Arranged By The Bravta King

24

Mikhail

The gallery opening is filled with invited guests in formal evening attire. Venomous words are exchanged behind masks of pleasantries, and all of it is buoyed by the copious amounts of champagne in their glasses. Gossip and rumor take flight in light whispers and raucous laughter, all while hands hide lips dripping with scandalous secrets. Wait-staff weaves through the crowd, carrying delicacies on silver platters, offering them to anyone who catches their eye

... and remembering any worthwhile rumor to be passed back to me later.

I hold a crystal flute up to my lips and take a sip, the bubbles tingling on my tongue. My chest swells with pride as I accept one congratulation after another on my newest gallery—the Vedere.

Tonight, the room subtly sparkles and glimmers with muted golden lamps illuminating the art pieces around the space. As I move through the space, I engage in small talk here and there, commenting on the artwork with my guests.

These people don't know me as a crime boss. All they see is a man of wealth and a collector of taste. In other words, one of them.

"Your appointment is arriving, Mikhail Ivanov." Anton motions toward the main door as an elderly gentleman exits a town car.

"Thank you, Anton. No trouble tonight?"

He shakes his head. "The men are patrolling the gallery, but there's nothing suspicious. Nothing out of place, pakhan."

"Not here, Anton." I lower my voice. "Remember where we are."

Anton's eyes widen at his mistake. "Apologies, Mikhail Ivanov." His brown eyes are filled with an eagerness that comes from wanting to please the Bratva.

Anton and I have known each other since he joined the Bratva. He was there when I received my stars, and I was there when he received his. And what he lacks in discretion among the civilians, he more than makes up for it in loyalty and strength.

I smile. "An understandable mistake, Anton."

He nods, face solemn, and hurries away toward the main door to greet my business appointment.

Larissa agreed to play hostess for tonight. She looks stunning in a navy evening dress imitating complex origami around her tall frame. Her knowledge of art is minor compared to mine, but her social graces are abundant. For an idle moment, I picture Maria in her place, holding her own as gracefully as my sister.

Maria's knowledge of art would impress any one of these people. But I cannot risk her presence here. Not yet, at least.

Despite the intoxicating atmosphere, I can't shake off an uneasy feeling that raises the hairs on the back of my neck. There's something that lurks beneath the surface, and I feel like someone is watching me. Over the lip of my champagne flute, I scan the room, my eyes narrowing on each corner as I try to identify any signs of trouble.

I scoff and shake my head. Paranoia is playing tricks on me.

I nod to Pavel, one of the other men Larissa suggested I raise to the rank of brigadier. When I was a teenager, he took a knife to the back that was meant for me. Like Anton, he was also there when I received my stars. He blends right in with the art crowd, light brown hair pulled into a low ponytail and vintage tuxedo jacket over worn jeans like in the spitting image of a modern artiste. He nods subtly when I approach, while his wary eyes follow mine to each corner of the gallery.

"Any trouble?" I return the gesture, whispering. "Something doesn't feel right."

"None of the guards report anything out of the ordinary," Pavel replies. "But perhaps you are just nervous? Gaspar Villegasisa big deal." He chuckles. "For a civilian."

I stare at Gaspar as he enters the gallery and see an immediate swarm of people move toward him. He takes it in stride. His silver-white hair is neatly combed back, and his beard is trimmed short. A pair of round glasses hangs low on the bridge of his nose, and his tailored three-piece suit of dark brown—almost the same hue as his eyes—fits him like a second set of skin.

He smiles as a young woman hand him a picture she painted of him. Gaspar laughs in delight and thanks the girl before they pose for a picture together.

"Get his approval." Pavel chuckles, watching the scene. "And we will never need Alexander Vorobyov again."

"Speaking of Alexander," I stare at Pavel. "Where is he?"

He looks around and shrugs his shoulders. "Something about real Cuban cigars." He scoffs. "As if he can taste the difference."

Anton's displeasure toward Alexander has me smiling. Across the gallery, Gaspar turns in my direction and raises a hand.

I put down my flute and walk to the front to greet my client.

Gaspar Villegas has recently patented a cancer detection and treatment tech worth half a billion dollars already. And investor money continues to pour into his company by the day. I'm interested in clean money to cycle out the dirty, and there's no better place than in his rapidly growing business.

But Gaspar insists on meeting with every potential investor first. The man still believes in a firm handshake.

That's when I notice the woman standing beside him, helping herd away the crowd. His CFO, Isabella Tano. Izzie, as her friends know her, and a former acquaintance of mine at Harvard. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a chic bun, accentuating classic features that I once explored in depth during happier days. Her tan skin glows with privilege, but her eyes sparkle with wisdom and knowledge beyond her age.

She wears an understated black dress that fits her shapely figure perfectly, and briefly, I wonder if Gaspar might know that figure as intimately as I once did.

I greet her first as agreed upon. "Welcome, Ms. Tano," I say with an air of polite acquaintanceship as she grips my hand. "I am glad that both of you could make it."

"You know me better than as Ms. Tano. Thank you for the invitation, Kolya." She grins, looking around her. "Or, should I say, Mr. Ivanov? Since we're being formal tonight. It's been a long time." The grin turns devilish, a reminder of languid afternoons and tangled sheets. "You look good."

"As do you." No sooner do those words leave my mouth than a pair of fierce hazel eyes and auburn hair push to the forefront of my mind. And trailing in their wake is the bitter taste of guilt.

Maria should be here.

Izzie's hand lingers for a moment before she retracts it, and I feel a wave of relief when she pulls back to glance at Gaspar. He is busy explaining complex scientific concepts in his pleasant Castilian accent, choosing his English carefully for his audience.

Izzie leads me a few steps away. "Gaspar is very interested in your investment, but I would suggest not discussing business with him tonight." She pauses for a second. "He likes to be charmed first. Not that it's ever been a problem for you ..." A familiar coquettish smile returns. "And I'm sure you and I can discuss numbers later. Perhaps privately over a bottle of Dom Perignon?"

"Perhaps." I nod. "Though nowadays, I prefer coffee when talking business, Ms. Tano."

Izzie blinks, confusion flashing through her eyes briefly with each motion. Clearly, she'd expected me to react differently. And if it had been just a few days earlier, I would've gladly taken her up on her insinuations.

But Maria has changed all of that.

"Well." She straightens her back and puts on a professional smile. "Allow me to make the introductions, Mr. Ivanov."

She leads me past the admirers straight to Gaspar, who smiles warmly as he extends a hand. I return the gesture to shake his hand, and then suddenly, all hell breaks loose.

An unseen force throws me against the wall. Dust and glass and shrieks fill the air. My head swims, throbbing painfully from the impact. In that split second of disorientation, the world turns to chaos as the building shakes again. Groaning, I force myself up to my feet, only to collapse back to the floor again.

The second blast shatters the elegant windows of the gallery, sending chunks of concrete and splinters of wood flying in all directions. I'm knocked down again, and the concussive force—deep and raw—reverberates through me as if I'm a tuning fork. My ears ring from the noise and nausea threatens to overwhelm me. I open my eyes and see nothing but plumes of white smoke.

The sound of shrieks around me becomes muffled, as if they're coming from underwater. I glance around, eyes stinging from the smoke.

"Larissa!" I cough as I yell, but my voice sounds quiet—like a whisper among a storm. "Lara!" I shout again.

Screams pierce the air, a cacophony of terror and panic as people scramble for their lives. Blinding smoke fills the building, and it is difficult to see more than a few feet in front of me. I struggle to my feet, desperately searching for my sister amidst the chaos.