Page 106 of Vow Of Fire

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.