When she arrived at the art gallery, the mood changed. Suddenly, she was not the only star. There were so many limos lined outside of the posh, upscale building until she couldn't count them.
People stood outside in formal gowns and tuxedos and bodyguards stood by the cars with earpieces in their ears. The man in the front of the limo looked back at her, then got out and opened the door for her.
She swallowed hard and got out. Escorted through the crowd, she clutched her purse and flashed her invitation as the doors opened for her. A tall blonde woman was waiting for her. She had very distinct Russian accent.
Smiling, she lifted her left hand and motioned towards the back. They walked pass all the crowds, down a long, dimly light corridor all the way to the back to a room guarded by huge white bodyguards peering at her with an evil stare.
The men moved out of her way as she and her men entered the room. She was glad for her bodyguards as she looked around. There was only one piece of art. No artist. No crowd. No people. A single computer sat on a small black table in front of the bust that Victoria assumed was the $550,000,000.00 art.
"Please come this way," the woman said, walking up to the computer. She lifted the monitor and smiled. "Enter you account number here and then… we wait."
"Alright," Victoria said, taking a deep breath.
She walked over the computer and carefully put the numbers that Anatoly had made her commit to memory in. She heard the click of her nails against the keyboard. When she was finished, she folded her arms against her and looked over at her bodyguards.
The blonde woman stepped in front of the computer, typed something very quickly into system and then put her hand on her earpiece. A few minutes passed and then she smiled.
"We've received confirmation," she said, looking over at her bodyguards.
"Good. So, I'm assuming to you'll send the bust to the address provided," Victoria said, ready to leave.
The woman stopped smiling. Her pale face showed lines around her mouth as she bit her lip. It was obviously a continual facial expression.
"No, I don't think they deliver where you'll be going," she said, pulling out her gun.
* * *
"It's almost over now," Dmitry said to his men as he led them out of his suite.
He had just received word that his son was safely in the car and headed to the yacht. The bankers had confirmed that the transaction was complete. Now, he could handle this last bit of personal business. Buttoning his suit as he walked, he bypassed the elevators and took the stairs with his men down to the gala floor. He heard the beautiful music playing. Violins rang in his ears. How beautiful that God would let him hear his favorite instrument before the battle of his life. It gave him strength.
Dmitry's foot touched the final step when his men pushed the doors opened for him. They entered into Mezzanine level of the hotel and walked into the ball, where women swayed in beautiful dresses and men led in handsome tuxedos. He was undeniable in this setting. People looked on entranced. Who was the tall giant? He was so stately. So beautiful. The luster of the attention had worn old many years ago for him. He ignored it all.
Concentrating, he scanned the room for Russian military types. There was only one. A slender man with a pointy little nose and high cheek bones in military dress uniform. He stood with a group of other men, obviously bodyguards.
It was customary after a deal had been made on this scale for the heads of the organizations to meet once in a amicable setting. The ball was the perfect place. Lots of people. No cops.
They made eye contact, and the small man nodded at him. Dmitry made his way over with his men, and they all left through the back doors that led up a few flights of stairs to a private room overlooking the city.
"I've been waiting for two weeks to meet you," the man said, offering his hand. "And finally."
"Finally," Dmitry said, looking around. "So, I've heard that you're retiring."
"Posle mnogih let," the man said, tilting his head proudly.
"Well, Dolgaya zhizn'dlya vas," Dmitry said, offering his hand.
"You know, this is where the night gets interesting. I could walk right out of here and not tell you what's coming, or I can tell you everything, and you stand a chance to stay alive."
Dmitry's face did not change. "I'm listening."
"I only tell you this because the man, my liaison, has not been paid his final fee, and it is a hefty one. So, I stand to gain something if he were not around to collect. Also, even though he is efficient, he's not Russian. He's a Pushkin. Black men still seeking upward mobility," he laughed.
Dmitry did not.
"A black man? His name wouldn't be Dorian would it?" Dmitry asked.
"It would. I'm not sure what he's planning, but I can assure you that it's not going to be good for you."
"No, I don't think that it will be." Dmitry slipped his hands into his pockets. "Well, it was nice to have met you, but as you said, you probably shouldn't be here when he arrives."
"Good luck," the man said, waving his men to collect him. "And a pleasure doing business with you."
* * *
Dorian walked through the large crowds in the masquerade ball with his mask, scanning the room for threats. One could never
