading on Rodrigo’s forehead. The Cardenas cartel might be wealthy, but I can’t imagine Rodrigo wanting to be stuck with a forty-million-dollar purchase he never asked for.

Finally, number eleven lights up again.

“I have forty million, four hundred thousand,” Pavel says.

“ Joder ,” swears Rodrigo, loudly enough to turn a few heads. He throws his control onto the table in front of him with a good impersonation of frustrated surrender.

“Do I hear five hundred?” Pavel looks around the room. His eyes alight on Viktor, who has also been going head-to-head with Rodrigo until now.

“ Pizdozh ,” Viktor swears quietly. He shakes his head in the darkness. “ Nyet ,” he calls across the room.

“Anyone?” Pavel looks around, then back at the board, which remains unchanged .

The green light next to number eleven is the only one lit up.

“Going once,” Pavel says, lifting his hammer. He pauses again, giving the room time to adjust. “Going twice.”

The room is silent.

Pavel brings the hammer down.

“Sold,” he says. “To number eleven, for forty million, four hundred thousand dollars.”

The room erupts into applause.

I can barely breathe.

“I congratulate you, sir,” Pavel says, beaming.

“And now,” he continues, as applause subsides, “you will find refreshments, not to mention gaming tables and some very desirable company, in the adjoining room. Our host’s people will show you the way.

” He gestures to doors at the side of the room, which the guards are opening.

“If the bearer of number eleven would stay behind, please?”

The attendees file out of the auction room, chattering among themselves.

I sit frozen in my seat. I’m not certain I’d be able to stand even if I wanted to.

Viktor puts his drink down and turns to cast Rodrigo a rueful glance. “It would seem neither of us win today, my friend, da ? Shall we join the party and drown our sorrows together?”

Rodrigo shrugs with every affectation of carelessness. “I prefer to take my parties in private,” he says, smiling darkly and caressing Lucky’s shoulder.

Viktor nods politely. “Of course.” He looks toward the one remaining figure in the room, seated in the farthest corner, shielded entirely by shadow. “I think I should like to meet my competitor.” But as soon as he turns toward number eleven, two unsmiling guards step in front of him.

“This way, sir.” One of them nods toward the open doors .

Viktor gives a huff of laughter. “I wish only to give the man my congratulations.”

“This is not necessary.” The guard nods toward the door again. “Thank you for your attendance this evening.”

Viktor shrugs, casting the figure a curious glance, but he leaves willingly enough.

Pavel remains on the stage, his smile fixed and his eyes carefully avoiding mine.

The guards approach Rodrigo. “Allow us to escort you to your private suite, Senor Cardenas.”

“No.” It’s just one word, coming from the darkness in the corner of the room, but I would know that flat, cold voice anywhere. “Senor Cardenas and his friends will remain as my private guests.”

Fuck.

“Sir.” Pavel smiles, but even I can tell how forced it is. “Perhaps we might complete payment in private—”

“Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary, Mr. Azad.” The cold voice cuts Pavel off before he can finish the sentence. “Guards—wait outside. Nobody comes in or out.”

The guards leave obediently, closing the doors behind them.

The room is suddenly very quiet.

The man in the corner reaches for a lamp beside his chair and clicks it on. “I think we can dispense with the darkness now,” he says.