Chapter 28 #2
As I stand here, in a room full of Russians at a private Bratva gathering in New York, my husband sips on a glass of whiskey, surrounded by Wolfgang and a few other men. He looks as if the three hours of sleep he had last night revitalized him instead of tiring him out.
His charcoal suit is perfectly tailored, a stark contrast to the few locks of rebellious hair that sway across his forehead. Someone says something, and he laughs—not the dark chuckle he usually offers me, but a louder, more rounded sound I wish I knew how to draw out when we’re alone.
I’ve never watched him from the sidelines without the tang of anxiety coating my tongue. This evening, however, the only taste I can remember is the one from when he kissed me with my arousal still smeared on his lips. My limbs weaken at the memory, a tingling sensation fluttering in my core.
I take a sip of my wine, glancing away from him toward the rest of the crowd.
The party is a little different from the ones my father hosted at the palazzo, but not that different, I suppose.
Everyone here wears dark-colored clothing, the women’s dresses long-sleeved for warmth.
But instead of the vibrant chaos the Italians like to bring to every gathering, the Russians seem more composed.
I can tell there’s a lot of darkness beneath that mask of calm, though, which is why being in the same room with them should terrify me. But it doesn’t, not with my husband a few feet away.
Maybe I’m a fool for trusting him, but the truth is, these past few weeks have helped me see him in a completely different light. In his cruel, twisted way, I think he might actually…care about me—if only because I gave him what he wanted. My body.
Accidentally, we lock eyes from a distance, and the look on his face tells me he remembers every filthy detail of the night before and this morning. And that he wants us to do it again.
“What do you think?” Victoria’s voice sounds next to me as she wraps her arm around my elbow. “Too grim?”
I swallow, turning to her. “The party? No, I mean…maybe a little. Who are all these people?”
“Mostly avtoritets and other high-ranking members of the Bratva. Wolf still hasn’t picked an advisor since he became Pakhan, and I think some people are a little on edge.”
“Why hasn’t he?”
Her lips press into a tight smile. “Because the person he wants to appoint isn’t ready.”
I nod, noting the vague answer and deciding not to fish for details. I don’t want her to think I’m prying.
“You look different,” she says after a moment of silence.
“Me? How so? It must be the dress.”
“No. You have a certain glow. Either you’re beginning to enjoy your time here or…
maybe…” She throws me a knowing look, and then her lips part as she realizes what happened.
“Oh my God!” she squeals. “He came to his senses, didn’t he?
I was beginning to suspect something was seriously wrong with him. ”
“Shhh.” I squirm, my lips pursing as I try to suppress my smile. “Everyone’s going to hear you.”
“I bet they already know just by seeing you two together!”
“Know what?” Mikhail asks, getting our attention when he approaches. His arm slowly coils around my waist, his warmth solidly beside me. It’s an effort not to melt in his hold.
Victoria clears her voice. “That the…um…music sucks. Has Wolf said how much longer we need to be here?”
“I take it you don’t like attending these social engagements much?” I ask, my voice a little breathy as Mikhail’s thumb brushes my hip.
Victoria offers a faint shrug. If she has noticed my husband’s touches, she doesn’t show it. “Not if I can help it—they wear me down quickly,” she says.
Mikhail sighs. “Knowing him, we’ve probably got another hour or so to kill.”
“Hmm. Well, maybe if a certain someone sat down at the piano across the room, she could turn things around.” Victoria’s brows wiggle.
My lips part, and I freeze, glancing up at Mikhail. “Oh—I…”
He merely looks at me, calm and delighted, and I know he won’t be the one to tell me if I should or shouldn’t do it. As always, he leaves the choice to me.
“I probably shouldn’t. I haven’t practiced in a long time, and—”
As I say the words, I realize how odd they sound. I’ve been practicing my entire life. Why wouldn’t I be ready to entertain some people for an hour spontaneously?
Mikhail continues to watch me patiently, his gaze like an endearing caress. He probably knows exactly what just went through my head, but he’s not pushing me, not demanding I do anything I don’t want to.
“Are you sure people want me that visible, though? I mean, I know the Bratva isn’t too happy with the alliance with my father. I wouldn’t want you two or Wolfgang to face scrutiny because of me.”
“I’ll take this from here,” my husband says to Victoria, who brushes her hand across my arm before leaving us alone.
I roll my eyes jokingly at him. “Come on. I’m serious. My concerns are valid. It’s not about my insecurity.”
He lifts my chin with his index finger. “Do not. Ever. Put yourself below the people in this room,” he drawls. “They all know who you are to me.”
“Well, of course they know I’m your wife, but what if they all hate me?”
“If they hate you, that’s their problem.” His gaze hardens. “You don’t survive in this world by begging for approval. And you should know that, since you’ve already lived it once. I won’t let you do it again.”
He lets go of my chin, eyes glancing around the room until he lifts two fingers in the air, summoning someone. A few moments later, a new glass of wine appears by my elbow.
“Drink. You’re overthinking this,” he says.
I let out a breath, nodding as I take the glass and sip. He’s right. I can’t give up on myself before I even start my music career. My dream is very much still alive, and if I want it, I’m going to have to ruffle some feathers occasionally, even if those feathers belong to big, dangerous Russians.
I hand him the drink and walk past him, making my way through the crowd as my pulse increases. I don’t have to look back to see he’s probably smug with satisfaction. Frankly, he deserves to be. I love that he challenged me to change my mind.
As usual, when I sit at the piano, everything else fades into nothingness.
I no longer focus on the chatter, or the lack of practice I’ve had lately, or the nerves swarming low in my stomach. I simply bring my hands to the keys and let them carry me.
Consolation No. 3 by Franz Liszt fills the room, a dreamy, slow-moving, gentle tune that carries hope and nostalgia.
I learned to play it at fifteen, thinking of life beyond the bars of my father’s cage.
Of a freedom I’d never taste, nor hold in my palm for even a fraction of a second.
I never thought I’d be playing it for other people.
Now, here I am, away from home, pressing the notes effortlessly, languidly, as that freedom takes form in front of me.
By the time I stop playing, the room is silent. Eyes still closed, I smile, the trickle of emotion that scurries down my spine a gentle caress telling me I’ll be alright.
A soft, unexpected kiss lands on top of my head.
“Exquisite. Absolutely fucking exquisite,” my husband says behind me. “She should’ve charged you fuckers a million per seat. Consider yourselves lucky to experience her music before she blows up.”
“Fuck. Me,” another voice says somewhere far away. Then, the room explodes with applause.
I don’t dare turn around to face them, but Mikhail takes my hand, helping me stand. “Take your praise, sweetheart. You earned it,” he whispers so only I can hear.
My chest expands with heavy breaths as I raise my gaze to the crowd.
Some are frowning and sitting, clearly applauding just because they can’t risk defying their Pakhan.
But the others…the majority, in fact, are on their feet, appreciative of the experience.
I feign a smile, realizing this is what it could feel like.
My dream catching form. My mother’s passion flowing through me as I let the world see us both.
“Thank you,” I murmur to Mikhail, who answers with a slow shake of his head.
“No. Thank you, Cecilia,” he seems to say.
Later, as the Bratva prepares to end the evening, I’m surrounded by a few people who wanted to introduce themselves to me.
There’s Sergei Malevsky—the Bratva’s treasurer—and his wife, Daria, and then there’s Leon, a vor v zakone, a high-ranking thief, according to my husband.
I stand next to them, holding his strong arm.
“Only one recital?” Daria asks, surprised. “How come? If we had known about you last year, we would’ve paid handsomely to have you play at our wedding.”
Sergei laughs, looking to the side, as if he doesn’t quite agree with his wife. I try not to let it get to me.
“That’s very kind of you. Sometimes, things can be slower on the West Coast,” I say, not wanting to throw Ms. Donatello under the bus. “I wasn’t sure I wanted that much exposure at the time.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re ready now,” she beams. “I’ll have to tell my girlfriends about you at brunch this weekend.”
Sergei wraps his arm around his wife a little too tight, and she offers us a nervous smile.
“Do you know Luca Moretti? He is—was—a good pianist. Such a shame he lost his hand,” he says, not sounding disappointed in the slightest. “I, for one, couldn’t stand him.
Too arrogant.” He cocks his head. “I wonder if you’ll turn out to be the same. ”
Daria throws him a concerned look. “Sergei…”
“No, no, I’m just asking. After all, we’re talking about an outsider. I don’t know how these people are raised.”
These people?
Fire pools low in my stomach, scurrying up my veins. My hand tightens on Mikhail’s arm as I watch Sergei with a smile. I hate confrontation. And yet, I can’t let this man insult my heritage and my family—my dead mother. How dare he?
“Well, I can tell you I was raised to be polite and give people the benefit of the doubt when they say something that isn’t right. But since I married into the Bratva, I gained the courage to tell a man when he’s being an asshole. And you, Mr. Malevsky, are behaving just like one,” I say.
Sergei laughs—short, snappy, and incredulous—as he looks at Mikhail. “You’re going to let her talk to me like this? Blyat…it’s obvious she hasn’t seen the back of your palm.”
For a moment, my husband keeps silent, and everyone around us, save for Sergei, of course, seems to be holding their breath. Instead of a verbal response, Mikhail pulls out a checkbook and a pen from the chest pocket of his suit and begins filling one out.
“Where do you buy your dresses, Daria? Prada, Versace?” my husband asks.
Eyes wide, Daria looks up at her husband and then back at Mikhail, letting out a nervous laugh. “Yes to both. Why are you asking?”
“Good, good.” Mikhail rips the check from the stack and slaps it against Sergei’s chest. His gaze is calm, amused even, as he looks the man in the eye.
“That’s twenty thousand dollars for you.
Take your wife shopping tonight. Buy her a black dress.
Maybe some black gloves…or a black veil for your funeral. ”
My breath stops in my lungs, my brows furrowed in worry. He can’t be serious—
Sergei snorts, fisting the check. “If I were the kind of man who got nervous at every empty threat, I wouldn’t have joined the Bratva. I plan on living a long, abundant life, Mikhail.”
“Ah. But you know what they say about plans.” Mikhail smiles, shrugging. “Life rarely appreciates being told what to do. You insulted my wife. Now it’s only fair I make yours a widow.”
He takes my hand from his arm and holds it, leading me away from the small group.
“Have a good evening,” he tells the others. “Or what’s left of it.”