Chapter 8
S amara
I took the train to the Bridgeport neighborhood and made it to the gallery with only a few minutes to spare.
“Hello boys!” I greeted Sal and Jimmy as I walked through the door.
Sal gave my ass in my black dress pants a once-over, which made me uncomfortable. “Hey ya, Gwen.”
“Let’s get this art on the walls. The client will be here soon,” I said pointedly, avoiding his blatant stare.
I directed where I wanted each of the paintings to go, then hustled over to my desk to check emails before Mr. Davidson arrived.
Most of these executives were posers. They didn’t understand what good art was any more than they knew about fine wine.
It was all just a shell game. They thought art made them look big and important to their clients and associates, so they were buying culture and class.
It was one big con. I was just being a little more honest about it.
That’s why they hired someone like Gwen Stevens.
She told them what to buy, and they acted like they knew what she was talking about and opened their wallets.
They got to look good to their Forbes list cronies, an artist got a painting sold, and I walked away with a nice commission. Everyone was happy.
I got a nice one on the hook for today.
Julius Davidson. CEO of Brecht Industries. According to their website, they were looking to merge with some large Japanese company and soon, which was probably why he wanted to acquire some art for his building’s lobby and his office. He needed to make the impression of wealth and sophistication.
Which was why he needed Gwen Stevens, Art Consultant.
After looking around the gallery to see that all the paintings were in place, I straightened my cardigan before smoothing the back of my wig down. Finally, I checked my lipstick in the reflection of the glass door.
I’m Gwen Stevens.
I was ready.
A black Escalade rolled up precisely on time.
“He’s here,” I throw out over my shoulder. I don’t have to turn to know that Sal and Jimmy have made themselves scarce through the back door. They won’t return till they get the all clear text from me.
Composed, I watched as the back door of the Escalade opened.
I couldn’t see Mr. Davidson’s face. He was turned away and talking to someone still inside the vehicle.
Then he turned to face the gallery entrance.
And my heart stopped.
It’s him.
He found me.
Impossible.
No.
Maybe my eyes were playing tricks on me.
It wouldn’t be the first time I had seen Gregor’s face in a crowd. Every man over six feet tall with black hair in a suit gave my heart a lurch till I got a closer look.
This man’s black hair was brushed casually back from his face, displaying painfully sharp cheekbones, but he was still mostly in shadow inside the car.
As he stepped from the vehicle, he smoothly buttoned his suit jacket over what was no doubt a muscular, flat abdomen.
Being friends with someone like Yelena meant learning to recognize the tailored lines of a bespoke suit.
The silver pinstripe suit fit him to perfection.
As he adjusted his cuffs, I was certain I glimpsed cut black stone cufflinks. Black diamond? Perhaps black sapphire.
Everything about this man said money… and power.
Gregor.
A flutter of unease rippled through me.
It was him.
Gregor Ivanov.
I stood frozen to the spot. Unable to move.
His hand was already on the handle of the glass gallery door.
It was too late to run.
Would my wig and the passing years be enough of a disguise?
I no longer looked like the na?ve teenager I once was.
Three years on the run will do that to you.
My face was more angular. My cheekbones higher and sharper. The slightly plump curves of a suburban teenager with no cares had been replaced by the lean muscle of a woman who constantly looked over her shoulder and saw monsters in every shadow.
The last time he had seen me was in a dark bedroom, and the time before that I had been little more than a girl. Besides, I was probably only one woman among thousands to a man like Gregor. He probably couldn’t even remember my eye color.
I’ve got this.
I’m Gwen Stevens.
Taking a step back, I waited for him to open the door.
The moment he did, I knew I was fooling myself.
I don’t have this.
It was Gregor.
He had found me… and I was fucked.
“Good afternoon, Miss Stevens, I assume? I’m Julius Davidson.”
I was momentarily taken aback by his casual tone.
It took a second to register what he had just said. Julius. He had introduced himself as Julius.
So, we were both going to do this subterfuge?
That’s right.
I forgot how much Gregor liked his twisted games.
This was just another version of Russian roulette.
His voice was low and dark, every word uttered with a precise clip on the end, as if he were using his sharp white teeth to bite off the edges.
Fine.
Let’s play, Gregor.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Davidson . I’ve been expecting you,” I said, perhaps a bit too breathlessly, as I extended my hand.
His own warm hand engulfed mine in a strong yet gentle grip.
I remembered the feel of his hands. Large and slightly scarred.
Callused, but not rough. Heavily tattooed.
The most visible image was a swallow on the back of his right hand.
I remembered googling it once. A swallow tattoo symbolized fidelity and loyalty.
It fit. Gregor wasn’t just the loyal leader of the Ivanov family; he was the family and embodied all the power and savagery that name symbolized.
“Julius,” he corrected, piercing me with his platinum gray eyes.
Platinum Gray eyes.
Chromatic Black hair.
Butter Pecan lightly tanned skin.
“Julius,” I whispered back as I lowered my eyes, slightly shaken from his gaze.
He slips the single bullet into the chamber and spins it.
Breathe.
You got this.
“I’m looking forward to seeing what you have arranged for me this afternoon… Gwen.”
First pull of the trigger.
Misfire.
The chamber spins.
He knows , my mind screamed.
I wasn’t fooling him for a second.
The way he said my name, with the subtle pause and emphasis.
My sense of self-preservation screamed at me to run, although I knew it was too late. I wouldn’t get two steps across the gallery before he grabbed me.
I needed to play this charade out.
See what he had planned for me. For us.
Interlocking my fingers to hide my nervousness, I walked ahead of him, keeping my head low and cocked at an angle.
I’m being silly.
Everything is fine.
I’m Gwen Stevens.
“You mentioned this acquisition was for your corporate headquarters. I thought something sleek yet engaging, forceful yet approachable would be best.”
Stopping before the first painting, I refused to turn around, keeping my face averted and my focus on the wall ahead. Every nerve ending felt his presence behind me. He was so close; I could feel the brush of his warm breath on my exposed neck. Why did I have to choose the bob wig for today?
Dammit.
I inhaled a warm woodsy scent with a hint of spicy ginger.
Bleu de Chanel
His cologne.
Gesturing towards the painting, I continued. “This is a widely in demand artist among the exclusive circles. You could acquire his work for a fraction of what it will be worth after his show in New York next month.”
“I see,” Gregor murmured from his powerful stance behind me.
The hum from his words sent a shock to my system. I didn’t just hear them; I could feel them.
“You’ll notice the use of form and color, the unnatural brush strokes. Ingenious. As you can see, I have arranged to have several pieces of his here today as an exclusive showing.”
“He appears to be a rare talent,” Gregor said obligingly.
Why did it sound like he wasn’t referring to the painting?
He cocks the hammer back.
I took a deliberate step to the side, then a few additional steps away from his unnerving presence.
He smoothly followed. The light scrape of his shoe on the hardwood floor was the only sound in the quiet gallery space.
This time, I stood perpendicular to the wall. I was now firmly on the defense.
“Here is another sample of his work. Notice the use of geometric shapes.”
“A unique talent.” Gregor stood before me, not looking at the painting.
There was the faint rustle of his suit as he lifted his arm. Before I could step back, one strong finger hooked under my chin and lifted my face.
Was now the moment?
Was he going to rip the wig off my head and drag me out of the gallery?
Taking a step closer, he stared at my red lips before asking, “Can I see the rest of the paintings?”
Pulls the trigger.
Another misfire.
My mouth dropped open in surprise.
That was not what I was expecting him to say.
I watched as what I thought was a spark of something intense flitted across his dark eyes before they were quickly shuttered.
He was playing with me.
He was enjoying this.
He spins the chamber again.
How many misfires had there been?
What was the law of probability that I would survive this little game of his?
“Yes… yes, of course,” I stuttered as I lifted my jaw and turned my head away. “Here is another artist they will be showing in California next Summer. This is one of her early prints. Notice the use of a stark white background to enforce her message of spirituality through shape and form.”
“What about that one?” he asked. Placing a hand at my lower back, he guided me to the end of the gallery. As we stood before the painting, he did not remove his hand.
Shifting my foot, I meant to slide out of his grasp before responding.
The slightest, subtle press of his hand warned me not to move.
I obeyed.
“This is a Simes. A notoriously anti-social painter who only deals with a very select number of consultants and refuses to show his work in any public forum.”
“Well, aren’t you the lucky girl?”
“What?”
“You’ve been chosen.”
He pulls back the hammer.
Chosen.
To marry him?
He pulls the trigger.
Heedless of the silent command of his hand on my back, I broke contact and stepped back.
He followed.
I took another step back, hitting the wall. My breath came in gasps.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I whisper, desperately trying to read his set features.
He leaned down, his lips so close I could smell the hint of mint on his breath. “Simes. You mentioned he is very selective in who he chooses to work with.”
The gun goes off.
Misfire.
Another spin of the chamber.
“I think I see what I want… I’ll be back later to claim it,” he said, almost against my mouth.
He then straightened and turned on his heel. His confident stride took him back to the entrance to the gallery. There was a slight rush of cool air from the open door. It brushed over my heated cheeks.
Without moving, I watched the pavement outside as his driver opened the door for him.
He entered, and within moments, the sleek Escalade pulled away.
Only then did I release the breath I was holding.
I had survived… but for how long?
And why?
The chamber spun again.
The hammer cocked back…
Bang.