Chapter Two - Erik
The cool evening air brushes against my skin as I step out of the sleek black car, the subtle sheen of its paint reflecting the soft glow of the street lamps. My attire for the evening is carefully chosen—a sharp, black suit without a tie, its simplicity a stark contrast to the opulence that awaits inside.
Semyon, ever my shadow in these gatherings, exits the car after me. His frame is lean, his features sharp, and there’s an intensity in his eyes that mirrors my own, though he often masks it with sarcasm and an easy smirk.
As we approach the venue, the grandeur of the ballroom comes into view through the towering windows. Chandeliers cast a warm, golden light over the interior, illuminating the velvet-draped tables and the opulent decor that speaks of a time when craftsmanship and artistry were prized above all else.
Despite the brutal nature of my daily world, I have always harbored a quiet appreciation for history and the tangible legacies of the past. It’s a stark reminder of permanence in my otherwise transient and perilous existence.
Semyon, walking beside me, seems to read my thoughts. “A bit too fancy for our kind of crowd, wouldn’t you say, Erik?” he quips, his voice low but clear in the evening.
I glance at him, allowing a faint smirk to cross my lips. “Perhaps, but even we can appreciate a night of culture now and then. It’s good for the soul, or so I’m told.”
He chuckles, the sound soft but genuine. “If either of us still has one of those left to worry about.”
We enter the venue, our footsteps muted by the plush red carpet that lines the floor. The ballroom is already buzzing with activity; collectors, historians, and the simply curious mingle, their voices a blend of excitement and hushed tones as they discuss the evening’s prospects.
I scan the crowd, not out of paranoia—though old habits die hard—but to appreciate the gathering, the array of individuals each drawn here by the allure of the auction’s offerings.
As we make our way through the crowd, nods of recognition come from various attendees—some genuine, others masked with the polite veneer of social nicety.
I return them all the same, a noncommittal nod here, a slight smile there, always keeping the interactions brief. In this world, every relationship is a potential chess move; tonight is no exception, even if the setting suggests otherwise.
Semyon and I find our reserved seats near the back of the room. The location is strategic, offering a clear view of both the auction stage and the rest of the attendees. As we settle in, the low murmur of the crowd continues to swell around us.
“Let’s hope this isn’t another parade of overpriced junk,” Semyon mutters, leaning closer to speak over the buzz of conversations that fill the room. His skepticism about these events is part of his charm, if one could call it that.
I give a noncommittal hum in response, my gaze fixed on the stage where the auctioneer is preparing his materials. “Sometimes, junk to one is a treasure to another. Tonight, there should be items even you might find worthy.”
“Oh?” Semyon raises an eyebrow, a glint of interest sparking in his eyes. “Any particular lots catch your eye, or are we just here to soak in the ambiance?”
“There are a few pieces,” I admit, my voice low, “artifacts that are not only valuable but also significant. They carry stories with them—stories of power, betrayal, and history. Much like our own endeavors.”
Semyon nods, understanding the deeper connection I draw between our lives and the items on display. “Well, as long as we’re not bidding against each other,” he jokes, though we both know that our interests tonight are aligned, focused on acquiring pieces that are as much investments as they are trophies.
The lights dim slightly as the auctioneer takes the stage, his presence commanding attention with a gavel in hand and a charismatic smile.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to tonight’s collection of history, art, and mystery,” he begins, his voice booming yet warm. “We are delighted to have you with us to partake in the auction of some truly remarkable items.”
As he continues with the introduction, describing the provenance and unique attributes of the auction’s highlights, I lean back in my chair, allowing myself a moment of respite.
Here, in the dim light and under the spell of the auctioneer’s voice, I can almost forget the weight of my daily life—the constant battles, the ever-present danger, the alliances and enmities that define my existence.
Yet, as the first item is presented, a beautifully preserved set of ancient coins, the thrill of the hunt stirs within me. It’s a feeling not unlike the strategic maneuvers of my business dealings—each bid a calculated step, each acquisition a move toward greater security and influence.
Beside me, Semyon shifts in his seat, his interest clearly piqued as the auction progresses. We exchange brief comments on certain items, their potential value, and their relevance to our broader interests.
Each lot brings a new wave of anticipation, drawing me further into the world of the auction. Here, in the grand ballroom, surrounded by history and the quiet hum of eager bidders,I find a rare blend of pleasure and purpose. It’s a respite, however fleeting, from the rigors of my other life, where every decision carries weight and every alliance is a potential threat.
My attention drifts between the stage and the crowd. Semyon’s running commentary, laced with his customary dry humor, provides a counterpoint to the auctioneer’s polished pitches.
“A vase? Really?” Semyon quips as a particularly ornate piece is presented with much fanfare. “They’re selling us a glorified flower pot for fifty grand.”
I merely nod, my focus lingering not on the vase but on the mannerisms of the bidders. Their subtle tells, the flicks of wrists, the twitch of an eyebrow—details that, much like in the meetings with rival factions, reveal more than words might convey.
Most items pass without stirring much interest in me—paintings, sculptures, and various antiquities, all fine pieces but lacking the particular edge or story that would catch my deeper attention. They are merely objects of beauty, not strategy.
However, Semyon seems mildly entertained, if not genuinely interested, in participating. He raises his paddle for a set of vintage books, their spines cracked with age and pages yellowed like old parchment. “Imagine the secrets these hold,” he muses aloud, more to himself than to me. “Histories of empires and the fools who lost them.”
His bid is successful, and he turns to me with a raised eyebrow, a small smile playing at his lips. “What? They’ll look good in the office, give it a bit of an intellectual touch.”
“I wasn’t aware we were lacking in that department,” I reply, my tone flat but not unkind. I appreciate his efforts to lighten the mood, even if the items themselves hold little value to me beyond their aesthetic.
As another lot is introduced—a collection of ancient weapons—Semyon’s interest spikes again. “Now, that’s more like it,” he whispers eagerly, his eyes tracing the lines of a beautifully preserved sword.
He bids again, this time with a competitive edge, outmaneuvering another collector with a series of quick, decisive gestures.
Yet, even as he secures the lot, I find myself only mildly approving. The weapons, while historically significant, are just another asset, another set of items to be locked away for safekeeping or displayed as part of our carefully curated image.
With each passing lot, the atmosphere in the ballroom grows thicker with anticipation and subtle competition. The items become increasingly rare and valuable, drawing higher bids and more intense exchanges among the participants. Semyon leans back, satisfied with his acquisitions, his earlier humor replaced by a contemplative silence.
It is then that a particular lot catches my attention, not for its visual grandeur or its estimated value, but for the history it carries—a set of documents, old and fragile, tied to a significant historical figure known for his strategic prowess and ultimately, his tragic downfall.
The auctioneer’s voice grows more animated as he describes the lot, detailing the rare insight it offers into the mind of a leader whose life echoed with the themes of power and betrayal.
I lean forward, my interest finally piqued. The documents represent more than just historical artifacts; they are lessons etched in ink, strategies penned by a hand long stilled by death. I signal to Semyon, who nods and prepares to bid under my direction.
As the numbers climb, I watch the other bidders, reading their reactions, gauging their determination. Semyon acts as my proxy, his bids calculated to push just enough to test resolve without revealing our keen interest.
“Going once, going twice….” The auctioneer’s voice fills the room, the tension peaking as he prepares to bring down the gavel.
With a final, decisive gesture, Semyon places the winning bid. A murmur ripples through the crowd, some curious, others calculating, as they turn to glimpse the winner of the coveted lot.
As the documents are secured and the auction moves to its concluding lots, I reflect on the acquisition. The papers are a tangible connection to a past that resonates with my present, a reminder that the games of power and influence are as old as civilization itself.
The rest of the evening unfolds smoothly, with Semyon occasionally commenting on the lesser items with a wry twist of his lips. “Fifty thousand for a glorified flower pot,” he mutters again, shaking his head in amused disbelief.
I roll my eyes at that; but then the next lot has me snapping to attention. A beautiful dagger glimmers in the low ballroom light.
“Next up, we have something a bit different for you all.”
The showcase of the jeweled dagger, purportedly connected to the Russian imperial family, immediately captures the room’s attention, including mine. Its intricate craftsmanship and the gleam of precious stones embedded in its hilt speak of a history steeped in power and intrigue.
As the auctioneer announces the starting bid, I lean forward, my eyes fixed on the artifact that seems to call out to me, whispering tales of a bygone era.
Semyon, ever perceptive to shifts in my demeanor, nods in approval as I raise my paddle to place the first bid.
The auctioneer’s voice rings out, “Ten thousand dollars to start,” and without hesitation, I raise my paddle.
The bidding begins in earnest, the numbers climbing swiftly as several enthusiasts jump in, each raise of a paddle met with a quick counteroffer. The room’s earlier buzz of casual interest sharpens into tense anticipation as the price escalates.
Each time another bid is called, I respond promptly, my raises measured but firm, signaling my resolve not just to participate but to dominate.
As the price hits forty thousand, the frequency of competing bids dwindles, and I sense the dagger is nearly mine. My paddle is still raised, poised for the next challenge, when a clear, confident voice cuts through the tension of the room. “Eighty thousand.”
The abruptness of the bid, doubling the current amount, sends a ripple of murmurs across the ballroom. Heads turn in unison toward the source—a woman seated in the middle of the room. She sits with an air of serene confidence, her posture relaxed, her face composed, betraying no hint of the boldness her bid just displayed.
Even Semyon, who has stood by my side through countless negotiations and underhanded dealings, shows a flicker of surprise. He leans in, his voice barely a whisper, “She just doubled it. Either she’s crazy, or she knows something we don’t.”
I don’t take my eyes off the woman, my gaze sharp and assessing. She appears young, certainly confident, and there’s an elegance about her that doesn’t quite fit the typical profile of an impulsive bidder. Her calmness suggests she’s not merely here for the thrill; she’s here to win. Her boldness intrigues me further; it’s not every day someone challenges the room with such audacity.
“Ninety thousand,” I counter without breaking my stare, my voice steady, my demeanor unflustered by the unexpected competition.
The auctioneer, sensing the heightened drama, plays up the moment. “Ninety thousand, do I hear one hundred?” His gaze flits between me and the woman, the excitement palpable in his tone.
The woman meets my challenge head-on, her paddle rising again. “One hundred thousand,” she states, her voice clear and resonant across the silent room.
The audience is captivated, the air thick with anticipation. Whispers and speculative glances are exchanged as attendees speculate not only about the value of the dagger but also about the identities and motivations of its most fervent bidders.
“One hundred ten thousand,” I call out, pushing the envelope further, testing her resolve. This is no longer just about acquiring a piece of history; it’s about making a statement.
She hesitates for a mere second, her eyes locking with mine in a silent duel of wills before her paddle goes up once more. “One hundred twenty thousand.”
Semyon’s expression is unreadable as he watches the exchange, his earlier lightheartedness replaced by a tactical analysis. “She’s determined,” he comments quietly, almost to himself. “Then again, so are you.”
The tension escalates with each bid, the stakes rising not just in financial terms but in the subtle battle of intellect and intent being waged across the room. The auctioneer calls out the new bid, his voice a mix of disbelief and excitement.
As the bids climb higher, I weigh my options, my mind racing through scenarios. This dagger, while valuable, has become a symbol of a challenge I hadn’t anticipated facing tonight. My interest in it is now twofold: its historical significance and the need to understand why she values it so highly.
Finally, as the bid stands at one hundred thirty thousand, I pause, allowing the silence to stretch. The room holds its breath, awaiting my next move.