36

Mikhail
I never should have kissed her.
Kidnapping Maria was a necessary evil. Or so I tell myself. But deep down, I know I crossed a line that I can never uncross.
Sunlight streams through the wide windows, casting a bright light into the room. The clear morning is in stark contrast to the storm brewing around me. No, within me. The light illuminates a painting hanging on the wall-an abstract piece with swirls of red and black, like blood mingling with shadows. I get up to close the blinds to protect my collection, and I feel like an ogre hiding my treasures. I glance toward the spiral staircase, half-hoping to see Maria descend. But she doesn’t.
A princess in a tower. How appropriate. But I’m no prince. The real prince died years ago.
What if … A new disturbing thought takes shape in my mind. I don’t dare let it finish.
I can’t deny the feelings that Maria is invoking inside of me. They complicate things in more ways than I want to admit. Lust is not love, I tell myself.
But what I feel with Maria is not lust. If there’s one thing that I’m certain of, it’s that.
She’s awakened something in me that I had been forced to repress. She’s allowed me a tantalizing look at something else that I can be other than this monster.
Whenever I catch a glimpse of her, my heart races for reasons beyond strategy and revenge. The way she looks at me makes me feel all the worse, knowing what I’m about to put her through. What I’m about to do to her father.
But if she’s pretending … the vengeful monster that has stirred to life since that terrible day whispers inside. Then you’ll shoot her father without remorse.
“You should’ve been an artist …” Unprompted, the words pass from my lips, and I clamp them shut as soon as I say them.
That dream died a long time ago. And like all other dreams, it will forever slip from between my fingers like water.
I force my gaze away from the staircase and back to the painting, attempting to find solace in its chaos. But as the sunlight sneaks through the gaps in the curtain to bathe the room in a peaceful glow, my guilt and my past refuse to leave me alone.
Desmier should be here, not me.
I stole his life.
And now I’m being punished for it.
A stillness finally takes hold of me as the elevator door slides open. Larissa steps in, an anxious look on her face. But it’s the woman who follows behind that has me rising quickly to my feet.
Zhanna Nikolaeva.
She’s dressed like a little old lady today in a navy suit with a long skirt even though it’s ninety degrees outside. But one look at her frosty stare, and I know that this is no regular social call.
What is she doing here?
It’s rare for her to grace someone else’s home with her presence. It’s usually the other way around. Her presence is like a surreal dream that I can’t comprehend. But more accurately, it’s the start of a long nightmare.
I have a feeling I’m not going to like why she’s here.
“Zdravstvuyte, Madame Nikolaeva.” I hurry to lend her a hand. “This is an unexpected honor.”
“Oh, forget the formalities.” She steps slowly off the elevator into the living room and thumps her carved ebony cane against the floor. “I am still your godmother, Kolya. You are allowed to call me krestnaya.”
Zhanna’s gaze is sharp as she surveys the penthouse. Her eyes move from piece to piece, but she shows no astonishment at my prized collection. I motion toward the couch, but she wanders away toward a newly acquired De Kooning.
“A person with good taste and money,” she says, picking up a gilded jewelry box from the tsar’s summer palace. “A rarity in our world.”
The intensity of her stare is unnerving, but I refuse to look away.
“Please, have a seat, krestnaya.” I gesture toward the couch, and with the help of her cane, she settles down gracefully. Dressed in a simple denim shirtdress, Larissa remains standing, her posture rigid and stiff.
“You should’ve been an artist, Kolya,” Zhanna comments when she is seated. “You certainly have an eye for it.”
I narrow my eyes at her deliberate choice of words. It’s Zhanna’s most uncanny skill of them all. Somehow, she knows the exact words at the exact time to leave a deep wound that will never heal.
“Unfortunately,” I reply, “my family requires me to be something else.”
Zhanna turns a sardonic look on Larissa. “Is that right, devushka? Is what he’s become what you require?”
Larissa looks at Zhanna and then at me, unsure who she should appease. Her hesitation is her undoing, and Zhanna makes a small dismissive sound as she continues.
“I remember you as a boy when you used to visit my home with poor Tanya,” she says. “All either of us had to do was hand you a pen and paper and you sat quietly for hours, drawing. Amazing drawings. Beautiful ones.”
“It’s kind of you to remember my mother,” I reply, concealing my surprise. What is she playing at?
“And yet.” She peers at me closely, squinting her eyes as if to see me better. “Every day you become a little bit less like her and more like Gennady.”
“I’m not my father,” I reply coldly.
“Nor are you my other godson.” She raps the floor with her cane, sending a loud crack echoing through the penthouse like a whip. “A shame about your gallery, dear. But Desmier Ivanov would’ve never permitted such a transgression to happen in the first place.”
Again, she manages to hurt me so effortlessly with just a few words. I would’ve much preferred that she slap me instead.
Larissa quickly cuts in, as her eyes watch my clenched fist. “Madame Nikolaeva …”
“I’m speaking to your brother, dear.” Zhanna waves Larissa away as if she were a bothersome gnat. “Not you.”
Larissa retreats to a chair in the corner, where only I can see the hurt expression on her face.
“Kolya,” Zhanna says, her lips curving into a faint condescending smile. “Are you so surprised to see me?”
“Yes,” I concede. There is no point in lying to Zhanna. Old age has given her the most remarkable ability to sniff out a lie from the truth.
“I received an invitation from Nina Orlov,” Zhanna continues. “But imagine my surprise when I had to hear about the details from your sister instead of you.”
I try not to look at Larissa’s face, but her hands move, gripping the armrests of the chairs tightly until her knuckles turn white.
“I have been lacking in my duties as your godmother.” Zhanna shakes her head. “I wish you had spoken to me first, and not the vultures circling Gennady’s corpse.”
“This wedding is necessary, krestnaya.” My voice is devoid of emotion. “Even if you don’t believe so.”
“For whom, I wonder?” Zhanna lowers her gaze and her voice. “You? Or the ghosts that still haunt you to this day?”
I stand as if my seat were scorching hot. Larissa also stands, moving quickly to my side. “I am the pakhan, krestnaya. And I will right this wrong inflicted upon my family. It is my duty to do so.”
She flicks her hand at me dismissively. “Oh, Kolya,” she scoffs. “Stop it with your flair for the dramatic. You sound like your poor mother.”
“I will do what the Bratva demands of me,” I continue, my voice resolute. “I care for no one but the Bratva.”
“And the Bratva cares for no one but the Bratva,” she interrupts me. “I know the words as well as you do. Perhaps even better. You are being led down a path that only has one end. And I would hate to see the Ivanov line snuffed out because of it.”
“You’re not some oracle!” Larissa declares. “If you know something, Zhanna, just tell him. None of these riddles!”
“You will not interrupt me again, devushka.” Zhanna’s voice is even but does nothing to hide her annoyance. She turns back to me. “You are allowing your emotions to blur your judgment, Kolya, and people are using it to control you.”
“Who?” I ask.
“Everyone.”
Zhanna turns to face me, ready to lace into me again, I suppose, but her expression changes to alarm. Her pale blue eyes widen and her mouth drops open. At first, I think she’s having a stroke until I turn quickly to see what caused it.