Page 111 of Untamed Beast
If that’s true, this is worse than we thought. Maksim Bryusov is selling the real paintings to the highest bidder and shipping them out through the luxury yachts of his cronies that keep docking at the marina. The forged paintings will be all that’s left.
Ifwe can prove it to the Pakhan, that Bratva Council seat is mine. But if I’m honest with myself, that’s not the reason I’m speeding towards New York as fast as I can.
Natalia is.
If she’s spying for him, why would she raise the alarm likethis? It would make more sense for her to say the paintings were real and stick to her previous assessment.
The notes have given me a sliver of hope. I need to pour water on that fire before my weakness for her takes over.
I already let my control slip when I fucked her last night, unable to keep my body from believing that she was mine. Calling her by a tender fucking pet name when I shouldn’t even be keeping her alive.
Just because I can’t figure out what her endgame is, doesn’t mean there isn’t one. I’ve made the mistake of trusting her before. I need solid proof before I’m going to do it again.
On the way to the port, I make a stop at the Met. I shove my way past the queue gathered around the desk. I can’t remember Ponytail’s name, but I describe his appearance to the receptionist. “Skinny. Glasses. Looks kinda like a rat. Long ponytail.”
She shakes her head apologetically. “I’m sorry, sir. We can’t put members of the public in contact with our curatorial staff.”
“Actually, I think you can.” She frowns in polite confusion, until I open my jacket to show the handgun inside.
I smile at her as she gets the message. Her face goes white, but she doesn’t make a fuss. Good move.
“You want to speak to Gareth Menton.” She picks up the phone and dials a number. “What should I tell him?”
“Tell him I can show him something that’s missing. And that it’s urgent.”
She nods quickly, her eyes fixed on me, repeating the message intothe phone.
I lean against the desk, tapping my foot as I wait for him to arrive. The receptionist doesn’t take her eyes off me the entire time, releasing a relieved breath when Ponytail appears from a side entrance.
He rushes out, lanyard around his neck, pulling his jacket on and looking just as excited as he did the last time I saw him.
“Much appreciated,” I nod at the receptionist, who looks like she’s about to faint.
I grab Ponytail’s jacket and drag him out the door.
“Let’s go, buddy.”
I don’t even have to hold a gun to his head this time.
He chatters away in the car about the paintings. Last time he did it, it was irritating and fucking boring.
This time, it reminds me of Natalia, which is even fucking worse. An ache throbs in my chest every time I think about her.
“If you don’t shut the fuck up, I’m taking you back to the Met and finding some other asshole who can do this.”
The rest of the car ride passes in blissful silence. I try not to let hope consume me, but it does anyway.
I pull up to a screeching halt outside the vault. The code still works, the heavy door swinging open, so Maksim can’t be too paranoid about it.
As I pull the door shut behind us, closing us in the small, temperature-controlled space, the vault feels more crowded than the last time I was here. The walls are now lined with layers of sandbags.
I kick one and it gives a rustling noise.
“Do you know what these are?”
Ponytail frowns. “No idea.”
Not some kind of fancy art storage technology, then. Whatever. I need him to focus on the paintings.
