Chapter 10 Iadjust my cufflinks for the tenth time, watching dawn creep over the estate grounds through the bulletproof windows of my guest suite. The sky bleeds from black to purple to pale gold, painting the manicured gardens in soft light. In twelve hours, the auction begins. In fourteen hours, either they'll all be free or... I don't allow myself to finish that thought. There is no "or." Failure isn't an option. Not with Sofia's life on the line. My phone buzzes. Marco: Teams in position. Irish covering north entrance. Our men on south and east. Waiting on your signal. I type back confirmation, fingers steady despite the anxiety already humming through my veins. Everything is in place-extraction routes mapped, security patterns memorized, teams briefed. All the pieces arranged on the board, waiting for the first move. Then I check my other phone. The one that's supposed to hear from Mario's contact inside the Calabrese organization. Still nothing. The screen remains stubbornly dark, the silence more concerning with each passing hour. Carlo has been reliable for years-a cousin of Dominic's who turned informant after Anthony had his brother killed over a gambling debt. His silence now is a warning sign I can't ignore. A knock at my door interrupts my thoughts. Three quick raps-efficient, professional. I slide both phones into hidden pockets, settling Dmitri's identity back over me like a second skin. "Mr. Volkov? Madame Rouge requests all buyers join her for breakfast." I school my features into Dmitri's mask before opening the door-cold eyes, slight smirk, the expression of a man accustomed to getting exactly what he wants. "Lead way." The guard-different from last night but with the same military bearing-nods and steps aside. I follow him through the mansion's opulent corridors, mentally updating my internal map of the building. Two additional guards at the east staircase. New security camera in the north hallway. Small changes that suggest someone is nervous. Someone's expecting trouble. Good. They should. The morning room is a study in intimidation. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the armed guards patrolling the grounds-a not-so-subtle reminder of the security surrounding us. Priceless art lines the walls-I recognize a Monet, a small Degas, what appears to be an early Picasso. Old wealth, old connections. At the head of the long table, Madame Rouge holds court like a queen, dressed impeccably in cream silk that presents a startling contrast to her signature red accessories. "Ah, Mr. Volkov." She gestures to an empty chair halfway down the table, positioned strategically between other buyers. "I saved you a place of honor." I take the seat, noting the other buyers filing in. Old faces from the previews. Some new ones that I mark automatically-a Saudi prince whose oil fortune masks his family's involvement in regional conflicts, an American hedge fund manager whose firm has been investigated three times for money laundering, a Japanese tech mogul whose factories have been linked to multiple suicides. My attention catches on a man near the far end-sharp Slavic features, expensive watch that isn't obvious about its price tag, something familiar about the way he holds himself. Military background, like me. The kind of dangerous that doesn't need to announce itself. "Coffee?" A server appears at my elbow. Jonah looks pale but steady. His hands no longer shake as they did last night. He's found his courage. "Da." As Jonah pours, he slips me a napkin. Information written in coffee stains, nearly invisible unless you know to look. Loading dock clear 9pm. Garcia on duty. I memorize it then crumple the napkin. One piece in place. Garcia is on our payroll-a guard with gambling debts that Marco's organization quietly paid off last month. He'll look the other way when we need him to. "I trust everyone slept well?" Madame Rouge's voice carries subtle warning as she surveys her "guests." "Despite the...excitement last night." The escape attempt. My chest tightens. The information had reached me through Jonah-two girls on the roof, recaptured, one punished severely. The word "punished" had made me nearly break character, my hand clenching so hard around my glass that Jonah had backed away nervously. But Sofia had gotten my note. She knows to be ready. Knows not to try anything else before I come for her. "Such a shame to miss the entertainment," the hedge fund manager says with a smirk. "I heard one of the girls showed quite the fighting spirit." "Nothing to concern our clients," Madame Rouge replies smoothly. "Merely youthful impulses, now properly channeled." My stomach turns at her clinical description of what was likely brutal punishment. I force Dmitri's approving nod, though what I really want is to put a bullet through her head. "Speaking of excitement," a new voice cuts in from the doorway. "I hear I missed quite the preview." My stomach drops. I know that voice. I know it from briefings and intelligence reports and one particularly brutal encounter in Moscow eight years ago that left me with a scar on my left shoulder and him with a permanent limp. Viktor Petrov. Former FSB intelligence officer. Current arms dealer and human trafficker. And someone who knows exactly who Dmitri Volkov is supposed to be-a fiction. A cover identity that wouldn't withstand his scrutiny for more than minutes. "Ah, Mr. Petrov." Madame Rouge brightens, rising to greet him. "We weren't sure you'd make it." "I never miss a good investment opportunity." Viktor moves into the room with the measured gait of a predator, his slight limp barely noticeable unless you're looking for it. A souvenir from our last meeting, when I put a bullet through his femur before he escaped. His eyes scan the table, assessing faces with the efficiency of a trained operative, landing finally on me. Recognition flickers-not of Dmitri Volkov but possibly of a threat. An inconsistency. A potential problem. "Though some faces surprise me," he adds, making his way to an empty chair across from mine. I take a careful sip of coffee. Maintain eye contact. Let just enough recognition show to make Viktor wonder if we've met in his FSB days but not enough to confirm it. A delicate balance. I want him uncertain, questioning his own memory rather than certain of my deception. "Market draws many types," I say smoothly, my Russian accent perfect. Viktor's eyes narrow as he evaluates me. He's put on weight since I last saw him, grown softer around the middle but no less dangerous. The watch on his wrist-a Patek Philippe that costs hundreds of thousands-speaks to his success since leaving government service. The scar along his jawline is new, as is the signet ring bearing the Petrov family crest-a reminder of the aristocratic heritage the Soviets tried to erase and that he's spent a lifetime reclaiming. "Indeed," he says, reaching for a pastry with manicured fingers. "I knew a Volkov once. In St. Petersburg." A test. A probe. He's fishing for a reaction. "Common name." I shrug, the picture of unconcern. "Like Smith in America." The tension is taut between us, invisible to most but thick as smoke to those trained to sense it. Jonah's hand shakes slightly as he refills water glasses, picking up on the undercurrent. "Viktor," Madame Rouge intervenes, "you must tell us about your new acquisition in Monaco. I heard the views are spectacular." As Viktor launches into a carefully edited description of his latest property-conveniently leaving out that it likely serves as a money laundering operation-my phone vibrates silently in my pocket. I check it discreetly under the table. Mario: Calabrese contact went dark. Something's wrong. My heart drops. Viktor's unexpected arrival. The missing contact. The increased security. The way Madame Rouge is watching the interaction between Viktor and me too closely, like she's waiting for something to happen. They know. Maybe not everything, not yet. But they suspect. Around the table, breakfast conversation continues-discussions of stock portfolios and property investments that serve as thin cover for the real reason we're all here. I contribute occasionally, maintaining Dmitri's persona while observing the shifting dynamics. The Saudi prince and the hedge fund manager are clearly aligned, their body language suggesting prior acquaintance. The Japanese businessman keeps checking his watch, nervous or impatient. And Viktor hasn't taken his eyes off me for more than seconds at a time. "The auction begins at eight this evening," Madame Rouge announces as servers clear away the breakfast dishes. "Until then, please enjoy our hospitality. The spa facilities are at your disposal, and of course, some of our merchandise will be available for private viewing, for serious buyers only." My fork clatters against fine China, the only outward sign of my internal reaction. Private viewing. Sofia. The opportunity I've been waiting for-direct contact, another chance to prepare her, to ensure she's ready for tonight's extraction. "I have interest," Viktor says immediately, leaning forward. "The Italian girl. The spirited one." Of fucking course. Of all the girls, he'd want Sofia. The most valuable. The most defiant. The one connected to a well-connected family. "Funny," I force out, meeting his gaze directly. "Had same request." Madame Rouge's smile is pure poison as she looks between us. "Perhaps you gentlemen could view together? Compare perspectives?" A test. She suspects something and is using Viktor to confirm her suspicions. Putting us together would force my hand, reveal whatever connection might exist. "Honor," I say carefully, letting Dmitri's smile show too many teeth. A predator recognizing another predator's territory. "Though prefer first viewing...private." "Of course." She gestures to a guard hovering near the door. "Prepare Miss Renaldi. Mr. Volkov will have the first hour." Viktor's face darkens, the mask of civility slipping to reveal the ruthlessness beneath. "I traveled long way⁠-" "And you'll wait longer," I cut in, standing. Pure ice now. Pure threat. The kind of dominance play that Dmitri Volkov would make without hesitation. "Some merchandise worth patience, yes?" Another long moment of tension. I can almost see Viktor weighing his options, calculating whether this is a battle worth fighting now or better saved for later. Then he laughs, the sound as false as his friendly expression. "Yes, yes. Us Russians. Always so dramatic about pretty girls." But his eyes promise violence. Promise that this isn't over. Promise that he remembers something about me, even if he can't quite place it yet. I follow the guard from the dining room, mind spinning through contingency plans. Viktor will expose me-it's only a matter of time. The Calabrese contact is compromised. Everything's unraveling faster than anticipated. My phone buzzes one last time as I walk down the hallway. Marco: Moving backup teams into position. Say the word. I type back quickly: Not yet. Get me one hour. One hour with Sofia. One hour to get her out before Viktor blows my cover. One hour before everything goes to hell and we shift to our emergency extraction plan-louder, messier, with a much higher body count. The guard stops at an ornate door, the same one that leads to the blue suite Madame Rouge mentioned yesterday. "She's ready for viewing, Mr. Volkov." I straighten my tie. Adjust my cufflinks one final time. Center myself for what comes next. Hold on, principessa. Almost there. In a romance-themed observation show, several participants undergo a series of interactions and conflicts filled with love, misunderstandings, and power struggles. In the end, one couple rises to over...