Page 130 of Vow Of Fire

The hook was set.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of emails, client calls, and inventory checks, but underneath it all, tension coiled tighter and tighter in my stomach.

Every time the front door opened, I jolted. Every time a car slowed outside the gallery windows, my pulse spiked.

Dante’s men remained stationed discreetly near the entrance all day, vigilantly scanning the SoHo sidewalks beyond the glass. Customers pretended not to notice them, but it was impossible not to.

“Are they strictly necessary?” Chloe asked me when a browser had taken one step inside then hurried out again after noticing their bulging jackets and serious faces. “They’re not good for business.”

“Can’t be helped,” I told her. Dante had been absolutely firm on that. The guards stayed or I didn’t go to work. “With the cartel interest, we have to be vigilant.”

She darted a nervous glance at them. “Well, let’s hope you can get to the bottom of this little problem before the gallery goes bankrupt and you can’t pay me anymore.”

I laughed, but it wasn’t funny. Not really. She didn’t know how close she was to the truth.

Before I could answer, Vincent appeared in the doorway of his office looking unusually pale.

“Evelyn.”

Something in his voice made me stiffen. “What is it?”

“Can you come in here for a second?”

I shot Chloe a worried look, then followed him down the hallway toward the accounting office. He shut the door quietly behind us and turned his monitor slightly so I could see the screen.

Breaking news filled the page.

POLICE INVESTIGATE DOUBLE HOMICIDE IN TRIBECA

Beneath the headline was shaky phone footage of flashing NYPD lights and crime-scene tape sealing off a narrow Manhattan side street. Detectives moved between black SUVs while reporters crowded the barricades.

My pulse stumbled.

“What happened?” I whispered.

Vincent rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Two businessmen were found executed in an alley behind a private members club about forty minutes ago.”

The article scrolled downward, revealing blurred images of two covered bodies being wheeled toward ambulances.

A horrible chill crept over my skin.

“Businessmen?” I echoed faintly.

Vincent gave me a grim look. “That’s what the press is calling them.” He lowered his voice. “But those guys are Colombian.”

I stared at him.

“How can you be sure?”

“I recognize one of them from an auction I attended last week.” He tapped the screen. “That’s Ricardo Sánchez.” My pulse ticked up a notch. The fake bidder. Or rather, the man whose identity the Marcellis had stolen for the bidding war.

“Apparently the shooters used 5.45 rounds,” Vincent said quietly.

I frowned. “Meaning?”

He gave me a grim look. “That’s typically Russian ammunition.”

A cold chill crept over me. Malakov. Or at least that’s what everyone was supposed to think.