I handed the blade to Viktor for cleaning, checking my watch. Blood had splattered across the floor in a Rorschach pattern that momentarily transfixed me, echoing older stains I'd never been able to wash away. The memory of my parents' blood soaking into imported Persian carpets flashed unbidden through my mind.
“Cleanup,” I instructed, turning away from Thomas's corpse. “Then the usual disposal. Make sure his body is found by Vega's people before dawn. A message needs to be delivered.”
My men moved with practiced coordination, no wasted motion or needless chatter. The night's real business awaited, and this execution had been merely a necessary preliminary. I headed toward the waiting car, already mentally transitioning from executioner to socialite. London's elite awaited my presence, unaware of the bloody ritual I'd just performed as easily as changing my shirt.
The charity auctionat Thornbridge Gallery presented a sharp contrast to the warehouse's brutal tableau. Champagne flowed freely instead of blood, tuxedos replacing tactical gear. The gallery glowed with warm light reflecting off polished marble floors, the air perfumed with expensive scents and polite conversation.
I moved through London's elite with practiced ease, my scars drawing quick glances immediately masked by polite smiles. Years of navigating these dual worlds had taught me to use my disfigurement as both shield and weapon. People seldom looked past the scars to the predator beneath, a misconception I regularly exploited.
A waiter offered champagne; I declined with a slight shake of my head. I never drank at events requiring absolute clarity. Across the room, I spotted Harrison deep in conversation with a government minister, his silver-fox charm working its usual magic. Our eyes met briefly. He nodded almost imperceptibly before returning to his conversation. The pieces were moving into place.
“Adrian Calloway,” a sultry voice purred from behind me. “I didn't expect to see you at something as mundane as a charity auction.”
I turned to find Miranda Dumont, gallery owner and occasional bed partner, her crimson dress cut low enough to reveal the constellation of freckles across her collarbones. She stepped closer than propriety dictated, the familiar scent of her jasmine perfume stirring memories of her writhing beneath me, her nails leaving crescents in my unblemished shoulder.
“The Thornbridge Foundation supports burn victims,” I replied, allowing a hint of my attraction to colour my voice. “A cause close to my heart, as you well know.”
Her fingers brushed my arm, a deliberate touch that sent blood rushing south despite my determination to focus on business tonight. “And here I thought you came for the art,” she murmured, her eyes promising pleasures we both knew she could deliver.
“That too,” I conceded, a small smile playing at the corner of my mouth. “Particularly lot thirty-seven.”
“The Caravaggio study? I should have known you'd beafter that. Your collection of the Italian masters is becoming quite renowned in certain circles.”
Before I could respond, the auctioneer's voice cut through the pleasant haze of desire Miranda always evoked in me. “Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats. The auction will commence in five minutes.”
“Find me after,” Miranda whispered, her breath hot against my ear. “I have a private collection I'd like to show you. Pieces not meant for public consumption.”
As she glided away, I allowed myself a moment to appreciate the sway of her hips beneath clinging silk. Sex with Miranda had always been uncomplicated—a physical release with a woman who neither feared my scars nor harboured illusions about my capacity for emotional attachment. Tonight, however, business took precedence over pleasure.
I took my usual seat in the second row, catalog open to the item that had drawn me here. The Caravaggio study depicted Saint Sebastian in his final moments, arrows piercing his flesh while his face reflected not agony but a disturbing ecstasy. Pain and pleasure intertwined, the saint's expression mirroring one I'd seen countless times—the moment when life drains from a man's eyes, that second of perfect clarity before darkness claims them.
“Lot thirty-seven, the previously undisplayed Caravaggio study,” the auctioneer announced after working through several lesser pieces. My pulse quickened beneath my composed exterior. This work would complete my collection of the Italian master's darkness, a private gallery of suffering and transcendence that spoke to the duality of my own existence.
I raised my paddle at one million pounds, a starting bid that would discourage casual interest. Movement to my right caught my attention. Vernon Shaw, art dealer for the Vega family, raised his paddle in opposition. Our eyes met across the aisle.He blanched visibly, recognition dawning in his watery blue eyes. The man's paddle trembled slightly when he raised it again against my next bid. A foolish move made from ignorance of the night's earlier events.
I added another hundred thousand pounds with a small nod, watching Shaw's desperate phone consultation. The Vega representative didn't know that his employers were currently discovering Thomas's cooling body. Shaw's face grew increasingly pale as our bidding war escalated, the price climbing to heights that would make headlines in tomorrow's art publications.
At two point six million, Shaw finally lowered his paddle after another frantic phone consultation. Sweat beaded his upper lip despite the room's careful climate control. He knew what opposing me meant, even in this seemingly genteel setting. The Vega family had miscalculated yet again, testing boundaries they couldn't afford to challenge.
“Sold to Mr. Calloway for two million, six hundred thousand pounds!” The auctioneer's gavel fell like an executioner's axe. I permitted myself a small smile as Shaw hurriedly exited the gallery, already dialling his phone with shaking fingers.
By morning, everyone would understand the night's interconnected messages. The Calloways take what they want, whether art or lives. Opposing us in either arena carried the same deadly consequences.
After settling the payment details and arranging for the artwork's secure transport to my estate, I scanned the room for Miranda. Finding her engaged with potential donors, I decided against interruption. Business remained unfinished, and pleasure would have to wait for another night. I slipped out of the gallery into the cool London evening, where Dominic waited with the car.
“The package was delivered,” he confirmed as I slid into the Bentley's leather interior.
“Perfect timing,” I murmured, watching London's glittering nightscape slide past the bulletproof windows. “We have one more stop before the night concludes.”
The Raven'sNest pulsed with carefully curated chaos, the bass-heavy music vibrating through the converted historic theatre’s bones. My club had become London's most coveted nightlife destination, its exclusivity guaranteed by a membership process as selective as any private society. The main floor teemed with beautiful people, their movements backlit by chromatic lighting designed to highlight physical perfection.
I observed from my private mezzanine, the strategically placed shadows hiding my scars while affording me full visibility of the operations below. Viktor stood at my right shoulder, a silent sentinel whose presence discouraged unwanted interruptions. The club served multiple purposes beyond money laundering—a neutral meeting ground for various criminal elements, an intelligence-gathering operation disguised as hedonistic pleasure, and occasionally, a hunting ground for more personal satisfactions.
“Roberto Vega is demanding a formal meet,” Dominic reported, joining us at the railing. I noticed the flecks of Thomas's blood still visible on his shirt cuff, a careless oversight uncharacteristic of my normally fastidious right hand. “He's claiming we violated territory agreements with the Wilson execution.”
I sipped my scotch, cataloging each movement on the dance floor below while considering implications. A beautifulbrunette caught my eye, her moves suggesting a deliberate performance for my benefit. I watched her for a moment, weighing potential diversion against the night's remaining obligations.
“Arrange the meeting for tomorrow afternoon,” I finally responded, turning away from the temptation below. “Neutral ground at Harrison's office. Make it clear this was responsive, not initiatory. Thomas breached protocol first by selling our route information.”
