Page 129 of Vow Of Fire

His eyes narrowed. “Anything taken?”

“No,” I whispered. “That’s my point. They weren’t there to rob it. I think they were looking for me, Mikhail.”

A long silence settled between us.

“Did you tell Marcelli?” he asked quietly.

“Yes, of course. That’s when he suggested I move in with him.” I hesitated. “Temporarily, of course.”

Orlov nodded, as if it all made sense. “I see.”

I leaned forward, lowering my voice. “But yesterday, we were shot at in the underground garage at his apartment block. There were two shooters. They looked like they could have been Colombian, but I’m not sure.”

His head snapped up. “Are you all right?”

I nodded. “Just shaken, but yes.”

“What did Marcelli do?”

Not what did I do. But what did Dante do.

“He pulled me to cover and called for reinforcements.” Even now, remembering the sound of gunfire made my stomach turn. “The shooters escaped before backup arrived.”

Orlov leaned back, his expression tightening. “What do you think they wanted?”

“My gallery,” I whispered. “Or access to it.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because they’ve been buying up my best pieces,” I told him. “I know you’ve lost out to them too.” I paused. “It’s almost like they’re trying to take over and force me out.”

He sucked in a breath. “What does Marcelli think about all this?”

“He’s assigned security to me.” I nodded toward the gallery floor. “That’s why the doors stay locked now.”

Orlov followed my gaze through the glass wall toward the front of the gallery, where two of Dante’s men stood watch near the entrance, his jaw tightening.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “Everything’s spiraling out of control.”

For several seconds he said nothing, then he rose to his feet.

“I’ll speak to Sergei,” he said at last. “In the meantime, you stay close to Marcelli.”

The fact he viewed Dante as the safer option told me everything I needed to know.

I walked him to the front entrance and apologized again, sincerity ringing through my voice. To my surprise, I realized I genuinely meant it.

Because not all of it had been a lie.

I was being threatened. The cartel was targeting the Agora. And if they muscled their way into the New York art scene, it absolutely would affect Malakov’s business interests.

I was simply… informing him.

Warning him.

At least, that was the version I told myself as I watched Mikhail disappear onto the SoHo sidewalk, his expression distant and troubled.

Only once the door shut behind him did I finally exhale.