21. Chapter 21

twenty-one

Leonid

I 'm barely settled in my seat when Maksim leans in, his jaw tight. “Boss, we may have a problem.”

I arch a brow, not taking my eyes off the milling crowd. “Oh? Do tell.”

“The syn suki Arthur Mendoza just walked in. Bold move, considering the shit he pulled in Macau.”

That gets my attention. I scan the room, my gaze landing on a familiar silver-haired figure.

“Well, well. Looks like our little media mogul grew a pair.”

Maksim grunts. “Want me to have him escorted out?”

I consider it for a moment, then shake my head. “No. Let him stay for now. But keep an eye on him.”

“Got it.” Maksim melts back into the crowd, ever the efficient shadow.

My eyes scan the gathering, searching for a glimpse of that waitress from earlier.

The one with eyes so fierce and wild.

She looked so much like… but no. Impossible.

The champagne hits the back of my throat hard, but not as hard as the irritation of losing sight of her in the sea of people.

Suka, don’t get distracted.

I let my gaze drift over the crowd, picking out familiar faces despite the masks. It’s all in the details—a watch, a stance, a certain tilt of the head.

I spot Zhang by the bar, his dragon mask glittering with rubies. He’s holding court with his entourage, gesturing wildly as he speaks rapid-fire Mandarin. No doubt getting his people primed to snatch up the jade collection.

Good luck, old man. You’re gonna need deeper pockets than that.

Across the room, Sheikh Al-Thani lounges on a velvet settee, his falcon mask studded with emeralds. He sips champagne, his white robes spotless, his beard perfectly groomed. He looks bored, but I know better. He’s a viper, coiled and ready to strike.

“Leonid!” A booming voice, thick with a Texas twang. “How the hell are ya, boy?”

I turn, pasting on a grin as I take in the lone star emblazoned on the mask. “Clint. Didn’t think you’d make it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Got my eye on that Rembrandt; been waiting for it to come up for years.” Clint smoothly removes his Stetson, tucking it under his arm.

I raise a brow. “The Saint Jerome? Didn’t peg you for a religious man, Clint.”

He laughs, loud and hearty. “Oh, I ain’t. But I know a damn good investment when I see one.”

I nod twice.

Once to Clint, acknowledging his point.

And once to Maksim, a silent signal across the room.

Clint keeps yapping about his new yacht, oblivious to the fact that I couldn’t give a fuck. I make the right noises, but my mind’s elsewhere.

Like: Was it her who I saw? Suka!

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the auctioneer purrs, her voice cutting through the chatter like a hot knife. “Eyes up front, please.”

Every head swivels to the stage as the velvet curtains slide open. And there she is, our mistress of ceremonies. A fucking knockout in red, her dress molded to every curve like it was painted on. Her mask glitters with rubies, matching the color of her lips. The kind of lips that make a man think all sorts of filthy thoughts.

“Welcome, honored guests,” she coos, her voice a siren’s song. “Tonight, we have a selection of treasures that will take your breath away.”

She sweeps her hand out, all dramatic flair, as the first piece rolls out. A necklace, black pearls gleaming against the silk like midnight tears.

The crowd murmurs, the scent of greed thick in the air. They’re hungry for it, ready to bleed each other dry for a chance to own it.

“The Midnight Tears collection, once worn by the Duchess Anastasia herself. Shall we start the bidding at a modest two million?”

Paddles fly up, the numbers climbing so fast it’s dizzying. I sit back, sipping my scotch as the wolves tear into each other.