Captive Ruin (Dark Acquisitions #2)

One

Amelia

The bouncer barely glances at the invitation I hand him before waving me through the door.

It’s an art auction, of course; Serranto’s usual hunting ground. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s here looking for more na?ve, rich women to prey on. I’d love to stop him for good, but I’ll have to settle with keeping him away from my sister.

It’s my fault they were introduced. But I’m going to set that right and un-introduce them, right now.

The room is large, well-lit, with clean lines and a white marble floor.

It’s not a gallery but it’s been converted for the occasion, with various pieces on the walls and some sculptures on plinths throughout.

There are maybe a hundred people here. The guests are predominantly men, all in tuxedos, and the few women present wear cocktail dresses that ooze elegance and money.

Mine oozes Macy’s.

I self-consciously smooth it down, checking the straps cover my bra.

At short notice, it was the only suitable option I had for an event like this.

A navy midi that is great for my usual evenings out, but here it clearly marks me as an outsider among the rich and shameless. It doesn’t even match my clutch.

But I don’t care. I’m not here for appearances or the art on offer. I’m here for Lucy, to blackmail Serranto into leaving her the hell alone.

The auction isn’t due to start for another two hours. This is the pre-session, soft music playing from hidden speakers; canapes and glasses of champagne; networking and schmoozing. I accept a glass from a passing server in a uniform, sipping without tasting it.

I stop at a piece here and there that catches my eye, but I don’t care much for what’s on display.

I have better in my gallery. The work on these walls is predominantly decorative, society portraiture, chosen because it matches a sofa, and these people will bid ridiculous sums for all the wrong reasons. It’s a quietly painful place to be.

I’m feigning interest as I navigate from exhibit to exhibit around the room, looking for my quarry.

And then I see him. My anger unfurls, cold and eager.

Steven Serranto is in his mid-thirties, handsome enough I suppose, if going to seed. He smiles too easily, and it never seems to reach his eyes. He’s condescending to the extreme, gaslights like it’s a weapon, and his ego is swollen like a bullfrog in mating season.

I know him now, but the worst of it is that I didn’t realize what he was until it was too late. To my shame, at first I was taken in by him. I liked him, with his easy charisma and cultured tones. I was the one that introduced him to Lucy.

I brought him into her life, and I’ll get him out of it. She wouldn’t have been vulnerable to him if I hadn’t given it my blessing.

I’m such a goddamn fool.

He’s thirty feet away, standing near a sculpture that offers more depth and conceptual tension than most of the pieces in here, and he’s not even looking at it. Instead, he’s conversing with another man.

The contrast between them is striking.

If Serranto is a leech, drawn to Lucy and her inheritance, the man he’s standing with is a predator in an entirely different class.

He doesn’t lounge, he looms, and six feet of lean physique has never looked like so much.

His tuxedo is perfectly tailored, his jacket open to reveal a white dress shirt that clings to a flat stomach and hard chest. He appears to be in his late thirties, just enough silver in his dark hair to hint he’d be experienced.

No ring on his finger, but that doesn’t mean he’s not married.

Yet most men with a wife go soft at the edges.

He’s stayed sharp. With the money in this room, that might merely suggest narcissism.

I don’t realize I’ve stopped to stare until Serranto calls my name.

“Amelia. I didn’t know you were on the guest list.”

His voice is loud enough to travel, and several pairs of eyes swing first to him, and then to the direction of his gaze: me.

If he wants to make this public, let him.

I close the gap between us, head up, back straight. Staring down this worm of a man. “I wasn’t,” I say as I approach. “I took Lucy’s invitation. She’s not coming, Serranto.”

Because I told her what I know, and now she hates you as much as I do.

“Oh, that’s disappointing.” Serranto’s tone doesn’t match his words. Instead, he eyes me like I’m a suitable replacement, the sister he hasn’t yet fucked, as if that was ever in the cards.

It makes my skin crawl.

The man next to us regards me with steady steel-grey eyes, like he’s assessing me in an instant and finding me wanting.

His gaze takes in my ill-suited dress, pauses on my throat for a reason I can’t possibly explain but still sends a shiver through me, then settles on my face.

His top lip twitches as though he wants to curl it in a sneer, like my existence is beneath him.

He’s undeniably handsome, but I go for more than just looks. Personality, for example, and not one that finds the whole world wanting or considers Serranto to be a worthy conversation partner.

Still, I can’t help but appreciate fine art in all its forms, and that body suggests it’s been sculpted by a master.

Serranto sees the direction of my gaze, and gestures with one hand, his signet ring catching the light. “This is Lukas Van Wyk, Amelia. He’s… uh… associated with Northbridge Capital, our hosts tonight.”

Presumably there’s some hidden meaning to his emphasis on that word, but I’m not planning to stay long enough to find out. As soon as I’ve delivered my message, I’ll be gone.

But before I can open my mouth, Van Wyk speaks. “If you weren’t on the guest list, why are you here?”

His voice carries an edge, but despite that, it’s deep and surprisingly melodious. It could be distracting, but I’m not in the mood to be questioned.

I hold his gaze. “That’s between Serranto and me.

” There’s a flicker in his expression, a hunger in his eyes that is quite disconcerting.

But I look away from him, at Steven. He’s my focus.

“Let’s find a quiet corner.” I only make that suggestion with Lucy’s interests in mind, not caring to spare his blushes.

“Oh?” He cocks a smug eyebrow, like he thinks I’m about to proposition him.

I’d rather sleep with the sculpture we’re standing next to, despite the numerous sharp edges and spikes the artist has used.

Serranto smiles, but it still doesn’t reach his eyes. “Lukas is a friend, he won’t mind whatever you’d like to confess to me.”

I can’t help it; I laugh at that ridiculous phrase. As if I’d come to him for any such reason.

Van Wyk watches the whole exchange with growing interest.

“An ironic choice of words, Serranto,” I reply. “It’s you with confessions to make.”

He glances at Van Wyk, as if to say how amusing this woman is, and his smile takes on a condescending edge. “How so?”

“I did some digging on you,” I say. “It’s amazing what a private investigator can uncover.” I only wish I’d done it sooner.

“Sounds like you’re in trouble now,” Van Wyk says to Serranto, tone bored, like this is all a joke.

Serranto tries to laugh it off in response, but it’s strained. “What would Lucy say if she knew you’d been intruding?”

“She does know,” I reply coolly. “She also knows about your ex-wife in Tennessee, and the size of your alimony payments.”

His gaze hardens. “None of that is your business. It’s between your sister and me.”

“And your debts with three different Las Vegas casinos?” I continue. “I can’t imagine why a woman like my sister would be of interest to you. Would it, by chance, be the two million we each inherited?”

Serranto glances at Van Wyk again, this time with irritation in his expression. “One more time,” he says to me, his tone harsh, “what I do with Lucy is none of your concern.”

“My sister’s business is my concern, Serranto, and I’ll destroy anyone who tries to fuck with us. Stay away from her, and stay away from me.”

“Some might be drawn to you for that,” Van Wyk mutters.

I do a double take. Van Wyk is staring at me intently, but I dismiss him and focus back on Serranto, the real threat.

“Or what?” Serranto laughs. “What do you think you can do?” He takes a step closer, intruding into my space. “Look around you,” he mocks. “All these people are here through my connections. What would happen to your fledgling art gallery with the wrong word in the right ear?”

How dare he?

If he was expecting that to be intimidating, he’s going to be disappointed.

My anger flares, no longer cold and controlled but surging hot and impulsive.

“Is that the game you want to play?” Unlike him, I don’t try to keep my voice down.

“Then what would your connections—like Mr. Van Wyk here—think of your past dealings with Natasha Rose?”

Serranto jerks like I’ve slapped him.

“A gallery owner in Connecticut,” I say with a glance to Van Wyk, who’s not even looking at Serranto but is focused on me, his intense stare disconcerting. I plow on anyway. “You thought you’d handled that, didn’t you? But I found her. I have a statement from her, too.”

“You can’t prove anything,” Serranto hisses, his face reddening.

I reach up and tweak a pinch of hairs from his head, and he’s not fast enough to pull back in time.

I use the moment to unzip my clutch, juggling my champagne glass as I retrieve the tissue I prepared, carefully wrapping up what I’ve taken.

“DNA is proof enough.” I tuck the tissue safely away.

“Natasha will be very interested in the results of the paternity test. Lucy too, no doubt.”

Van Wyk folds his arms, the action tightening his tuxedo across his biceps. It’s irritating that even in this moment, part of my mind is so very aware of every movement that body makes.

“You bitch.” Serranto’s face has turned purple, ugly with rage, and his hands clench into fists.

I zip up my clutch. “Like I said, stay away from—”