Page 108 of Vow Of Fire

Once the auctioneer opened bidding on Nocturne in Red, an anonymous telephone bidder registered under the name Ricardo Sánchez began aggressively driving up the price.

Every time Orlov countered from the floor, Vincent instructed the telephone clerk to go higher. Calmly and relentlessly, he drove up the price. Twelve million became thirteen. Thirteen became fourteen.

The atmosphere inside the museum tightened with every new increment called across the room. Even the chattering socialites had gone silent by the time the bidding crossed fifteen million dollars.

Orlov’s expression never changed, but I noticed the moment his patience thinned. He exchanged a quiet word with Alexei, then lifted his paddle one final time.

“Fifteen point eight million,” the auctioneer announced smoothly. “Against you on the telephone, sir.”

Vincent didn’t hesitate.

The clerk beside him pressed a hand to her headset before nodding sharply toward the podium.

“Sixteen million dollars on the telephone.”

A ripple moved through the crowd.

Orlov went still.

For a long moment, he simply stared at the painting. Then finally, with visible reluctance, he gave a single shake of his head.

The underbidder had folded.

“Sold,” the auctioneer declared, bringing down the hammer. “To our telephone bidder for sixteen million dollars.”

Of course, Vincent was bidding with Marcelli money, but nobody, least of all Orlov, needed to know that. For all intents and purposes, Los Santos Rotos had just bought Nocturne in Red.

I even allowed Evelyn to place a few modest bids on my behalf, just to keep up appearances. People would assume that was why we were there, after all. But we bowed out early, pretending we weren’t that interested in paying big money.

How wrong they were.

Nocturne in Red ended up costing the Marcelli crime syndicate sixteen million dollars. Valentina would call it a worthy sacrifice if it meant wiping out the cartel once and for all. I tended to agree.

But that wasn’t the only price I was paying.

I watched as Evelyn glided around the museum, talking and laughing with collectors, gallery owners, curators, and socialites. People seemed to gravitate toward her, attracted by her beauty, her easy smile, and her knowledge of the industry.

This was her world, and she thrived in it. I could tell people respected her—not because they were afraid of her, the way they were of me, but because she had established herself as a credible player in the game.

A billionaire hedge fund manager who I vaguely knew offered her a glass of champagne. She accepted with a smile. Her copper hair caught the gallery lights as she laughed at something he said, the sound warm and low and entirely too fucking intimate for my liking.

She never laughed like that for me.

Nor was she ever likely to.

I brought pain, not laughter. That was my trademark.

He put a hand on her arm, and I bristled. A cold flash of jealousy sliced through me. I didn’t know who that man thought he was, but I didn’t like the way he was looking at Evelyn.

What annoyed me even more was that she didn’t appear to mind.

I abandoned the conversation around me without apology and crossed the floor toward her. People shifted aside as I moved through the crowd, but I barely noticed them. My attention was fixed entirely on the woman in burgundy.

Every curve glimmered in that fucking dress, leaving just enough to the imagination. But I knew what was under there. I knew how soft her skin felt beneath my hands. Knew the sounds she made when she lost control. Knew how she trembled when I buried myself inside her.

Nobody else in this room got to look at her and imagine those things. Because Evelyn Cruz was under my protection now. And God help anyone who forgot it.

“Oh, Dante. There you are. Richard was just telling me about his private collection,” Evelyn said as I approached. Her smile cooled when she saw my expression.