The remainder of the auction passed in a blur of irrelevant numbers. No one in the Astor Hotel ballroom cared about the vintage cars or the abstract paintings that followed.
The oxygen in the room belonged entirely to Table 4.
When the final gavel struck, concluding the evening's formal proceedings, the floor manager didn't wait for Ryan to approach the administrative desks in the back.
He brought the prize directly to the floor.
Two heavily armed private security guards flanked the manager as he approached their table. He carried a velvet-lined mahogany box, resting it carefully on the white linen near Ryan's empty bourbon glass.
"Mr. Russo," the manager said, his voice hushed, practically vibrating with reverence. "Standard protocol dictates we transfer high-value lots in the private viewing rooms downstairs, accompanied by your armed escort. However, given the verified cash wire, we are at your disposal."
"Open it," Ryan commanded.
