Chapter 25
Eddie
Three months later…
The gallery is alive with that pre-launch energy I’ve dreamed about for years. And this time, no sleazy owner or pesky politician is going to ruin things.
Sunlight pours through the tall windows, bouncing off the white walls and illuminating my sculptures in ways that make them seem almost alive—shadows dancing across their abstract forms like secrets waiting to be uncovered.
It’s all just perfect.
Well as perfect as anything can ever be when it comes to art.
The space is great… a seamless blend of gallery and coffee shop, with the aroma of fresh espresso mingling with the faint earthy scent of clay from my pieces.
Robbie buzzes around the counter, adjusting the display of artisanal pastries and testing the new espresso machine one last time.
As the manager, he’s in his element—apron tied neatly over his floral t-shirt, hair shining under the light, and his eyes sparkling with life.
"Eddie! The flat whites are on point today, want a sample? "
I laugh, wiping my hands on a rag smeared with glaze residue.
"Later. I'm still tweaking the last piece."
He rolls his eyes good-naturedly. "Perfectionist. But hey, that's why you're the star and I’m merely the humble manager."
The pair of us laugh.
It really is a dream to get to work with Robbie like this. And it’s not to say that I won’t hop back behind the counter from time to time either. After all, who else is going to make the best juices in the city?
Anyhoo…
I glance around, my heart swelling with a mix of pride and disbelief. The exhibition is titled "Edges of Shadow and A Little Light"—a study of violence, love, and hope for the future.
The sculptures are abstract but pulsing with life: twisted forms that evoke shattered glass merging into embracing figures, dark voids giving way to bursts of color in the glazes.
One piece—a towering spiral of clay pierced with metal shards—represents the chaos of that night at the old gallery, but at its core, a delicate heart shape emerges, symbolizing survival.
The previews from the city's art critics have been glowing…
"Raw and revolutionary," one said.
"Luck's work captures the brutality of existence while daring to dream of redemption, " said another.
It's traction—real traction—for my career. Finally.
Even Alexander is getting involved, perched on a ladder near the doorway, fiddling with a faulty light fixture. His massive frame looks almost comical balanced up there, tools dangling from his belt. "Almost got it," he grunts, twisting a wire. "Bulb's good… wiring was loose."
"Thanks, Alexander," I call. "You're a lifesaver."
He waves it off, but there's a small smile under his beard. Who knew the stoic bodyguard had DIY skills? In the past three months, he's become more than protection—a gruff uncle figure, always around but never intrusive.
Secretly I think Alexander might like being around me and my new Little buddies. But that’s maybe another story. Right now, I need to focus on the task at hand.
I set down my tools and step back from the final sculpture—a duo of figures locked in an eternal dance, one shielding the other from an implied storm.
It's done.
Really done.
I grab my lunch from the counter—a cute triangle sandwich of cucumber and cream cheese.
Totally my favorite right now. And a pineapple juice box of course, and I plop onto a stool near the window.
Goldie sits beside me on the counter, his golden mane catching the light.
I poke the straw into the box, take a sip, and let the tart sweetness ground me.
This moment… I appreciate it deeply.
My career is gaining momentum, pieces selling even before the official opening. European and West Coast galleries calling, interviews lined up. And a big part of it is down to Viktor.
He put up the money to buy this building and renovate it lightning-fast into this hybrid space: art upfront, cozy café in the back.
"For you," he said when he presented the keys. "Your vision. Your rules." No more cramped apartments or borrowed studios.
And our new brownstone? Spacious, elegant, with a dedicated art room for me—complete with industrial sink and ventilation to handle the mess. No more clay splatters on his pristine apartment floors leading to... well, spankings.
Though honestly, those weren't always unwelcome hehe.
And it’s not like I won’t find ways of getting more spankings at our new home either.
Everything has worked out wonderfully. The nightmare of the ambush, the fear of losing my Daddy—it's faded into memory, replaced by stability, love, and this buzzing excitement.
Viktor's world still has its shadows—he comes home late some nights, eyes distant, but he shields me from the worst. But when he's Daddy... pure magic.
The door chimes, and speak of the devil—Viktor enters, shaking off the light rain from his coat. His presence fills the space immediately. Tall, commanding, but his eyes soften when they land on me. He crosses the room in long strides, pulls me into an embrace that lifts me off the stool.
"Missed you," he murmurs into my hair.
"It's only been a few hours," I tease, but I melt against him anyway. His arms are home—strong, safe, with that faint scent of cologne and city air.
He sets me down, kisses my forehead. "Looks incredible. Ready for tonight?"
"Almost." I notice Alexander descending the ladder, light fixed and glowing steadily. "Thanks to the team."
Viktor nods at Alexander. "Good work."
Alexander grunts. "Just a bulb. How many more times do I need to say this?"
Robbie calls from the counter. "Opening in two hours! Pastries are baking… check that smell out!"
The air fills with cinnamon and butter. Perfection.
Viktor takes my hand. "Walk with me."
We stroll around the sculptures, fingers intertwined. He pauses at each one, really looking—not just glancing, but studying the forms, the glazes, the stories embedded in clay. "This one," he says at the duo in eternal dance. "It's us."
I blush. "Maybe."
He pulls me close. "I love it. I love you."
Our kiss is passionate—slow at first, then deepening, his hands on my waist, mine in his hair. The world fades: no gallery, no opening, just us. He might strike fear into many men's hearts—the Devil of Downtown, Pakhan of the Volkov family—but to me, he's Viktor.
My protector.
My lover.
My Daddy.
We break apart, breathless. Robbie whistles from the counter. "Get a room!"
I laugh. Viktor smirks. "Later."
As the clock ticks toward opening, guests start arriving—critics, buyers, friends from the art scene. The buzz builds: compliments flow, sales tags appear. Robbie works the café, slinging lattes with flair. Alexander looms near the door, security in a suit.
Viktor stays by my side, hand on my back. "I’m proud of you, malysh."
I lean into him. "Couldn't have done it without you."
He kisses my temple. "Yes, you could. But I'm glad I helped."
The night unfolds perfectly—laughter, clinking glasses, my art finding homes. As the crowd thins, Viktor pulls me aside. "Your reputation is made. And trust me, that goes a long way in this world."
I smile. "Our reputation together is just beginning."
He nods. "Forever."
In his arms, surrounded by my creations, I know it's true. Violence shaped us, love saved us and now hope builds our future.
He might be the devil to many men. But to me, Viktor is nothing but pure, perfect Pakhan Daddy.