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“Agreed. Remember, if you kill me, our families go to war.”
“Call it a gentleman’s wager. Whoever wins the GT gets the city.”
He barks out a laugh. “Bold move, my old friend. You would give up your empire on an auction bid? I agree to your terms but we keep this to ourselves until the auction is over. Avoid itchy trigger fingers on both sides.”
When I return to Amelia, she’s cold as ice, scowling at me from the couch. “Come to apologize for what you did?” she asks. “Don’t bother. I’m not interested.”
“Victor Ivanov killed your father,” I say, holding up my hands. “He didn’t attempt to deny it. Believe me, don’t believe me, but on my life, Amelia—that’s what happened.”
“What?”
“The casino owner had enough of Adrian racking up debts. Shot him last night.
Her voice is quiet when she answers. “You’re telling the truth, aren’t you?”
I nod. “I will get vengeance for you. Victor’s coming to the car auction tomorrow night. I will deal with him there.”
“You’ll kill him?”
I give her a cold smile. “That would never do. It would spark a war between our two families. No, I have something else planned.”
“What are you going to do?”
“You’ll see tomorrow night.”
* * *
The night of the auction arrives with a tension that’s almost palpable.
The air is charged with anticipation, the crowd buzzing with excitement over the cars on display, oblivious to the undercurrents of danger that flow beneath their feet.
I survey the dealership lot, every sense attuned to the arrival of Ivanov and his entourage.
When he finally enters in time for the GT auction, the atmosphere shifts subtly, a current of awareness that something more than just an auction is taking place.
Ivanov is as I remember—cold, calculated, with eyes that miss nothing. He moves with the confidence of a man who believes he’s in control, and it grates on me, the presumption he carries like a cloak.
Our eyes meet across the lot, an unspoken acknowledgment of the game afoot. It’s a moment charged with the history of our dealings and the weight of the decisions that have led us here.
The standoff is tense, a moment suspended in time where anything seems possible. But then, the call for the final auction item draws our attention, a reminder of the public facade we must maintain.
“I’ll start the bidding at fifty million,” the auctioneer announces, his voice cutting through the murmurs like a knife.
Ivanov, standing across the room, locks eyes with me, a smirk playing on his lips. “Sixty million,” he calls out, his voice confident, echoing in the high-ceilinged room.
I raise my hand, nodding slightly. “Seventy,” I counter, my voice steady, betraying none of the tension that coils within me.
“Eighty,” Ivanov retorts, his gaze never leaving mine.
“One hundred million,” I say, the words feeling like stones in my mouth. The crowd falls into a hushed silence, the tension palpable.
Ivanov pauses, a calculated glint in his eye. “Five hundred million,” he declares, a challenge wrapped in his bid.
The auctioneer looks between us, the anticipation palpable. I make a quick mental calculation before shaking my head. “Going once, going twice...” he begins, his gavel poised in the air.
I remain silent, my jaw clenched, as Ivanov’s triumphant smirk widens.
“Sold! To Mr. Ivanov for five hundred million!” The gavel falls with a finality that echoes in my chest.
