43

Maria
Mikhail’s words send me reeling. When Larissa told me he blamed himself for his mother’s death, I had no idea that it was something like this. But just like everything he tells me, even this answer leaves me with more questions.
And I’ve come too far now to turn back from finding out the rest.
“How?” I ask.
His grip on my hand doesn’t change, but he looks at me with such intensity that I can feel his stare crushing my bones into dust. My heartbeat picks up from his stare, but I don’t look away.
“She threw herself off the terrace.” His voice is low. And even at this volume, I can hear it cracking slightly. “Eighteen years ago.”
He looks away, turning his eyes-shimmering in the dim light-toward the painting of the woman. There’s no mistaking the guilt in his gaze as he looks into the soft eyes of his mother, forever memorialized on canvas.
The world spins around me as I struggle to find the words-any words-to say back to him. But what are the right words when someone says something so terrible? Everything starts making more sense. The nets. The warning Dominika gave me on my first night. Her reluctance to talk about who owned this penthouse before Mikhail.
And the look in Mikhail’s eyes when I told him I’d rather jump than marry him.
Guilt crashes over me in waves, and embarrassment lashes at my side harder than the winds that whipped around me as I fell.
I made him relive the worst day of his life.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t know.”
“How could you?” He speaks to me, but he’s staring at her.
The hurt is unmistakable in his voice. For the first time since I arrived in this beautiful gallery of a prison, I can imagine Mikhail with a family. I can imagine him as a little boy sitting in this studio as his mother paints.
“But,” I take a shaky breath. “Why does Larissa say you blame yourself for it?”
“Because I became my father’s heir,” he replies. “The one thing she never wanted me to become.”
Our mother’s death, Larissa’s voice echoes. He blames himself for that. More than he blames himself for our brother’s.
“Your brother,” I say, finally piecing together the different parts. “Dominika says he died a year before you became the heir.”
“Yes.” He nods. “His death was my fault too.”
“How?” I ask.
Mikhail takes his hand off mine and takes a step back. A chill descends in the air and unease worms into my heart. I fear that I’ve pushed my luck too far. He’s not going to tell me, I think. There’s no reason for him to tell me.
But to my surprise, he answers.
“Desmier died in the process of carrying out a hit that was meant for me,” he explains as he makes his way toward the painting of his mother.
His hand hangs at his side as he looks at the painting. Hesitantly, I reach out and take it in mine. He glances at me, a sad smile playing on his face as he gives me a slow nod. I lean against his body, and he pulls me closer as he returns to his cruel memory.
“When I was nine, my father called me into his office,” he says. “He told me that I would soon be the same age that my brother Desmier was when he first proved himself to the Bratva.”
I feel his fingers tightening against mine. His hold is at the edge of becoming painful, but he keeps himself in check as he continues to talk.
“He wanted me to kill a man of the Lanzzare Mafia,” he says. “A man who was closely related to their don, Emilio Lanzzare.” He turns to me, face weary with emotion. “Desmier, being the protective older brother, insisted to my father that this was foolish. That it was too dangerous. But Father disagreed.
“It was the only time they’d ever disagreed. And it would be the last.” Mikhail turns back to the painting of his mother, and I notice that he’s looking at the single drooping chrysanthemum. His voice fades to a whisper as if he can see the horrible day all over again playing out in his mind.
“I waited up for him that night,” he says. “But he never came home … When I came home the night of the gallery bombing and saw you waiting, reading a book … I saw myself.”
He looks into my eyes and blinks. In an instant, the coldness returns and he’s back in the present again. “But you weren’t waiting for me, were you, Maria?”
“No,” I admit.
Mikhail nods, acknowledging my honesty as he turns to the unchangeable past again.
“A year later,” he says, “Father forced me to kill a man in front of him. To prove to him that I could be the son that he lost. The son he loved. He told me that was what Desmier would’ve wanted me to do. So, I did. And when Mother learned what I’d done …” He closes his eyes as his free hand balls into a fist. “When she learned what that Fathermade me do.” He opens his eyes. “Well, here we are.”
“I’m so sorry, Mikhail.” I press my face against his sleeve, unsure of what else I can do. “I’m sorry you had to go through all of that. Your mother sounds extraordinary.”
“She was,” he admits.
“I wish I knew my mom,” I whisper. “But she passed away when I was a baby.”
“And your father never remarried?” he asks. “Why?”
“He says he never got over her.” I shake my head. “But I don’t think that’s it.”
“Why do you think that?” He holds my hand firmly.
I hesitate, unsure of what to share. But if Mikhail was willing to trust me with his darkest personal secrets, maybe I owe him the same.
“He’s always been distrustful of others,” I reply. “Especially after one night when I was five.”
Mikhail leans in, suddenly attentive. “What happened?”
“Someone broke into our house,” I explain, my heart racing as I take a silent breath. “Dad hid me in a closet and told me to stay quiet. I heard Dad yell at them, and it sounded like he knew the person. There was what sounded like a struggle. And then everything went quiet.”
I shudder and Mikhail pulls me closer, pouring his warmth into me to chase away the chills as I recall that night.
“I stayed in there for hours, unsure if my dad was still even alive …” I cling to his hand like a lifeline. “And when he finally came to get me, he had this wild look in his eyes that scared me more than the intruder. For a few months, I stopped speaking altogether.
“After that, Dad became even more protective.” I shudder at the memory. “More withdrawn. More secretive. It was as if he was afraid that if he opened up to someone, they were going to come hurt me.”
“I left home, and in less than two days, I was here with you.” I sigh and turn to Mikhail. “Maybe I should’ve just stayed home.”
“Maria,” Mikhail says, voice resolute. “I’ll keep you safe. I promise.”
“Dad used to say that to me too.” I close my eyes at the empty promise before I echo Mikhail’s words. “Well, here we are.”
“I mean it, Maria.” Mikhail’s finger traces along the edges of my jaw and gently turns me to look at him. “I will keep you safe. Under my watch, nobody will ever hurt you.”
I don’t know if I believe that.
“You should’ve been an artist …” I whisper as he reaches out to pull me close.
“Those were her last words to me.” His voice rumbles against me, and guilt overpowers me again at the admission. “Before she jumped.”
I step into his embrace without hesitation. His body is warm against mine, enveloping me perfectly as if he was always meant to be here-as if I was always meant to be here.
Those dazzling green eyes compel me to look up at him, and slowly, both our lips part. He leans forward, erasing the gap between us as he gently cups my cheek, his thumb soothingly stroking my skin.
He dips his head toward me just as I rise up to meet him until our lips touch. My breath catches in my throat at the contact. The kiss is gentle at first as he closes his eyes, and then I gasp as he holds me tighter.
The kiss deepens, and the passion behind it jolts, coursing through me, making my body float away. My fears disappear into nothing as we drown in each other. My heart pounds like driving rain against the glass as the line between teasing and desire blurs into need.