Page 7 of Forced Mafia Bride
I blinked. “Huh?”
She threw a brow at me and faced the road. “Nikolai Yezhov? The Bratva? They somehow seem to figure out our moves or know just how to counterattack or hit the place that hurts most. Your brother is never going to admit this, but the Russians are crushing us. He has us fixed between his thumb and index finger.”
A crazy idea flew into my head immediately after Hannah finished lamenting. It was like a sudden click, like building blocks falling into place. My heart thumped in anticipation, maybe madness, but it was an idea worth testing. I snatched my phone from my purse and checked the money Ronan sent. A smile stole its way to my lips.
“Perfect.” It was more than enough.
Hannah suddenly looked alarmed. “What’s perfect?”
Having us between his thumb and index finger.
I faced her, though her eyes were on the road. “You know the Escalade? That event everyone’s been talking about?” She nodded with a guarded gaze, and I continued. “There’s an auction happening in that hotel, in a hidden level for exclusive members only. I hear it’s called the Bercyna. Don’t ask me why it’s called that. I don’t know. But it’s going to start in an hour.”
There was suspicion heavy in her voice when she spoke. “And you know that because?”
“Ronan is my brother. Plus, he’s not as discreet on calls as he claims to be.”
“Andwhydo you need this information?”
“Because it’s the answer. Hannah?”
“Huh?”
I strapped on my seatbelt. “Take me to the Escalade.”
Hannah blew out a terrified breath she’d been holding. Her grip on the wheel tightened, and her cheeks paled. “I don’t like the sound of this.”
I didn’t like it either, but when the going got tough, the tough had to get going. And what I needed to get going was a person powerful enough to crush us.
Chapter 4 – Nikolai
When the anchor mounted the podium and tapped on it, the microphone gave sharp, screeching feedback. The music and chattering buzz turned to a hush as other guests settled on the chair.
“Ladies and gents, the Bercyna auction will be starting now,” came the brittle voice with a heavy English accent on the mic. The navy blue on his double-breasted suit gleamed under the light as he looked around the room. “As such, kindlyensure that you have your bidding boards beside your seat. We should already know that no individual here can place a bid without it. So, distinguished guests, the first item tonight is the Chandelier.”
I flipped my bidding board. The number seventy-five was boldly printed on a white board in black. Anatoly smirked in the chair beside me and remarked on my consistency with the number at every auction event.
Two blonde girls dressed in gold feather and sequin gowns wheeled out the piece from behind red velvety curtains. The Chandelier was a distorted painting of an actual golden chandelier. The artist was murdered in his own home the night after the painting was done, and the artwork was stolen. To this day, no one knew why. But the mystery surrounding it hiked the value of the distorted piece after it was retrieved.
Boards went up, and the bidding began.
I had no interest in the painting and was not further impressed with the second, third, fourth…or eighth item. The ninth, however. Now, that small, faceless monument was a beauty.
“This statue with a head and no other features is called Silent. The sculptor made an interesting choice, leaving this piece of art blind, deaf, mute, and dead.”
I felt an immediate connection to it and understood the sculptor's mind when he chose to present this supposedly meaningless work of art. I raised my board, glanced to the sides, and was subtly surprised that no other board was up. It might have been for fear of me or the lack of desire to spend money on a faceless stone, but satisfaction reeled through my veins. This was going to be the easiest bid.
“Five thousand.”
The anchor turned his attention toward me, surprise and angst lingering in his gaze when he took the microphone to hislips. “Number Seventy-Five has placed five thousand dollars on Silent. It’s going.”
The hall was quiet, and I was ready to whisper to Anatoly to tell him to prepare the car for us to leave when the anchor’s voice rattled the silence in the room.
“Is that a board I see there at the back? Number Ninety-Nine?”
A gentle feminine voice called out, “Eight thousand for Silent.”
A few members gasped, and low whispers broke out amongst the people gathered. Who was she? How could she dare go up against me?