Mikhail
The penthouse is a mausoleum of her memories, taunting me wherever I look. I stare at the spiral staircase, waiting for Maria to come down. I wait, hoping I’m wrong, but I know she’ll never appear. I wander aimlessly up the stairs into her old bedroom, and my gaze falls on the Kuzma Fedorov painting I gave her. I remember that day and how proud Maria was to tell me it was hanging upside down.
I, the art expert, was being schooled by a woman who had only seen art in books.
But Maria spotted the hidden image of the face in the brushstrokes so clearly. The same way she spotted the light imprints in my father’s journals. The same way that she still spotted a glimpse of the man I could have been.
I close my eyes, dreaming that when I open them, she’ll still be next to me. But I turn and the fantasy gives way to harsh reality.
Many of the paintings I owned were destroyed during the attack. And I haven’t stepped into my office since she left. I haven’t touched a pencil, a pen, or a brush to paper or canvas. I can’t bear stepping into my office, where my sketches of her remain.
I hurry out of her room and down the spiral stairs. Desperate for fresh air, I walk out onto the terrace. The wind whips around me as snowflakes drift down from the night sky. Instinctively, I gravitate toward the spot where Maria once stood so many months ago, threatening that she would jump. I peer over at the grid of stiff mesh glistening with snow. The cold turns my hands red and numb, but I ignore it as I recall the image of Maria lying there, suspended above Manhattan. Her auburn hair fanned out around her pale face and her eyes were shut, but her expression showed unmistakable shock and pain.
I let her go then, and I let her go now.
My grip on the edge tightens as I stare out at the park, watching the snow blanket the rectangle of faded grass.
“Maria,” I say out loud as if I can summon her back to the penthouse.
I fought and won to save my Bratva, but at the cost of her and my child. Each day, I’m tempted by the desire to go find her. But I don’t. I won’t risk their lives. I’ve lost enough people who are important to me. Desmier, Father, Mother.
What would Larissa do if I were gone? What would Maria do if she found out that Sorokin shot me for breaking my agreement? At least from a distance, I can watch over her.
I scoff. She has Zakhar to do that again.
Deep down, I must face the truth. Maria is gone because I spoke the oath.
I’m left alone with revenge.
The door behind me opens, and for a moment, hope and madness rush into my heart.
But when I turn, all I see is Zhanna stepping onto the terrace, bundled up in fur, with a tight grip on her ebony walking stick. Despite the biting cold, she looks immune to the winter weather and shows no discomfort. She looks regal, like a snow queen from a fairytale, with every step she takes across the snow-covered terrace.
Her visit is unexpected but perhaps not unwelcome. Her unfiltered advice can be brutal, but the conversation will take me out of my head for a little while.
“Krestnaya,” I say. “A pleasant surprise. Would you like to go back inside? It’s cold out here.”
Her violet glare pierces through the swirling snowflakes. “What are you doing here, Kolya?” she asks. “Sulking?”
I don’t pretend not to know what she’s talking about. “I took an oath, and it will cost lives if I break it.”
She waves her hand in front of her face as if my words are a nuisance. “Maria will be raising a future Ivanov alone if you keep standing here doing absolutely nothing.”
I stand taller, looking down on her. “You care for no one but the Bratva, and you shall love none other than the Bratva.”
“Ridiculous,” she replies with a scowl. “I came here to talk sense into you, Kolya,” she says bluntly. “And all you can do is throw those words at me?”
“She has Zakhar to protect her and the child.”
“Thechild?” Zhanna scoffs. “Yourchild.” Her voice softens. “The life that you created. What use is it for you to be a pakhan when you won’t even fight for those you love?”
Her words hit the mark, and my anger loses its strength. Zhanna’s concerns echo Zakhar’s, and I wonder for a moment if they’ve talked.
“Krestnaya,” I reply softly. “Dead men have no choices. I swore an oath to the Bratvas.”
“You mean Radomil?” She waves her hand dismissively. “Don’t let that old man’s bitterness dictate your life. Do you want to end up like him?” She glances back at the penthouse and turns back, her lips pursed. “Alone in a castle and hoarding old dead things?”
I turn away from her and stare at the snow falling faster now. As much as I want to believe Zhanna, it’s not that simple. The Bratva is governed by violence, not compromise. Forgiveness is a rare commodity, and love is even rarer.
Still, the very thought of Maria torments me.
“Zhanna,” I say quietly, “I need a favor.”
Smiling, she nods and tucks her arm into mine.
“Of course, Kolya,” she says. “Remember that you are a Ivanov. And don’t forget that Gunsyn is still out there. Now, what is this favor you need from me, malchik?”
Gunsyn’s name is like a rough shake of the shoulders. Gunsynisstill out there. He has gone underground since the end of the war, but he’s still alive.
And he knows Maria is pregnant.
The threat he poses will never go away until he’s gone.
I take a deep breath, and cold air jabs my lungs. I need to act, not react. I need to take control of my own future, and that means tying up this one final loose end.
“I need a meeting,” I reply calmly. “Popov, Sorokin, and the rest.”
“And you shall have it.” Zhanna nods. “Don’t let that oath get in your way. What matters to you is also good for the Bratva.”
She hugs my arm tighter as we watch the snow filling the park.
“Now come inside, malchik,” she smiles. “It’s cold out.”
She tugs gently on my arm, and I follow her back inside into the penthouse. I ignore the mess on the floor, discarded clothing and crumpled papers that should be in a garbage can. Zhanna stops. Not to comment on the mess but to look at a painting.
“Have I seen this one before?” Zhanna asks.
“No.”
“I think it’s the best piece in your collection,” Zhanna says as I turn from her to look at the painting.
A single chrysanthemum suspended above a body of water. Its thin petals look as if they’ve been carved into the canvas by a jagged knife, with hidden details that only Maria saw. Unbidden, her words echo in my ear.
It’s angry. But there’s also hurt. Helplessness. And guilt.
I know what I must do.