Trouble
Evelyn
The Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum rose into view, its white curved facade glowing beneath strategically placed floodlights while black SUVs and sleek town cars lined the curb outside.
I let out a shaky breath. This was it. The night we kickstarted our plan to get my gallery back. Unfortunately, I had to deceive Mikhail Orlov to do it, but after everything I’d learned, that was a small price to pay.
He’d taken advantage of me, anyway, I reasoned. Using the Agora to launder Sergei’s family money. This was me getting my own back.
A red carpet stretched up the front steps beneath a canopy of glass and steel, where photographers clustered behind velvet barriers hoping to catch politicians, celebrities, socialites, and billionaire collectors arriving for the event.
The rain had stopped, leaving the pavement slick and reflective beneath the city lights.
As our armor-plated SUV rolled to a stop, I swallowed nervously and touched the jewels around my neck.
“You look beautiful,” Dante said, still scowling. He hadn’t lightened up at all during the drive here, and despite giving me the necklace, seemed to be in one of the blackest moods I’d seen him in.
“Thanks,” I said curtly.
Didn’t change the fact he looked annoyingly gorgeous in his tuxedo.
I thought about last night, the way he’d rested his head on my breast and how I’d held him against me, before we’d had sex on the couch. I know he’d been drinking, but he’d seemed softer then, more human. For a moment, I’d been hopeful that—
I shook my head. It was stupid. I was an idiot for even thinking there might be something between us. Dante Marcelli was a closed book. A tortured loner, a man of violence. I would do well to remember that.
Except, when he touched me, when his mouth came down on mine, every good intention vanished like the mist on a New York sidewalk.
Bracing myself, I reached for the car door.
Dante put his hand on my arm. “Wait.”
I turned back, frowning. “What?”
“Izzy told me to give you this.” He reached down and lifted up a bag with an item wrapped in tissue paper inside it.
“What is it?” I asked, confused. He’d already given me one thing, and now another. Even if it was from Izzy.
He handed me the bag and I reached inside and pulled out a black rose corsage.
The oversized bloom was fashioned from velvety black petals, intertwined with delicate gold sprigs and dark foliage that looked almost enchanted beneath the city lights.
Long satin ribbons trailed from the arrangement, brushing against my wrist whenever I moved.
It was dramatic, gothic and decadent. Something I could imagine Izzy wearing.
“It’s gorgeous,” I said, about to pull it on, until he took it from my hand and slid it onto my wrist.
“Suits you,” he said quietly, before turning away and opening the car door.
I let out a breath, my skin still warm where he’d touched me.
Security was tight. Now that I knew what to look for, I spotted private security contractors in tailored black suits standing discreetly near the entrance while museum staff with earpieces and tablets ticked off guests as they went in.
Dante stepped onto the red carpet first. Immediately, I felt the atmosphere shift. Even among New York’s elite, he carried a kind of presence that made people stare or move aside. Danger clung to him as naturally as the black tailored tux stretched across his broad shoulders.
Then his hand closed around mine. It was warm and possessive, and made my pulse skip a beat. I knew it was for appearances, but that didn’t change the tingle I felt up my arm.
Together we climbed the steps toward the entrance.
As I’d expected, Dante didn’t show his ticket stub. The door attendant just nodded and opened the velvet rope so we could pass.
Inside, the vast rotunda had been transformed for the gala. Soft amber lighting spilled across the museum’s iconic spiral walkways while a string quartet played somewhere overhead, the music drifting down through the open space.
Servers in matching uniforms circulated with trays of champagne beneath towering floral arrangements of white orchids and dark crimson roses.
New York high society was out in force tonight.
Art collectors mingled beside tech billionaires and old-money financiers while actresses in couture gowns posed for photographs beside contemporary installations.
I noticed a few famous faces roaming through the crowd, surrounded by investors, curators, socialites, and the kind of obscenely wealthy people who treated seven-figure art purchases like casual shopping trips.
Dante draped my hand over his arm. I could feel the hard muscle tense underneath the fabric of his sleeve. He wasn’t as relaxed as he made out. Together, we surveyed the exhibition floor beyond the cocktail reception area.
The featured works had been arranged gallery-style around the lower rotunda, each piece dramatically lit against charcoal partition walls. Monumental abstract canvases hung beside sleek contemporary sculptures and mixed-media installations designed to provoke more conversation than understanding.
But everyone’s attention kept gravitating toward the centerpiece.
At the far end of the exhibition space, mounted alone beneath focused white light, hung Elias Varela’s Nocturne in Red.
The enormous oil painting dominated the room.
Violent crimson brushstrokes collided with deep blacks and fractured gold-leaf textures, creating something both beautiful and unsettling.
From a distance it looked abstract, but the closer we moved, the more shapes seemed to emerge from the chaos. Smoke. Fire. Bodies. Ruin.
I found it deeply disturbing.
A small crowd, including some familiar art critics and collectors, had already gathered around it, champagne glasses in hand. I knew they’d be debating the significance of the piece in low, reverent voices.
“The estimated sale price is already over twelve million dollars,” I murmured.
Dante let go of my arm and placed his hand against the small of my back.
“Let’s make it a little more expensive,” he murmured darkly. I shivered, both from his words and from the gentle caress of his thumb on my skin.
We were still studying the Varela when movement near the entrance caught my eye.
“Mikhail Orlov has arrived,” I whispered, nodding in the newcomer’s direction.
Dante turned to look across the growing crowd, then gave a stiff nod. Mikhail Orlov was more than Malakov’s money man. I now knew he was his fixer, a strategist, and someone Malakov trusted.
Like Dante, the Russian commanded attention.
Tall and silver-haired, he moved with the quiet assurance of a man confident in his role.
His dark tailored suit fit him perfectly, and there was something elegant yet lethal about him that made me shiver.
I couldn’t believe I hadn’t seen it before. I’d been so naive, so blind.
It was Dante who’d opened my eyes. I guess, despite everything, I owed him that much.
Beside him walked a younger man I didn’t recognize.
“Who’s that?” Dante studied the man.
“If I had to guess, I’d say he’s related to Malakov,” I replied. They had the same pale eyes, the same sharp cheekbones, and the same predator-like stillness beneath their expensive tailoring. But where Malakov radiated cold authority, this man carried the restless energy of youth.
I put him in his mid to late twenties, with intelligent eyes and an obvious fascination with everything around him. His gaze lingered on the artwork with genuine curiosity.
“Mikhail,” I said warmly, stepping forward as they approached.
His expression softened, and he bent to kiss my cheek before stepping back to assess me. I saw his eyes flicker to the necklace.
“Evelyn. You look beautiful tonight.”
“Thank you. Have you met my date, Dante Marcelli?”
Dante stepped forward and Orlov’s expression turned cold.
“Marcelli.” His voice was straight off the polar icecaps.
“Orlov.” Dante’s was equally flat.
The air between them crackled with tension. The younger Russian glanced between the two men with open interest.
Mikhail recovered himself and placed a hand lightly against the youngster’s shoulder. “Allow me to introduce Alexei Malakov. Sergei’s nephew.”
That explained the likeness.
Alexei offered his hand to Dante first. For a moment, I wasn’t sure whether he was going to accept it. A beat passed, but then Dante gripped the youth’s hand and gave it a short, firm shake. “Dante Marcelli.”
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Alexei said, and I could have sworn there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. I decided I quite liked this young man and his youthful cockiness. What would Dante do with that?
“I’m afraid I know nothing about you,” he replied smoothly.
Before the young man could respond, Dante nodded at Orlov. “Excuse me.”
He met my gaze for the briefest second before moving on to talk to a blond woman in a sapphire gown.
“Are you staying in New York long?” I turned back to Alexei.
Mikhail was still glowering at Dante’s back.
“I live here now.” He broke into a pleased grin. His English carried only the faintest trace of an accent. “But I’ve heard of you and the Agora, Evelyn. Uncle Sergei speaks highly of your gallery. As does Mikhail.”
Before this last weekend, I would have been flattered by the compliment, but now I knew better. Still, I smiled politely. “That’s good to hear. Maybe you’ll visit sometime.”
“I plan to.”
“I’m introducing him to the New York art world.” Mikhail gestured toward the art on display. “Alexei studied art history at the Royal Academy in London.”
“You did?” I blinked, surprised. The Royal Academy was one of the most prestigious art institutions in the world, its art history program notoriously selective and favored by wealthy international collectors and curators alike.
Suddenly Alexei looked less like a privileged rich kid and more like someone being carefully groomed for a very specific future.
Alexei gave a quick nod. “Yes, and while I appreciate the classics, I prefer contemporary American artists. They’re less restrained. More honest.” His pale gaze drifted toward the Varela across the room. “Case in point.”
It was an interesting answer.
Unlike his uncle, Alexei’s expressions came easily, but there was confidence beneath the charm too. The kind that came from growing up protected by enormous power and knowing exactly who his family was.
Mikhail’s attention had shifted toward Nocturne in Red. I knew he was hoping to acquire it for Malakov.
“It’s extraordinary, isn’t it?” I murmured, following his line of sight.
“That it is,” he replied. “Sergei wants it badly, but you already knew that.”
I smiled, reaching for a champagne flute from a passing tray. “I did. And I hope he gets it. There’s been a lot of interest in these contemporary pieces lately. I heard Ricardo Sánchez was lining up a bid as well.”
At the mention of the Colombian intermediary’s name, Mikhail frowned. “I wasn’t aware we’d have competition from that far afield.”
I shrugged with practiced nonchalance. “Word spreads. They’ve expressed interest in several high-value pieces through my gallery over the last few weeks.”
The frown deepened.
I sipped my champagne. “I’m not sure what sparked the sudden interest, but I can’t complain. It’s good for business.”
Alexei chuckled. “Not if you’re a competing buyer.”
I let my gaze drift meaningfully back toward the Varela. “Indeed. Your uncle may end up paying considerably more for the piece than he wants.”
Mikhail looked toward the painting again, thoughtful now.
I had him worried. Or if not worried, then contemplative. Exactly as I’d intended.
Alexei seemed less concerned. “If Uncle Sergei wants something, he usually gets it.”
Mikhail didn’t respond.
“I wish you luck, then.” I nodded to them both. “Excuse me. I should circulate before the auction starts.”
Neither man tried to stop me. But as I walked away through the glittering crowd, I could feel Mikhail’s stare boring into my back.