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Milene takes my right hand in hers and slides the ring onto my finger. When she’s about to let go, I wrap my fingers around her hand. She looks at me sideways but doesn’t pull away when I lead her to the door.
* * *
As we walk into the gallery, all eyes turn toward us and follow our steps as we cross the foyer to the main room where the auction will be held. The crowd is made up of the same people who typically frequent these auctions, and this is the first time I’ve ever brought a woman with me. I’ve also never brought bodyguards. However, since Milene is with me tonight, Stefano and two other men stick to our tail.
It does not escape my notice how most of the men react to my wife. They try their best to hide it, but I see them checking her out when they think I’m not looking, so I let go of her hand and wrap my arm around her waist instead. Milene looks up at me and pushes away a lock of hair that’s fallen over her face. My eyes catch the glint of gold on her finger. The wedding band I’ve chosen seems absurdly large on her delicate hand. Something subtle might have been a better choice, but I like it the way it is.
“Is this wise?” she asks.
“What, exactly?”
“Being out in public when there are people trying to kill you?”
“Someone’s always trying to kill me, Milene. I don’tintend to hide in a hole because of that. What kind of message would it send?”
She shakes her head and sighs. “Men.”
I lead her to the row of seats at the rear, which is ordinarily reserved for me alone, and over to the last two seats on the side furthest from the door. Stefano stands behind Milene as instructed, and the other two bodyguards take their places on the left- and right-hand side of the entrance.
Milene is sitting next to me with her spine ramrod straight and her hands clasped in her lap, seemingly uninterested. But her eyes are moving left and right, regarding various people entering the hall in silence and taking their seats. She focuses her gaze on a group of men who have just entered, mumbling something in a low voice. I tilt my head to the side to hear better.
“. . . what’s with the funeral atmosphere?” she murmurs, “Are they mourning the heaps of money they are going to spend on trinkets?”
I lean back and extend my arm along the back of Milene’s seat. It amuses me to no end how grumpy she can be sometimes.
The big screen on the opposite wall lights up and I observe my wife as the auction proceeds. As paintings are sold, with the quality and expense of each piece steadily increasing, her eyes grow wider. She flinches when the assistants bring out a large textured canvas in shades of black, gray, and red.
“That’s disturbing,” she whispers.
I shift my gaze to the painting, which shows a beheaded stag standing on top of something that looks like a pile of kitchen pots. The price tag reads twenty thousand dollars.
“Will anyone actually buy that thing?” Milene asks.
“Wait and see.”
No one bids. Not unexpected. They know they have no chance of getting it. The man who’s taking phone offers at his desk in the corner lifts his hand.
“We have one hundred thousand,” he exclaims.
“What?” Milene says. “Who would give a hundred grand to have that in their home.”
“The Chicago Bratva’s pakhan,” I say. “His wife painted it. She has one piece on offer at each auction, and he’s been buying all of them, no matter the price. Everyone else stopped bidding on her paintings some time ago.”
“People are so strange sometimes.” Milene shakes her head.
The painting I’ve chosen comes up next, a still-life piece from a lesser-known English painter from the nineteenth century. When I place my bid, Milene slowly raises one eyebrow, but refrains from commenting. Once the paintings are done, the auction proceeds, as always, with the jewelry. I usually leave at this point, but today I’ve decided to stay and take in Milene’s reaction to the pieces on offer.
I’ve just about concluded that she’s entirely indifferent to precious metals and gemstones when an antique gold bracelet is brought out. In terms of design, it’s nothing special. There are no gemstones or diamonds of any kind in it, just a solid gold circlet with discrete floral elements engraved on its surface. The only thing special about it is that it’s from the twelfth century. Milene’s eyes widen, and she leans forward, peering at the close-up displayed on the giant screen above the podium. She completely ignored all the diamonds, rubies, and pearls we’ve seen so far, but now she’s gaping at the most ordinary looking piece without blinking. The note under theimage shows a starting price of $650,000. Making sure Milene can’t see what I’m doing I raise my hand. My movement is barely perceptible, but the auctioneer’s senses are finely tuned.
“Damn,” she mumbles, still looking at the bracelet. “These people are insane.”
Someone from the first row raises the bid to $660,000. I tip my finger again, $670,000. The man from the first row follows. I could keep going, but I’d rather head home sooner than later. I raise my hand again and mouth the amount.
“We have one million,” the auctioneer declares. “Any further bids?”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Milene says, staring at the auctioneer. “I’d really like to meet the lunatic who’d pay a million dollars for a bracelet.”
The auctioneer closes the bidding, and I message my banker. He’s always on standby and knows to wire the money immediately and without question, regardless of the amount.
