‘Is the art ready for auction?’ one asked in Russian.
The other unlocked a writing desk near the window. ‘Da.’
‘All of it?’ the first responded.
He nodded as he grabbed a key from the drawer.
The two men hustled back toward the bedroom door, as if taking their time would have been unwise. They turned off the light, then closed the door behind them.
She breathed a sigh of relief as the muttering in the corridor diminished. She hoped they had ventured far enough away from the bedroom for her to use the hallway. Otherwise, she would be forced to exit the balcony and find another way to reenter the house. Moving carefully, she returned to the bedroom and listened intently at the door.
Nothing but silence.
She smiled and opened the door just a crack.
The view was remarkable.
It looked like the main gallery of an art museum. A circular mezzanine surrounded an indoor courtyard, framed by an ornate, jade-colored railing. It sat beneath a diamond-shaped skylight. Hanging from the center was an extravagant, hand-etched crystal chandelier. Thankfully, the upstairs hallway wasn’t spotlighted. Instead, it was bathed in soft-white light that seemed to emerge from the walls themselves instead of the well-hidden, recessed fixtures.
She continued to listen closely but heard nothing once the guards had disappeared: no idle chatter or detectable noises like the blare of a radio or the squawk of a television. In some ways, the silence made her life easier. She could easily tell if someone was approaching. In other ways, it made her mission harder. Any noise she made would stand out in the silent house.
Moving like a shadow, she stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind her before she dashed the length of the corridor. She stopped in front of the locked door of the next room, but only long enough to pick it open. Ten seconds later, she was standing inside the library and admiring the hand-carved shelves and mahogany floors. It was so beautiful, so opulent, she almost felt guilty for what she was forced to do.
She silently and efficiently tore the room apart.
Every page of every book. Every shelf and every drawer. Every map, every picture, every chair, and every inch of every table. She checked the slats of the herringbone floor and checked every inch of the walls for secret panels and safes. She even climbed the shelves and furniture to check the ceiling and the recessed light fixtures.
But she found nothing. The library was clean.
Undeterred, she exited the room and headed toward the stairs. The walls were so white that her sheer black outfit stood out like a neon sign. Her trip wouldn’t take long, but she knew she would be totally exposed until she reached the ground floor.
She moved with silent assurance.
Never pausing. Never doubting.
Never taking a moment to consider the risk.
She had spent years in the field in her former career where the stakes had been even higher. Back then, she had worked her magic for the stars and stripes. Now, she was working for herself. She liked this a whole lot more.
She reached the bottom of the stairs without incident. She looked left, then right, making sure she was alone. With no one in sight, she hustled straight ahead.
The entry was lined with marble floors. It was flanked by a huge living space on one side and an equally large dining area on the other. The spaces were separated by a barrel ceiling, supported by elegant columns and accented by traditional wainscoting. A crystal chandelier, matching the large one in the mezzanine, dangled in the center of each room. Neither was turned on, but they sparkled like diamonds in the faint light.
Who said crime didn’t pay?
She scanned both areas for any signs of a recessed safe or a hidden door, but came up empty. Just as well. Anyone could have spotted her in there, whether they were hired to protect Kozlov or just waxed the floors on weekends.
She continued forward, finding the kitchen beyond. Not surprisingly, it was massive and had two of everything - stoves, sinks, dishwashers, and refrigerators - as if Noah had ordered the appliances. In reality, she knew the real reason for all the duplicates: Kozlov was feeding an army.
For some reason, Russian mobsters took care of their men like doting mothers. They housed them. They fed them. They gave them gifts. In return, they expected unwavering loyalty and utmost respect. All it took was a whiff of betrayal for heads to roll. The betrayer’s head. His family’s heads. His pet’s head as well. In one memorable case, they even hunted down his ‘friends’ on Facebook and killed them, too.
The Russian bratva didn’t mess around.
She forced those thoughts out of her mind as she opened the lone door in the kitchen. It led to a concrete staircase that disappeared in the darkness below. Weighing her options, she closed the door behind her and tested her sight.