Ava
“You need to move around a little,” the doctor says, adjusting his glasses as he scribbles something on his notepad. “Your body is healing well, but staying in bed too long will only make you weaker.”
I nod, relieved to hear that I no longer have to spend my days confined in this space. The last few days have been nothing but a blur of rest, food I barely tasted and a hovering husband who’s spent every waking moment stitched to my side.
Not that I was complaining. It was nice having someone fret over me, but I sometimes wished that said someone wasn’t a six-foot-four, green-eyed, Russian mafia boss.
“So, does this mean I can finally go outside?” I ask, failing miserably at hiding my eagerness for my soon-to-be freedom.
Who am I kidding? I sounded so damn eager even the doctor noticed.
“Yes, Mrs. Volkov, that means you can finally go outside.” The doctor says, glancing up from his notepad, lips twitching in amusement.
I don’t even try to hide my relief. “Thank God,” I say, pushing my hair out of my face as I throw a playful glance at my husband, who is too busy analysing my interaction with the grey-haired doctor not to notice. “I was starting to feel like a prisoner.”
The look Nikolai gives me is one of faux disapproval but he doesn’t bother to counter my words.
When the doctor leaves, I inform Nikolai that I’ll be spending my newfound freedom at the studio. It’s been days since I last went to work on my painting, and with my deadline fast approaching, the sooner I finish, the better.
Surprisingly, he doesn’t argue with me.
He informs me that he’ll be in his office most of the day and that if I need anything I shouldn’t hesitate to call him.
I watch him get dressed, and when he’s done, I allow him to press a kiss on my forehead. The contact is far too short for the warm buzzing sensation that warms my skin and leaves me wanting more even after he’s gone.
I take my time getting out of bed, stretching my stiff limbs as I head over to the bathroom. When I finish with my shower, I throw on a pair of loose black pants and a soft, oversized sweater that pushes down the curve of one of my shoulders.
Fifteen minutes later, I step into my studio and the familiar scent of paint and turpentine fills my senses.
It’s been too long.
The sight of my unfinished canvas fills me with equal parts relief and urgency.
Relief because I’d somehow managed to overcome my artistic block right before I got sick.
And urgency because… well, because despite being ‘over my block’ I still haven’t painted anything worthwhile. Not really.
My painting is supposed to represent my inner turmoil. In other words, it’s supposed to represent something I’m struggling with, something that causes me confusion, and with everything that’s happened over these last few months, you would think I would be bursting with inspiration.
Well, I’m not. It’s quite the opposite actually.
I stare at the black and purple intimate swirls on the canvas. The colour feels both familiar and bloody infuriating.
I lift my paintbrush, expecting to pick up right where I left off, but the moment I face the canvas, my mind stalls, and I’m left hovering the tip of my brush on the canvas for five solid minutes before I slam it down on the table, frustration bubbling to the surface.
Okay, so I may not be fully out of my block like I thought I was. Big deal.
With a slow exhale, I run my fingers through my ponytail and take a step back from the canvas.
Maybe I should start afresh.
The idea unsettles me.
I press my lips together and reach for a different brush. A smaller one this time. Dipping it into a streak of deep blue, I hesitate only briefly before touching it to the canvas.
The stroke is barely a whisper of depth compared to the other two before. I tilt my head to the side, examining the dainty stroke. This could actually work.
Channeling what little bit of inspiration I’ve managed to concoct with that single blue streak I continue painting, allowing my hand to move instinctively across the canvas.
Most artists have their own unique way of working. For Cara, it’s all about absolute creative freedom. The freedom that came with painting was what she thrived on But for me? I thrived on the direction. The control that came with being able to shape whatever I envisioned.
Minutes fly by, maybe even more, I have no idea. But I don’t stop until my wrists ache and paint manages to make its way into the beds of my fingernails.
Stepping back once more, I take in the changes I’ve made. The blue has softened the intensity of the black and purple, creating some semblance of balance. The chaos I’d originally intended to portray burns bright, mixing not only with the blue strokes but also the light pink and yellow highlights pointing towards the edge of the canvas.
“Wow!”
A startled sound rips from my throat, and I jump back, heart beating but quickly calming when I find my stepdaughter just inches away from my canvas, her eyes glued to the art I’d just finished creating.
When did she even get here?
“Kira,” I exhale, pressing a hand to my chest as my pulse slows. “You scared me.”
She grins up at me, completely unbothered, as if my nearly having a heart attack is some kind of comical experience for her.
“How long have you been standing there?”
“A while” She admits, looking down at her feet sheepishly. “You were so focused on your painting, and I didn’t wanna bother you until you were finished, so I stayed really quiet.”
She sounds so proud of herself that it’s almost amusing.
“Did I do good?” she asks, and it’s only then that I realise that she’s waiting for some kind of affirmation from me.
“You did good,” I tell her after probably gawking at her for a full minute. “But next time I’d appreciate a little heads-up when you walk into a room, Okay?”
Kira giggles, her little shoulders shaking with laughter. “Sorry,” she says, not looking sorry in the slightest.
Maybe it was the way she gazed up at me in that instance, but for a moment, her father’s face flashed through my mind as I stared down at her.
My God, the two were similar in just about every way physically. It was uncanny.
“Your painting is so pretty.” She says, snapping me out of my thoughts. Her eyes twinkle as they flicker up to the painting. “It looks like… a storm, but also kinda like… magic.”
I smile at that. It isn’t exactly a professional’s opinion, but coming from her, it means the world to me.
“You think so?” I ask, kneeling to her level.
She nods eagerly, her green eyes sparkling. “Yeah, It’s like-” She hesitates, pressing a finger to her lips as if trying to find the words. “Like when it’s raining really hard, and then the sun comes out, and everything looks golden and pretty again.”
Laughter bubbles up my throat. Now, that’s one way to look at it.
“You think so?”
She nods, hummingly.
“Maybe I should have you name my paintings from now on,” I murmur, tucking a loose curl from her face behind her ear.
She beams at me, clearly pleased with the idea. “Really?”
“Yup”, I reply, popping the P, then straighten and place a hand on my hip.
“But first you have to tell me why you’re really here.”
Kira swings her arms behind her back, rocking on her heels as she looks up at me with an impish grin that tells me my suspicions are indeed correct.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, sighing, “Kira, what did you do?”
“I ran away from my tutor.”
My eyes go round, “Why?”
“Because maths is boring,” she groans dramatically, flopping onto the nearest stool like she’s just fought an epic battle. “And Natalie is mean! She doesn’t let me doodle in any of my notebook when she’s talking and she always asks me questions that the answers are so annoyingly obvious it’s frustrating.”
Unlike most children, Kira possesses a unique intelligence that works in ways that most people don’t quite understand, including Natalie. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure Natalie is a wonderful tutor but Kira is quite advanced for her age. She doesn’t just need to learn; she needs to be challenged, and she craves it. Otherwise, she’ll get bored and run to my art studio for some semblance of entertainment for her tiny big brain.
“Sweetheart, she’s your tutor, it’s her job to make sure you learn.”
“Yeah, but it’s so boring when she does it. I already know everything that she’s going to teach me so why do I have to pretend as if I don’t?”
I sigh, leaning against the table as I consider her words. She isn’t wrong. Kira is extremely intelligent for the standard curriculum. I’ve seen it firsthand in the way she absorbs information like a sponge and gets restless when something isn’t mentally stimulating enough.
Still, running away from her lessons isn’t exactly the right way to handle things. Plus just imagine if Nikolai found out she was hiding out here with me in the studio instead of attending her tutoring session.
I crouch in front of her again, brushing a paint-stained finger along her cheek. “It can’t be that boring.”
She shakes her head. “Of course, you would think that., she says, enunciating you, and I try not to take offence in that while she continues.
“You’re a grown-up; grown-ups think boredom is fun. I’d rather be around kids who actually know how to have a good time.”
Oh. I see what this is.
While most kids her age were already in regular school, Kira had spent her entire life mostly tutored at home and shielded from the outside world, so I guess it wasn’t all that surprising that, at some point, she’d want to be… normal.
I sighed, running a hand through my ponytail. “You know, you could always ask your dad if you can go to a regular school.”
“I already did.” She wrinkles her nose and I lift a brow.
“When?”
“A while ago. He said no”
Of course, he did.
Why am I not even surprised?
My husband’s entire life revolves around protecting his daughter and sending her to a place where he couldn’t control every single factor of her safety was bound to make him uneasy.
She was his only daughter, after all.
Of course, he’d want to protect her, but even he had to know that he couldn’t do so forever.
I study her expression, the way her shoulders slump and her lips press into a thin line. Kira wasn’t usually a needy kid. She never asked for much and often preferred to give rather than take, so I could tell that this meant a lot to her, and while I wished that she could have this one thing, I knew that Nikolai would be right not to give in.
After all, it wasn’t safe, and with my father being back, I had no idea what lengths he was willing to go to get what he wanted. And if he ever found out just how much Kira meant to Nikolai, or that she even existed to begin with, she could become a target.
And I would never willingly put her in that position.
Letting out a rough sigh, I drag a hand down my face. “Kira, you know your dad only wants to keep you safe, right?”
She scowls, crossing her arms. “I know, but it still sucks. I’m not a baby.”
The frustration in her voice tugged at something deep inside me. I understood what it felt like to be trapped in a world you had no control over.
“I just… I just wanna have friends, Ava,” she says softly, tracing a little swirl on the paint-speckled table with her finger.
Her words tug at my heartstrings. I’ve never once considered it but being the daughter of a mafia boss must be incredibly isolating. She was growing up in a world where friendships were limited to those deemed safe by Nikolai and that wasn’t many. It made sense now why she always gravitated towards me because out of everyone living in this mansion, I was the closest thing she had to the outside world in some way.
I wish I could tell her that there was something I could do to change her father’s mind. I wish I could tell her that I could convince Nikolai to let her go to school and be a kid, but I can’t.
And it guts me.
Kira looks up at me then, her gaze expectant as if she’s waiting for me to tell her the words that I myself wasn’t entirely sure of.
“Tell you what,” I say, “I can’t promise that I’ll be able to convince your father to let you go to a normal school but I can promise you the next best thing.”
She gives me a questioning look, “What’s that?”
“The Park”