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The man laughs. “What can I say, I’m an academic trapped in a footballer’s body. It’s a curse.” He shrugs before lifting his brow gracefully. “But you, Mr. Tsarenko, are every inch what I expected.”
I clear my throat. “Meaning?”
He laughs again. “Oh, all good things, Mr. Tsarenko.Allgood things, I assure you.” He grins as he drags his gaze around my office. “You have wonderful taste, I must say.” He whistles appreciatively. “In interior design, clothing.” He looks past me at the Monet on the wall. “Art…” his grin curls. “Women.”
I tense.
“Excuse me?” I hiss, sudden images of Eilish swirling through my head.
Stanislav holds his hands up, looking concerned. “I think you mistake my words. I simply make a joke.” He clears his throat. “Your secretary is…uh…very beautiful.”
My shoulders unbunch a little. My jaw stays tight, though.
“She’s very good at her job. I’m not fucking her, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”
Stanislav laughs heartily. “That is probably wise. And I assure you, I was not suggesting anything. I apologize if it came out as such.”
He takes a deep breath. “Mr. Tsarenko, I think we’re off on the wrong foot. I am sorry. I’m very aware of the legal disagreements between yourself and your aunt—”
“She’s not my aunt.”
He dips his head. “Again with the wrong foot. My mistake. I assure you, my only interest in any of this dispute is to authenticate the extremely rare piece you have in your possession. I must confess, I am a bit of a…how do you say…” he chuckles. “Astanfor late period Imperialist Russian art.” He almost giggles. “Stanislav is astan. Get it?”
Jesus Christ. This guy is making dad-jokes while being a dead ringer for Henry Cavill. All the same, it’s pretty clear that he’s here because he’s a nerd for Russian art, not because he’s Svetlana’s stooge. And that’s good.
He smiles. “Now, I know you’re a very busy man. Shall we get to it, so that I can get out of your hair?”
I take a deep breath, gesturing past him to the shelf with the empty glass display case.
“I wish you’d called ahead, Mr. Petrov. I’m afraid the building had a security breach a month ago. Since then, I’ve kept the Imperial Shield off-site in a very secure, private location.”
I almost feel bad at the crestfallen look on his face. Like a little kid who just came charging downstairs to find his stocking empty on Christmas morning.
“Ahh, I see.” He exhales, walking over to the glass case over the old wooden base anyway and looking at it fondly. “A shame. I would have loved to see it with my own eyes. You know the history of this particular Fabergé piece is quite fascinating—”
“I’m sure it is,” I grunt. “But, as you said, I’m afraid I’m fairly busy today, Mr. Petrov.”
He nods, smiling. “Of course, of course.” His eyes drop to the base of the case, where I’ve taped the note from Vadim. His lips part in a smile. “To my son. All my love.” Stanislav turns back to me, beaming. “You had a very generous father.”
“I owe him everything.”
“I am envious of you, Mr. Tsarenko.” He chuckles. “And not just for your wonderful office view.” Stanislav sighs, clasping his hands together. “Well then. Perhaps another time?”
“Perhaps.”
He grins. “For now, I will tell Ms. Tsarenko that the Imperial Shield is safe and sound in your possession. Perhaps that will settle the matter until you complete your transaction with her.”
I allow a small smile to curl my mouth. “I appreciate it. Thank you, Stanislav.”
“Of course.”
When he’s gone, I stare at the empty glass case, my eyes reading the note from Vadim over and over. My cell phone buzzes.
It’s Korol.
“We got ‘em,” he growls thickly, his tone heavy. “We found the pieces of shit who jumped Eilish.”
My blood flows hot, the egg forgotten.
