Chapter 9 #2
Petra glances at Tony, then back to me. “About six months ago, right before I left Christie’s, there was an internal investigation into irregularities in the provenance documentation for several high-value pieces. Paintings, mostly. Very quiet and very contained.”
“What kinds of irregularities?”
“Someone was using Christie’s to move art with questionable ownership. Money laundering through legitimate sales.” She sips her tea. “Your family’s name came up several times in the files I saw.”
“My family collects art. That’s not suspicious.”
“No, but the timing was interesting. Several purchases happened right before a major operation was exposed and shut down. You remember that debacle with Adrian?” Petra sets down her cup. “Someone with authority was very interested in the Kozlov family’s art acquisitions during that period.”
Adrian Belmont. The name makes my stomach drop.
I’m the one who exposed his operation after I discovered the irregularities in his transactions.
I filed the complaint with Christie’s and provided the documentation.
Now, Petra’s saying someone started investigating my family right after that.
The timeline clicks into place with sickening clarity.
“Who was asking about my family?” I press.
“I don’t know. The investigation was handled above my level, but someone was building documentation about those transactions. Sasha, I left because I didn’t want to be involved in whatever was happening. If someone’s investigating your family now, it probably started back then.”
I force myself to nod and thank her for the information. We chat for a few more minutes about mutual colleagues and her new position at a private gallery, but my mind is elsewhere. When Petra glances at her watch and mentions another appointment, I’m almost relieved.
She hugs me goodbye outside the café. “Be careful, Sasha. Whatever’s happening, I have a feeling it’s going to get messy.”
“I know. Thank you for this.”
Tony and I walk back to the hotel in silence.
My mind races through what Petra just told me.
Adrian lost everything when I exposed his operation.
Now, someone’s investigating my family’s connection to him, and people are trying to kill me.
The connection seems obvious, but I can’t figure out why Adrian would wait six months to retaliate.
I glance at Tony. He’s been quiet since we left the café.
Something about Petra’s information bothered him, but I can’t tell what.
His jaw is set, and he keeps glancing down the street like he expects an attack.
When I mentioned Adrian’s name, something moved across his face.
Recognition? Guilt? I couldn’t read it fast enough.
“You’re quiet,” I comment as we ride the elevator up to our room. “What’s bothering you?”
Tony doesn’t look at me as he replies. “Nothing. Just trying to figure out the same things you are. Who’s behind this.”
Another lie. Or at least not the whole truth. I’m collecting them like evidence.
Back in the room, I pace while Tony sits on the bed watching me work through the problem.
“I exposed Adrian’s operation at Christie’s,” I say aloud. “He lost everything because of what I reported. Six months later, someone’s investigating my family’s connection to him and trying to kill me.”
“You think it’s Adrian?”
“Who else would it be? He has motive. He knows about my family’s purchases through his operation.” I stop pacing and look at Tony. “But why wait six months? Why not come after me immediately when he lost his position?”
“Maybe he needed time to plan. To gather resources. You said he lost everything.” Tony stands and walks to where I’ve stopped. His hand comes to rest on my lower back, a touch that’s becoming familiar. “Or maybe he needed to figure out how to hurt you without it being traced back to him.”
“By making it look like someone’s investigating the Kozlovs for money laundering.” The pieces slot together. “He documents my family’s purchases, makes it look like we were knowingly involved in his operation, then eliminates me before I can prove otherwise.”
“It’s a theory.”
I sit on the edge of the bed, suddenly exhausted. Tony sits beside me, close enough that our thighs touch. “This is never going to end, is it? There will always be another threat. Another person who wants me dead because of something I saw or something I know or just because of my last name.”
“That’s the world we live in.” He reaches over and tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear, and his fingers linger against my cheek.
“Have you ever killed anyone?” The question comes out before I can stop it.
He doesn’t flinch. “Yes.”
“In Chechnya?”
“In Chechnya and other places.” He looks straight ahead, not at me. “The mission I told you about—the one that went wrong. People died. Some of them because I pulled the trigger.”
“Do you regret it?”
“Every day, but I don’t know if I’d do differently if I had the choice again. That’s the thing about this life. Sometimes, there are no good options. Just different versions of bad, and you pick the one you can live with.”
“How do you live with it?”
“Some days better than others. Some days not at all.” He takes my hand and slides his thumb over my palm, sending goose pimples across my skin. “But I’m trying to be better than I was. Trying to make choices that matter instead of just surviving.”
I squeeze his hand and lean into him, resting my head on his shoulder. “Is that why you’re helping me? To be better?”
“Maybe. Or maybe I’m just selfish enough to want to keep you alive.” He wraps his arm around my waist, pulling me closer against him.
We sit holding hands while London goes on outside our window. The conversation feels too intimate for what we are—whatever that is—but I don’t pull away.
Tomorrow, it’s back to dealing with the danger of being a Kozlov. But tonight, we can pretend we’re normal people on a normal trip to London.
So, we order more room service and watch more terrible television, and for a few hours, I let myself believe the lie.