Con snorted. “You live to annoy.”
“And yet you keep visiting me,” Dimitri said lightly. “Makes one wonder who’s really attached.”
“Focus,” I cut in. “A piece surfaced on the black market. One connected to Valerian’s collection. We need the name of the broker.”
Dimitri’s eyebrows shot up. “A piece surfaced? Already? My, my. Someone has been busy.”
“Dimitri,” I warned.
He lifted a hand in mock surrender. “All right, all right. You want a broker’s name. Which one? There are many.”
“This one appears to be local,” I said. “Black market. High-end. Private auction.”
He tapped his chin thoughtfully, eyes flicking between us. “Hmm. Many possibilities.”
He wasn’t stalling because he didn’t know.
He was stalling because he enjoyed it.
I narrowed my eyes. “Tell me, or I’ll let Con break every bone in your hands, and we’ll see if that jogs your memory.”
Con didn’t flinch at being volunteered, which I appreciated.
Dimitri recoiled dramatically. “Cassara, please. You wound me.”
“And I can make it literal,” I said.
His smile returned, pleased. “I’m tempted to draw this out longer, just for that tone.”
I stepped closer to the bars. “Dimitri. Now.”
He pretended to consider, tilting his head as if weighing which response would irritate me the most.
Con cracked his knuckles, and Dimitri’s attention snapped toward him.
“All right, all right,” he said quickly. “But you really aren’t going to like the answer.”
“I already don’t like you,” I replied. “My night can’t get worse.”
“Oh, I think it can.” Dimitri’s grin widened. “It’s someone familiar. Someone close. Someone you’ve probably had over for dinner at some point.”
I glared. “Stop dragging this out.”
He raised one finger. “Promise you won’t get upset?”
“I promise nothing.”
Dimitri sighed with exaggerated disappointment. “You take all the fun out of things.”
“Dimitri,” Con growled.
That did it.
Dimitri’s smugness sharpened into something triumphant as he delivered the name.
“Marcus Lindholme.”
The words hit harder than expected.