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TWENTY-THREE

The Hunt

Paul

The crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over the opulent ballroom, their light dancing off jewels and champagne flutes alike. The air is thick with the scent of expensive perfumes and the earthy aroma of aged cognac.

I stand close to Vivianne, her presence both intoxicating and grounding. The crimson silk of her gown whispers against my leg, a constant reminder of her proximity.

As we navigate through the crowd of Europe’s elite, the constant murmur of hushed conversations and the soft clink of glasses create a backdrop of refined opulence. I can’t help but marvel at how effortlessly Vivianne steps into her role. Her expert commentary on the stolen masterpieces adorning the walls draws an admiring crowd, and I find myself hanging on her every word, just as captivated as our fellow guests.

A prickle of unease crawls up my spine. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up as I catch sight of a familiar face across the room.

Viktor Petrov, a notorious collector with ties to the Russian mob, watches us intently. His steely gaze sends a chill through me despite the warmth of the crowded room.

This could be trouble.

Leaning in close to Vivianne, I whisper in her ear, my lips barely brushing her skin. The subtle scent of her perfume—jasmine and vanilla—momentarily clouds my senses.

“I need to step away for a moment. There’s someone I have to speak with.”

She turns, her blue eyes wide with curiosity and a hint of concern. “Is everything alright?”

I smile reassuringly, hoping she can’t sense the tension coiling in my gut.

“Of course. Just some business to attend to. Keep charming our new friends. I’ll be back before you know it.”

With a gentle squeeze of her waist, I reluctantly pull away from her warmth. As I walk across the room, Petrov follows my every move. His expensive suit matches the predatory glint in his eyes.

“Monsieur de Gaulle,” Petrov greets me, his accent thick and his handshake firm. The smell of Cuban cigars clings to him. “A word, if you please.”

I follow him to a quieter corner of the room. A waiter appears as if summoned, and Petrov gestures for fresh drinks. The champagne is crisp and cold against my tongue, but it does little to ease the tension coiling in my gut.

“I couldn’t help but notice your lovely companion,” Petrov says, his eyes flicking to where Vivianne stands, still surrounded by admirers. “She seems—knowledgeable about our little collection here.”

I take a measured sip of champagne, buying time to choose my words carefully. The last thing I need is for Petrov to become suspicious of Vivianne’s presence.

“Vivianne is an expert in authentication,” I reply smoothly, infusing my voice with a hint of pride. “I brought her on to consult on a few potential acquisitions.”

“Is that so?” Petrov’s eyebrow arches, skepticism etched into every line of his face. “And you trust her discretion in these—delicate matters?”

The implied threat hangs heavy in the air between us, as tangible as the cigar smoke curling around us. I meet his gaze steadily, allowing a hint of steel to enter my voice.

“Absolutely. Vivianne understands the nature of my business. She’s proven quite valuable.”

“Hmm,” Petrov murmurs, clearly not entirely convinced. He swirls the champagne in his glass, studying the bubbles as if they hold some hidden truth. “Just be careful, de Gaulle. Trust is a rare and fragile commodity. It would be a shame if your faith was … Should I say—misplaced.”

“Your concern is touching, old friend.” I chuckle, clapping Petrov on the shoulder with a familiarity I don’t feel. “But I assure you, everything is under control.”

Our conversation continues a delicate dance of veiled threats and calculated responses. I find myself constantly glancing back to where I left Vivianne, seeking the reassuring flash of her red gown, but as the minutes tick by, a gnawing unease grows in my stomach.

“Before you go, de Gaulle,” Petrov says, his voice lowering conspiratorially, “I have a message from Urakov. He wants to meet with you before the auction at Lac Léman.”

“Urakov? What does he want?”

Petrov shrugs, a calculated gesture of nonchalance. “He didn’t share details. But he insisted I make it happen. You know how he can be.”

I nod slowly, my mind racing.

What could Urakov want?

And why the secrecy?

“Tell him I’ll be in touch.”

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, I extricate myself from Petrov’s company. I scan the room, expecting to see Vivianne still holding court with her admirers, but a group of strangers now occupy the space where she stood, none of them wearing that distinctive crimson dress.

My heart rate quickens as I move through the crowd, my eyes darting from face to face. The constant hum of conversation and tinkling of crystal suddenly feels oppressive, drowning out my racing thoughts. The scent of perfume and alcohol, once pleasant, now seems cloying and suffocating.

Where is she?

I go to the last place I saw her, hoping to find a clue to her whereabouts, but there’s no sign of Vivianne, no hint of where she might have gone. I grab the arm of a passing waiter, perhaps a bit too forcefully.

“Excuse me.” I try to keep the urgency out of my voice. “Have you seen a blonde woman in a red dress? She was here earlier, discussing the artwork.”

“I’m sorry, monsieur .” The young man’s brow furrows in concentration. “I don’t recall seeing anyone matching that description recently.”

I release him with a curt nod, my mind racing to the next possibility.

Could she have stepped out for some air?

Gone to the powder room?

As I continue my search, weaving through clusters of laughing guests and serious-faced collectors, the first tendrils of real fear begin to take hold. This isn’t like Vivianne.

Something’s wrong. I feel it in my bones.

I complete a circuit of the main gallery, my anxiety mounting with each step. The paintings that captivated us earlier now seem to mock me with their silent, inscrutable gazes. Gauguin’s vivid colors, Malevich’s bold geometrics—none matter now.

My mind races through possibilities, each one darker than the last. Did someone recognize her? Has our cover been blown? Or is it something even worse?

With a growing sense of dread, I make my way toward the private viewing rooms. The transition from the bustling main gallery to the quiet corridors is jarring. The sounds of the party fade, replaced by the soft echo of my footsteps on marble floors.

The corridors leading to the private viewing rooms stretch before me, a labyrinth of polished wood and muted lighting. My footsteps echo softly on the marble floor as I move from door to door, each unopened entrance another possibility, another surge of hope quickly dashed.

“Vivianne?” I call out, my voice low but urgent.

I curse under my breath, berating myself for leaving her alone. What was I thinking?

The first room is empty, save for a lone painting on the far wall—a Modigliani, if I’m not mistaken, but I barely spare it a glance. The next room holds a cluster of antique vases.

With each empty room, my movements become more frantic, my composure slipping. I’m dimly aware that I’m attracting attention and that my behavior is far from the calm, collected persona I usually project.

But I can’t bring myself to care.

As I approach the next door, a muffled sound from within stops me cold. My hand freezes on the ornate handle, every muscle in my body tensing. There it is again—a soft thud, followed by what could be a voice.

I don’t hesitate. I throw the door open, my body coiled and ready for anything.

The scene before me is like a nightmare come to life.

Vivianne, her crimson dress in disarray, slumps in an ornate chair. Her golden hair falls across her face, obscuring her features.

Two men I don’t recognize have their hands on her, attempting to lift her from the chair.

Beside them, the woman interested in Vivianne’s expertise earlier, hastily tucks something into her clutch.

For a moment, the world seems to stop. All I can hear is the thundering of my own heartbeat; all I can see is Vivianne’s vulnerable form in the hands of these…these vultures.

“Get your hands off her.” My voice is barely recognizable, a low, dangerous growl that seems to come from somewhere deep inside me.

The room suddenly feels too small, the air thick with tension and the sickly-sweet smell of cheap perfume. My vision narrows, focusing solely on the threat before me and the woman I need to protect.

The men whirl, eyes wide with shock. In a heartbeat, one reaches behind his back. The telltale glint of metal has me moving before I can think.

I lunge, my body a missile of controlled fury. My fist connects with the first man’s jaw, the satisfying crunch of bone meeting bone echoing in the small space. He staggers back.

The second man lunges at me, but adrenaline courses through my veins, sharpening my reflexes. I dodge his attack, using his momentum to throw him off balance. He crashes into an antique side table, sending priceless artifacts clattering to the floor.

“What did you give her?”

The woman backs away, her hands raised in a placating gesture. “It’s just a mild sedative,” she says, her voice shaking. “We weren’t going to hurt her, we just?—”

“Shut up.” The coldness in my tone surprises even me.

Not wasting a second, I pivot, driving my fist upward into the second man’s face. The crunch of cartilage reverberates through my knuckles as his head snaps back.

He staggers, and I seize the opportunity. Spinning behind him, I lock my arm around his throat. He claws at me, desperate, but I’ve got leverage on my side.

Out of the corner of my eye, the first man raises his weapon. Time slows. With my free hand, I wrench the gun from the choking man’s grasp. The cool metal steadies me as I level it at the first assailant.

We’re at a stalemate. His gun trained on Vivianne, mine on him.

The man in my grip thrashes weakly, his struggles growing feebler by the second. I tighten my hold, feeling the fight drain out of him until he goes limp.

I don’t dare lower my guard. One wrong move and Vivianne pays the price. My finger rests lightly on the trigger, ready. The air is tense as we face off, neither willing to make the first move.

Vivianne’s eyes droop, and her jaw slackens. An empty champagne flute rolls on the floor at her feet.

“I suggest you put that away,” I say to the one pointing the gun at Vivianne.

“I’ll shoot her,” the man threatens.

I doubt he will. With his friend down, whatever they planned—a kidnapping by the looks of it—my arrival ended it.

“Who do you work for?”

The man glances at Vivianne, his finger caressing the trigger. I’ll shoot first; I have no qualms about killing.

Three men barrel into the room. It’s Petrov bringing backup. They pull up short when they notice the guns. Petrov’s arrival distracts the man with the gun. I release the man’s partner and leap across the gap separating us.

I collide with the man in a tangle of limbs. I roll the man to his back and disarm him. I place an arm bar over the guy’s throat; a little more pressure, and I’ll crush the windpipe.

Petrov’s men secure the first man, who is starting to come around. Petrov grabs the hands of the one I sit on. With a quick tie, the man’s hands are restrained.

I press harder until the man squeals. “I asked a question.”

The asshole’s partner comes around, hawking and spitting. His arms are trussed behind his back.

More pressure on the man’s throat, and his eyes bulge. “I suggest you answer,” I growl. “Don’t think for a moment that I care if you live or die.”

There’s no way for the man to speak with the force applied to his larynx. I press harder, feeling the cartilage bend as the man’s face turns purple. If he’s not going to talk, I still have his friend.

The would-be kidnapper beneath me stops fighting. Moments from passing out, he gives the slightest nod. The urge to finish off the man for what he did to Vivianne wars with my need for answers.

Petrov pulls Vivianne back a safe distance.

“You have one chance. Talk.” I release some of the pressure on the man’s throat.

The man coughs.

I place the barrel of the gun to the man’s temple. “I would love for you to give me a reason to use this.”

I won’t. The gun will make too much of a mess, but I’m not against strangling the man.

With a violent clearing of his throat, the man’s eyes cut left and right. All around him, we stand in a defensive circle.

A whisper croaks out, “I don’t know.”

“How can you not know?”

Another cough. A look of defiance passes over the man’s face. I follow by cutting off the man’s air. The man struggles, but his efforts are in vain.

More rope comes out, and within seconds, the man’s legs are bound. The man goes limp, defeat showing in his eyes. His voice rasps as he tries to speak, but only a whisper comes out,

I have a million questions. “I’m going to ask again. Who are you working for?”

“Don’t know.”

“How can you not know?”

“Got offered a job. Grab the girl. That’s all I know.”

“Not good enough.” I’m tempted to pull the trigger. “Tell me your instructions.”

“I told you,” the man screeches as I wrap a hand around his throat. “Grab the girl.”

“And take her where? To whom?”

Who the fuck are these guys working for? I don’t believe for a moment that they don’t know. There are too many possibilities.

Kidnappings are rare in Paris, but that doesn’t mean beautiful women like Vivianne don’t become targets. Her family has money, and she isn’t discreet about hiding her wealth. That’s a possibility, but it doesn’t sit right either. Again, it’s too random and not neat enough.

Vivianne shares some of the blame. She has little concern for her safety. Hell, she toured Montmartre by herself. However, if a ransom operation wanted to grab her, they wouldn’t pull her from this event.

That has me circling back to why anyone would target Vivianne.

Unless it’s because of me?

I lean down and whisper in the man’s ear. “Two seconds before I crush your thick neck. Two seconds to give me a name.”

His head shakes. “I swear,” he croaks, “he didn’t give a name.”

I tighten my grip and use my body weight to add pressure. There’s still the partner. Maybe I’ll get more out of him.

“My pocket,” the man rasps.

I release my grip. “You have something to say?”

“In my pocket. He gave a card with a number to call.”

“A number?”

A shaky nod is his response. “Grab the girl. Then, call the number.”

I don’t want to release my grip, but I need that card. “Which pocket?”

“Back.”

Of course, it’s the back pocket. I’ll lose my advantage by searching for this card, not that the man can move. His arms are pinned above his head. His legs are bound in a length of rope. I catch the eye of Petrov.

“Check his back pocket.”

Petrov crouches and slides his hand under the man, searching. A moment later, he pulls out a white card and hands it to me.

I place the gun on the floor and take the card. A number is scrawled on the front. On the back, there’s an embossed design of a black crow’s feather.

I stare at the crow’s feather embossed on the card, my jaw clenching so tight I can hear my teeth grind.

Nicholas.

Always with the fucking theatrics.

Vivianne lies motionless in the chair, her chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. Golden hair spills across her face, obscuring the eyes that captivated me just hours ago. The sight of her, vulnerable and defenseless, ignites a fury in me I haven’t felt in years. It burns white-hot, threatening to consume everything in its path.

Nicholas is making a statement—using Vivianne to get to me—and he won’t stop there.

He never knew when to quit, but then, neither do I.

As I scoop Vivianne into my arms, her head lolls against my chest. She’s light, too light, and the scent of her perfume mingles with something medicinal and wrong. My grip tightens, protective and possessive.

If Nicholas wants a war, I’ll give him one.