Chapter 4
FOUR
LUCAS
The auction room hums with a kind of polished chaos—laughter, clinking glasses, the smooth cadence of the auctioneer’s voice rising and falling like a well-rehearsed song.
To everyone else, it must feel vibrant, electric.
To me, it’s all just static. A blur of noise my hearing aid can’t quite filter, too sharp at the edges and too muffled at the center.
The chandeliers throw a golden glow across the whitewashed walls, highlighting every crease of velvet, every glint of jewelry, every smug tilt of a wealthy man’s smile.
I linger at the corner with the other servers, tray balanced in my hand, trying to look like part of the wallpaper. My heart hasn’t slowed since I spotted him.
Alexander Pavlovich Petrov.
The name alone coils through the room like smoke.
I picked it up from whispers, gossip slipping easily between servers and guests who seem to enjoy saying it, savoring its weight.
A family so rich with old money that they practically drip influence, their roots stretching through this country and Russia alike.
Some even whisper the word mafia. I would’ve rolled my eyes at the rumor, laughed it off as exaggerated fantasy, if I hadn’t seen him myself—fists bloodied, face shadowed, beating a man as if wrath was carved into his bones.
That memory alone is enough to keep my pulse unsteady and make me scared of him.
And now, here he sits.
He’s leaning back in his chair like the whole event exists for his amusement, his long frame relaxed but commanding.
He looks untouchable, unshakable, like the kind of man people orbit but never approach.
His jaw is sharp, nose straight, hair as dark as the devil’s soul, and those eyes—God, those blue eyes.
They sweep the room like a predator scanning territory, always coming back to me.
Every time they do, I look away too quickly, afraid of what he might read in me… or worse, what I might see in him.
Running into him here feels like the universe is deliberately playing cruel tricks.
I thought I’d escaped him after that night in the alley, but apparently not.
I almost convince myself he’s here for me, stalking me in plain sight, until I overhear that his brother is one of the artists showcasing a painting tonight.
My gaze shifts, reluctantly, to the man beside him.
Anton, if I caught the gossip right, is his older brother.
He and Alexander don’t share much in terms of facial features.
Anton carries a Southeast Asian sharpness, while Alexander looks entirely Russian, colder somehow.
And yet, there’s no mistaking the bond between them.
Same height, same broad shoulders, the same air of quiet intimidation that makes people hesitate before looking them in the eye.
Anton’s expression is unreadable, almost lifeless, as though the whole world is a dull play he’s already seen too many times.
If Alexander is storm, Anton is stillness, a kind that makes your skin prickle because you don’t know what’s hiding underneath.
Then there’s the other brother, the artist. He looks different, lighter on the surface.
A mix of Thai and Russian features, he’s not as broad and tall as his brothers, but he’s toned and fit, his blonde hair is cut short in a buzz, high cheekbones that sharpen when he smiles.
And he does smile, often, almost too often—at servers, at guests, at people who probably don’t even realize they’ve caught his attention.
But I can’t shake the feeling that his playfulness is a mask, a bright cover for something darker.
His eyes give him away, it’s sharp, guarded, holding a thousand stories that he’ll never tell.
He unsettles me in a different way than Alexander, like he’s the kind of person who’d laugh while setting fire to the world.
“Ten thousand,” the auctioneer calls out, his crisp, professional voice cutting through the low murmur of the crowd.
I blink, startled, dragged back to reality. The spotlight frames an abstract painting—sharp, jagged strokes, muted colors smeared like someone gave up halfway through. Paddles rise without hesitation.
Ten thousand for that? For something that looks like it was made in five minutes?
“Thirty thousand.” Another paddle. Another voice.
I barely register it.
Because my attention has already drifted against my will to Alexander.
He hasn’t raised his paddle once. Not even once since this whole damn thing started. Not even pretending to be interested like the others. His broad frame leans back in his chair, arms crossed, face unreadable.
Except his eyes.
They’re fixed on me.
A prickle spreads down my neck, heat blooming under my collar. I snap my gaze forward, forcing myself to focus on the meaningless numbers being tossed around this room.
I don’t understand him. I don’t understand any of this.
What is his problem with me? Why watch me like that?
Because I happened to walk into that alley and see him beating a man half to death?
That’s not my fault. Why did he even beat the man up in the first place?
And it’s not like I’d ever report him—God, no.
I don’t trust the cops, and I wouldn’t drag myself into something I can’t escape.
So why me? Why this?
“And now,” the auctioneer announces, voice echoing grandly, “the final piece of the evening. The highlight of our exhibition, generously donated by one of our own… Maksim Petrov.”
The name jolts me. His brother.
My head turns instinctively toward Alexander. This time, he isn’t looking at me. His eyes are locked on the stage, his body stiff but purposeful, arms still crossed. Focused.
The curtains fall.
And for some reason, my stomach lurches.
The painting is… familiar. Too familiar.
Dark shades swallow the canvas, black and storm-gray layered thick like suffocating smoke.
In the center looms a tall, shadowed figure, shoulders broad, body painted in harsh, violent strokes that seem to vibrate with movement.
He towers over a much smaller form—frail, skin painted in sickly pale tones.
The smaller figure stands alone at the mouth of an alley. A flickering streetlight in the background barely reaches him, the edges swallowed by shadow.
My breath hitches.
That alley.
That night.
What the hell?
My lungs clench tight, refusing to take in air. It’s too much, the scene trapped on canvas is the same one burned into my memory, the night I saw Alexander. The violence. The silence. The tension.
The brushstrokes are a mess, angry, and chaotic, but every single line feels deliberate. Purposeful. This painting doesn’t belong here among soft flowers and pretty watercolors. It’s wrong. Raw. Disturbing.
And it’s terrifyingly real; the gasps and whispers from the audience confirm it.
My gaze drags helplessly toward Alexander.
He’s no longer sitting like he doesn’t care. He’s upright now, head tilted slightly as he studies the canvas like it’s the first time he’s seen it. And then slowly, deliberately, his eyes find mine across the sea of people.
The air between us crackles, invisible but tangible, pulling tight like a wire.
The corner of his mouth twitches.
Like he knows. Like it’s a secret between us.
“Starting the bid at fifty thousand dollars,” the auctioneer calls.
A paddle shoots up immediately.
“Seventy.”
“Seventy-five.”
“Ninety.”
My pulse kicks hard with each number. Alexander hasn’t moved, hasn’t spoken. He’s still. Waiting.
“One hundred.”
“One-twenty.”
The numbers climb higher, faster. The room is alive with excitement, the air thrumming with wealth and competition. My throat feels dry, but then—
“Two hundred.”
His voice cuts through the noise. Calm. Smooth. Detached. As if he’s ordering a drink, not throwing down six figures like it’s pocket change.
A ripple of whispers spreads across the room. I can’t take my eyes off him.
“Two-fifty,” another voice answers.
I follow the sound. It’s from an older man, sharp in an expensive gray suit, with slicked-back hair and a smile that reeks of arrogance. The kind of man who’s never been told no.
“Three hundred,” Alexander bids again, unfazed.
“Three-fifty,” The man fires back instantly, leaning back in his chair, smug, confident. He thinks he’s already won.
I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until Alexander moves.
Slowly, deliberately, he turns his head and looks at the man. The expression on his face is chillingly indifferent, as if the man isn’t even worth the effort of a glare.
And then—his voice again, low, commanding, impossible to ignore.
“Five hundred thousand.”
The entire room falls silent.
The man’s face falters, his smugness cracking as if someone ripped the mask off. He opens his mouth to argue, but the auctioneer is already slamming the gavel down.
“Sold! To bidder forty-five.”
Half a million. For one painting.
But it doesn’t feel like that’s what just happened. This wasn’t about art. This wasn’t about money.
My knees nearly buckle under me. My heart is a drum in my chest, too loud, too erratic. Something about this isn’t normal. None of this is normal. Who is this man? And why does it feel like every move he makes pulls me deeper into something I can’t escape?
I force my eyes back to him. He isn’t looking at the painting. Not at the auctioneer. Not at anyone else in this room.
He’s looking at me.
The air feels too heavy, the walls too close. I can’t breathe. Shoving my tray into another server’s hands, I bolt.
The hallway is calmer, quieter, but it doesn’t help. My steps echo as I push through the bathroom door and grip the edge of the sink with trembling hands.
Cold water. I need cold water. Something to ground me, to drown out the pounding in my head.But no matter how hard I try, I can’t shake it. Not the painting. Not the gavel striking down. Not the sheer weight of that half-million-dollar bid.
It’s him.
Alexander.