108

Maria
I can’t stop staring at the lit-up facade of the Met wrapped in silky, flowing banners of blue, white, and red from the rooftop to the ground. It looks like a massive gift all wrapped up for me.
I step out of the sleek black limo, my hand wrapped around Mikhail’s strong arm. Dominika approved of my black and lace dress for the occasion, which complements Mikhail’s smart tux.
Also along for the ride is Zhanna Nikolaeva, whom Mikhail helps out of the limo as he guides both of us onto the red carpet. The flashing lights from the cameras momentarily blind me. But my gaze is reserved for the glamor so far apart from the old life that I knew.
“Welcome to the party.” Zhanna gestures toward the spectacle with her silver and ebony cane.
Dressed in a beadwork gown, she has cast off the persona of a feeble old woman for tonight. She wishes to be seen at her best, and her elegant presence commands respect among the other Bratva elite also in attendance.
“It’s amazing,” I reply in awe as we climb the steps.
The gala guests are dressed in a whirlwind of sequins, feathers, and extravagant gowns-a sensory overload of creativity and excess.
We wander the upstairs galleries, admiring rare masterpieces. Zhanna walks with purpose, insisting that we must take a look at the massive painting of Liberty Leading the People by Eugene Delacroix in a private gallery.
Only ten people are permitted to enter at a time, but Mikhail is allowed to bypass the line. The painting looms over the space, cordoned off by velvet ropes with two viewing benches in front of it.
We sit down with Zhanna between us, and she points to the figure of Liberte.
“See the woman at the center of the painting?” Zhanna asks no one in particular. “A figure of freedom, rebellion, and eventually, blood-soaked revolution.”
“Is that why you sought out this particular painting?” Mikhail questions her. “For the history lesson?”
“Partly,” she says cryptically. “It’s important for you to understand that your thoughts will impact the future, Kolya, more so than your actions.” Zhanna points her cane at the painting. “And your thoughts are too much in the past.”
“A dramatic visual to make a point,” he replies tersely. “A point that I’m well aware of.”
“Look at her.” Zhanna shakes her head. “A hero to the people she’s leading but a traitor to the unseen ones that she’s leading them against.” Zhanna’s clear voice echoes in the quiet room. She places her wrinkled hand firmly on my thigh but continues to speak to Mikhail. “You should study this painting closely, Kolya.”
Mikhail stands up and walks the room, preferring the smaller works from the Romantic movement and leaving me alone to speak with Zhanna.
“You remind me of your mother,” Zhanna leans in and speaks softly. “You have the same auburn hair as her, and the dress you wore when we first met was her favorite color and style.”
My heart skips a beat as a shiver strokes my spine. I recall the night Mikhail introduced me to Zhanna and how she scrutinized me with a wide-eyed gaze. Like staring into the face of a ghost, she said.
“You knew my mother?” I ask, reaching for her hand. “What was she like?”
“I met her briefly,” she emphasizes. “But long enough for her to make an impression on me.” Zhanna stares at the painting. “It was obvious why your father risked everything to be with her.”
My fingers clench the delicate fabric of my dress as I brace myself for whatever comes next. “How did you know her?” I ask.
“We crossed paths long before she was your mother,” Zhanna replies enigmatically. “And I see her spirit in you. She was a force to be reckoned with. And I believe in time, so will you.”
As she speaks, I find myself torn between conflicting emotions-pride at the thought of being compared to my mother and guilt for not punishing her murderer. Would she approve of the choice I’ve made? I’m carrying Mikhail’s child, and by the end of the week, I will be his wife.
Would she see it as a betrayal of the sacrifice she made for me?
I glance back at the painting, the defiant figure of Liberte somehow providing a sense of maternal courage. I imagine myself as my mother protecting my child. Perhaps it’s time for me to embrace my own strength, just as my mother did. Deep in my heart, I know she never once doubted her love for my father. Or else I wouldn’t be here.
I speak quietly, but my voice carries. “Will I also share her fate?”
From the corner of my eye, I can see Mikhail’s jaw tightening. But he says nothing.
“I am not an oracle, dear. And you would do well to remember that the Bratva is also your family,” Zhanna replies, then sighs. “It’s not your fault that you were separated from us, Maria Zakharovna.”
The Bratva-notorious for ruthlessness and violence-is my blood and heritage. But so are the Lanzzare, and the thought sends a chill over my skin.
“It’s not fair,” I reply, sitting up straight. “I feel like I’m being forced to choose. That I must either side with my husband or with my parents.”
“Your father made that choice,” Zhanna says softly, her words hanging heavy between us. “And in choosing, it cost him everything. Choices can be dangerous, my dear. Especially choices between two sides that are so alike, yet so determined to find the small differences that separate them.” Her gaze returns to the painting, focusing on Liberte. “What do you think drove her choice? And what do you think drove the choice for the corpses at her feet?”
The laughter and music fade into a murmur in the background as I try to figure out the meaning of what Zhanna says. Why does she have to be so cryptic? Why can’t she ever just say what she clearly knows and wants?
But her words make my eyes focus away from the subject of the painting. And for the first time since arrival, I notice the wide eyes of the men following Liberte-wide, vacant, and fearful. My own gaze travels down to her feet to the pile of corpses, specifically to the man without pants. A tuft of pubic hair peeks from behind his bent leg, and there is an air of violent indignity to the grotesque scene. Suddenly, Liberte’s pose no longer looks triumphant, and her face takes on a new emotion.
Almost as if she’s staring back in horror at what she has unleashed.
“My glass is empty.” Zhanna waves a young waiter over, and he promptly takes her glass.
I take a deep breath, and the rich scent of expensive perfume fills my lungs as the ambient lights cast shadows on the mingling guests below. I wave away a glass of champagne.
“Maria Zakharovna,” Zhanna says gently. “You ought to enjoy yourself tonight.”
“I can’t.” I hesitate before I confess. “Zhanna, I’m pregnant.”
“Oh, gospodi!” She reaches out and gives me a quick hug, then presses her dry lips against my cheek.
The display of affection is noted by those in the room. The group of men from the wedding shower observe for a moment and then turn their gaze away. Where Natasha Chuikov’s kiss on my cheek earned me approval from the Bratva women, it appears that Zhanna’s golden touch has done the same for the Bratva men.
I manage a smile. “Thank you.”
“Grasp the moments you are given.” Zhanna’s gaze tears away from the painting. “Because they’ll comfort you later.”
My gaze drifts to Mikhail standing across the room. His tall figure cuts a striking silhouette against the backdrop of the party. He looks every inch the dashing Bratva prince, his features hard but achingly beautiful. My heartbeat quickens at the sight.
I made the right choice. I must have.
Zhanna taps my thigh. “Tell him to come sit with me.”
I’m eager to get away, partly for selfish reasons, but mostly so that I can continue admiring the details of the painting that had so long escaped me until Zhanna pointed them out.