The Auction House
The auction hall smelled like gun oil and regret.
Chandeliers dripped fractured light onto the assembled predators below—men in Brioni suits hiding serrated blades in their sleeves, women in couture gowns with poison vials nestled between their breasts. The air vibrated with the hum of old money and older violence.
Dante Kovac stood motionless against a marble pillar, his 6'4" frame absorbing shadows despite the room's gilded glow. He hadn't moved in seventeen minutes. Hadn't blinked in six. His ice-blue eyes tracked a single figure through the crowd like a sniper's laser sight.
"Emerald silk."That was his first thought when she entered. The dress was a calculated provocation—backless, thigh-slit, clinging to every lethal curve as if painted on by enemy hands.
Valentina Petrova.
He knew her name before the whispers reached him. Knew the way her hip dipped slightly when she paused at Lot 37, feigning interest in a Fabergé egg she'd never buy. Knew—with gut-deep certainty —that she'd counted every security camera in the room.
"Half a million."
Her voice cut through the auctioneer's drone like a scalpel. A hush fell as she lifted her numbered paddle, the gesture lazy, her wrist limp with bored decadence.
Dante's molars ground together. The dagger she'd just bid on—a 15th-century Venetian stiletto—was worthless. A trinket. Yet the room held its breath as she trailed a gloved finger down the blade, her lips parting on a sigh that made three men shift uncomfortably in their seats.
Then, with a shrug, she turned away.
Click. Her stiletto heel struck marble. Click. The sound a deliberate metronome as she walked toward the Volkov lieutenant near the champagne tower.
Dante watched.
Watched the way her pulse fluttered at her throat when she sensed his stare. Watched how she tilted her head—just so to ensure her profile caught the light as she leaned into the lieutenant's space.
"Careful, kotyonok, " the man growled, his sausage fingers closing around her wrist.
Valentina laughed—a sound like breaking crystal. "I adore men who watch," she purred, louder than necessary, "but never touch."
Dante crushed his cigar into his bare palm. The burn was nothing. The blistering fury in his blood was everything.
Across the room, Valentina's throat flushed pink.
The Chase
The parking garage swallowed sound whole.
Valentina's heels click-clicked against concrete, the rhythm mocking in its leisure. She knew he followed. Knew he'd counted every second before pursuing.
Dante moved like vengeance given form, his leather coat billowing behind him. The garage smelled of gasoline and damp concrete, the fluorescent lights flickering like a strobe to illuminate:
A glimpse of emerald silk around a pillar. The flash of pale thigh as she adjusted her garter. The deliberate pause beside his black Maybach.
"Running, little fox?" His voice scraped the darkness raw.
Valentina didn't startle. Just turned, leaning against his car with calculated insolence. "Now why would I run," she mused, tapping a fingernail against the window, "when the hunt is half the fun?"
Dante was on her in three strides.
His hand caged her throat, not squeezing—not yet, just feeling the rabbity pulse beneath his palm. Up close, she smelled like jasmine and gunpowder, an intoxicating lie.
"You're playing a dangerous game," he murmured, thumb brushing her jaw.
Valentina's smile was all teeth. "I live for dangerous games."
The Capture
The knife appeared from nowhere—a stiletto pressed to Dante's femoral artery.
Valentina tsked. "You should really check your coat pockets."
It was his blade. The one from Lot 37.
Dante laughed—a dark, rusty sound. "Clever girl."
Then he slammed her into the car door.
Metal dented under Valentina's back as Dante wrenched her wrists above her head. The knife clattered to concrete. Her breath hitched—not fear, anticipation.
"You wanted me to catch you," he realized, nose skimming her throat.
Valentina arched, her lips brushing his ear: "Took you long enough."