Chapter Two - Dimitri
The gallery smells faintly of polish and expensive perfume when I step through the doors. It’s quiet in a way that isn’t silence at all, but a hum of work being done—heels tapping, voices low, fabric rustling as staff rush to prepare.
The moment I enter, the rhythm falters. I’ve seen it before, the way a room bends without anyone asking it to, how space clears as though I’ve dragged a shadow in with me.
My gaze cuts across the pale walls, past the glowing canvases and glass display cases.
The art is fine, beautiful even, but meaningless to me.
Paintings don’t matter when exits sit unguarded, when a guard forgets to keep his back to the wall, when a security camera has a blind spot in the corner of the hall.
That’s what I’m here to see. The rest is decoration.
She appears before I hear her.
“You must be the mysterious benefactor we weren’t expecting.”
Her voice is sharp enough to draw my attention away from the angles of the room. Small, young, clipboard clutched against her chest like a shield. Hair loose and untidy, eyes bright with something more dangerous than nerves. Defiance.
I turn toward her fully, let my eyes take her in. Up close she’s wiry, quick, all restless energy wrapped in pale skin and stubbornness. Not polished like the others, not smiling for approval. Interesting.
She thrusts out her hand. “Annie Vale. Assistant coordinator.”
I take it briefly, enough for formality. “Dimitri Sharov.”
“Mr. Sharov,” she says, pulling back. “Normally donors let us know when they plan to arrive. Helps us keep the chaos to a minimum.”
“This is a public place, guests rarely need permission.” My tone is even, but the flicker in her eyes tells me she heard more than words.
Her mouth twists. “Some of us like order. It keeps things from falling apart.”
Order. A fragile illusion, but she says it like a rule she lives by. I let my gaze linger on her, let her feel the weight of it. “Order is fragile.”
Annie stiffens, but doesn’t drop her eyes. That alone puts her apart from most.
Silence stretches. I should turn away, finish what I came for, but she fascinates me more than the blind spots I’ve already marked. She’s young, untested, yet her irritation with me is immediate, unsoftened. Most people with sense smooth their words when speaking to me. She doesn’t.
At last she exhales, voice clipped. “Fine. I’ll walk you through the gallery.”
I follow.
Her heels ring lightly on the marble as she leads me past paintings, explaining with careful professionalism.
Her words are efficient, but I’m not listening to the art history.
My attention slides past frames and colors, noting cameras in corners, how staff circulate, how the storm outside makes the windows gleam like warning lights.
“This room will host the preliminary exhibits before the auction begins. Guests will circulate here for cocktails. Lighting has been adjusted for optimal—”
“Two entrances,” I murmur.
She halts, looks back at me, brows lifted. “Yes. Entrances. Convenient for flow… you’re casing the place like a security consultant.”
The bite in her tone almost makes me smile. Almost. I let the faintest curl tug at the corner of my mouth, then let it fall. No need to show her how much her sparks amuse me.
She pulls ahead, shoulders stiff, voice resuming with clipped precision. She describes the next room, the featured pieces, the chandeliers overhead. I hear her, but my focus remains elsewhere. Guards at the far wall. Lock systems. Which doors are left propped open longer than they should be.
She doesn’t notice that she’s guiding me through all the information I came for, though not in the way she intended.
We reach the central gallery, ceilings high enough to swallow the noise of our footsteps. She speaks about security layers, about how difficult tampering would be. My gaze rests on the case, then the lock, then the guard again.
“Layered,” I repeat.
“Yes,” she says sharply. “Which means very difficult to tamper with. Which means you don’t need to worry.”
Her irritation is palpable. She hides it behind professionalism, but I see it in the line of her mouth, the way her hand clenches on the clipboard. She doesn’t like me intruding on her order. She doesn’t like that I’ve unsettled her rhythm.
It makes me want to push further.
We circle back toward the main hall. She keeps her eyes forward, her pace brisk.
I slow slightly, letting myself watch her instead of the staff.
She’s quick, decisive, anticipating problems before they bloom.
Efficient, but that defiance, the way she refuses to temper her words, borders on reckless.
Reckless has no place in my world. Reckless gets people killed.
Still, I watch her more than necessary.
“Will you be attending the auction tonight?” she asks, her voice sharper than before.
I let the silence stretch before answering. Her eyes meet mine, unflinching, though her breath catches almost imperceptibly. “Perhaps.”
Her smile is professional, but thin. “Then I’ll see you tonight at the auction.”
She leads me back to the entrance, gestures toward the doors with that same brittle smile. “Thank you for coming by, Mr. Sharov. Enjoy the rest of your day.”
I hold her gaze one last moment. There’s something in it I can’t name, something restless and bright that calls to the part of me I’ve kept buried for years. Then I turn and step out into the gray light.
I don’t look back. I never do.
Except even as the door closes behind me, I know I will not forget the curator with fire in her eyes.
The drizzle thickens into a curtain as I step outside.
Damp air clings to my suit, cool against my skin, but I don’t rush.
My stride is steady, measured, every movement deliberate.
The valet offers me a hesitant smile, but I wave him off.
I don’t need anyone handling my car. I came alone, and I will leave the same way.
The black sedan waits at the curb, sleek and inconspicuous, tinted windows beading with rain.
I unlock it with a quiet click and slide into the driver’s seat, the door closing with a muffled thud that seals me away from the noise of the city.
The engine hums to life beneath my hands.
For a moment, I stay still, staring through the windshield as droplets chase each other down the glass.
Her face rises unbidden in my mind.
Annie Vale.
Small but sharp, like a knife with no sheath.
The way she stood in front of me, spine stiff, voice clipped, daring me to take offense at her words.
Most people avoid meeting my eyes for more than a second.
She didn’t. She challenged me, and the spark in her gaze lingered even after she forced herself back into professionalism.
She’s young. Too young. I should dismiss her entirely. But there was nothing soft in her demeanor. The stubborn tilt of her chin, the sarcasm slipping past her lips—those were the marks of someone who hasn’t yet learned the cost of defiance. Reckless. Still…
My jaw tightens as I grip the steering wheel, leather creaking beneath my palm. I find her attractive. More than attractive. The heat that stirred in my chest when she threw my words back at me was unexpected, unwelcome, but undeniable.
Beauty has never been enough to catch my interest. Beauty fades, wilts, bends. She burned with irritation, every word alive with a fire she didn’t bother to hide.
I shift into gear, the car rolling smoothly away from the gallery, tires hissing against wet pavement.
My eyes flick to the rearview mirror, out of habit, but no one follows.
I didn’t bring backup for this visit. No men trailing in separate vehicles.
No second car parked around the corner. Sometimes anonymity is the best shield. No one notices a man alone.
The city blurs past, neon signs streaking against the rain-smeared glass.
My mind should be on the meeting scheduled later, on the accounts I need to review, on the rival names whispered in dark corners.
Instead, it returns to the auction hall and the woman with a clipboard pressed tight against her chest.
A spark of irritation cuts through my thoughts. Attraction is distraction, and distraction gets people killed. I know this better than most. Yet the memory of her voice curls around me, unshakable.
My phone vibrates against the console, screen lighting up with a familiar number. I answer without hesitation, tucking the device against my ear as I take the next turn.
“Well?” Milan’s voice, smooth and clipped. My cousin, my second in command. He doesn’t waste words, doesn’t bother with greetings. “How did it go?”
I keep my own voice even. “As expected.”
“Did you see what you needed?”
“Yes.” My gaze flicks to the side streets, then back to the road. “The layout is predictable. Security is tight enough for appearances, weak enough in practice. Nothing surprising.”
There’s a pause on the other end, the faint scratch of his lighter as he inhales. “The staff?”
My grip on the wheel tightens. Annie’s face flickers again in my mind—the stubborn set of her mouth, the way she tilted her chin when I told her order was fragile. My tone sharpens unconsciously. “Competent.”
“Competent?” Milan repeats, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Or something else?”
I don’t indulge him. “I’ll decide at the auction.”
Silence hums between us, broken only by the low growl of the engine. Then his laugh, low and dry. “Always so cautious.”
“Caution keeps us alive,” I reply, voice clipped.
“True. Still, you sound… interested.”
My teeth grind, but I don’t rise to the bait. “I’ll call after tonight.”
I end the call without waiting for a response, sliding the phone back onto the console. The screen goes dark, the rain continues to beat against the car, and the city stretches ahead in endless gray.
I should put her out of my mind. I should file her away with the dozens of faces I pass every week, irrelevant beyond the roles they play. She is an assistant, a gallery employee, nothing more. She doesn’t belong in my world.
Yet, I know I’ll be looking for her tonight.
I press harder on the accelerator, the car surging forward into the storm, and try to convince myself that it’s strategy, not curiosity, pulling me back.
The storm thickens as I drive, rain smearing the glow of traffic lights into streaks of red and green.
My thoughts should be sharper, anchored to numbers, shipments, and the men waiting for my orders.
Instead they drift, circling back to her.
Annie Vale. The name fits her—short, sharp, easy to remember. Too easy.
I see her again as she stood in the gallery, chin lifted, voice steady despite the weight pressing down on her. Most people crumble under less. She didn’t. That spark could be a liability, or it could be something else entirely.
I tell myself it doesn’t matter. She doesn’t matter.
The auction is what matters—its security, its use as a meeting ground, the alliances and enemies that will show their hands tonight.
Still, a part of me is already anticipating her presence there, imagining how she’ll look under softer lights, without the clipboard clenched to her chest like armor.
The wheel vibrates under my hands as the tires cut through water pooling on the road. I push the thought aside, locking it down where it belongs. I’ll see her again tonight. Then I’ll decide what to do about Annie Vale.