EPILOGUE #3
When we're just a few minutes away from the museum entrance, Svetlana summarizes, "So, Nyx, control your facial expression.
And your hands. And your voice. And, if possible, your entire existence for a few hours.
" Dante wasn't saying anything, but her nervousness radiates to him too, because she says, "And you, Dante, at least try to look like you've read a book in your life. "
Dante rolls his eyes. But he says nothing.
He's the only one of the three siblings without a framed university degree on the wall. It's not the first time Svetlana has placed herself in a position of intellectual superiority—she doesn't think he's refined, and she's sure I'm making him worse.
Svetlana and Dmitry's degrees intimidate me.
MIT, Harvard, KLU, Stanford, ETHZ. Dante often gets pissed at how they form an intellectual duo that pulls rank, but he has his own specialty too.
I see it, and I hear it. His knuckles are often busted, with gauze bandages between his fingers when there's barely time to heal.
I've seen him wrap his hands with a thick black tape, winding it with all the patience he doesn't have for people.
Luca mentioned that besides boxing, he knows a little bit of everything—he's trained Krav Maga for over ten years, has Muay Thai foundations straight from the source, and knows a martial art developed by the Red Army that I had no idea existed, called "sambo".
It's a different kind of education. One that doesn't fit at Stanford or MIT, that teaches how to break bones and not how to quote Greek tragedies in the original.
Svetlana despises it. I find it fascinating .
The armored SUV stops smoothly in front of the illuminated entrance of the Met. Luca opens the door for Dante, who gets out first. I expect Svetlana to exit, but Dante turns and extends his hand. To me.
I hesitate. It's a gesture for the public. A performance. I accept it. His hand is warm and firm around mine. He helps me out of the car, a perfect gentleman. Svetlana gets out on the other side.
We enter. The noise of New York traffic is replaced by soft conversations, the clinking of crystal glasses, and a string quartet.
It's a very different world from the one I'm used to.
This one is clean, beautiful, and theatrical.
Orderly. The gazes of most of those people are fixed on us.
On Dante , mainly. It's clear he is feared and respected.
And desired by more than half the women present.
Svetlana immediately separates from us, approached by an older man with a monocle. Tacky. Dmitry would be in his element here, floating between groups, speaking his six languages (with Greek). Dante, I expect, will find the nearest bar and stand there, looking menacing, until it's time to leave.
I'm wrong.
A short, bald man in a shiny suit, the museum's curator, approaches us with a wide smile. "Mr. Volkov! What a pleasure to have you as our patron this year. The Greek and Roman wing has never looked so magnificent, thanks to your generosity."
Dante nods. "Thank you for having us, Albert."
Albert then looks at me (for a little longer than necessary). He has such a cute smile that I genuinely think he doesn't know he's talking to two mobsters.
"And who is this young man with you?"
Dante places a possessive hand on the small of my back, guiding me a step forward. "This is Leonel Hays. He's the brains behind our digital security."
Albert becomes more interested. I follow my orders. I extend my hand and smile. "A pleasure, Mr. Albert."
The handshake is firm. Etiquette lessons.
"Digital security! How fascinating," says Albert, his smile widening. "It must be a constant challenge to keep the Volkovs'... treasures safe in today's world, mustn't it, Mr. Hays?"
I maintain eye contact. "The digital world is a battlefield, indeed."
"Ah, I hope you also enjoy art." Albert gestures to a nearby sculpture—a marble bust of a Roman emperor with a time-worn face.
"Look, boys—thanks to donations from supporters like you, we were able to repatriate this Marcus Aurelius from a private collection of an oil baron in Monaco. A remarkable piece, don't you think?"
Dante approaches the statue. I follow him, a step behind. He examines it with a critical eye I didn't expect.
"A shame the original patina was compromised. This piece was looted from a villa near Herculaneum during the Second World War, wasn't it? It passed through two private collections before being 'recovered'."
Albert looks ridiculously happy. Apparently, Dante is the first person to know this in this room full of pseudo-intellectuals. I'm looking at you, Svetlana.
"Exactly, Mr. Volkov! Your erudition is remarkable," he exclaims, his cheeks flushed. A very erudite man.
I have no idea how Dante knows what he knows. After that, I just watch, a little out of my element, as Dante speaks with great authority about… art .
He talks about the Elgin Marbles. He knows an amphora is from the Transitional Period by the way the warrior holds the spear.
I try to connect the dots. The image of the brute who trains Krav Maga and breaks bones doesn't align with the man who debates the provenance of Roman artifacts.
It's fascinating. And infuriating . Every time I think I've understood him, that I've put him in a box—the brute, the Don, the monster, the lover—he kicks the side of the box out and shows me a new room I didn't know existed.
He's a labyrinth. And I'm hopelessly lost in it.
Oh, Sveta. He's not the brute you think he is.
When Albert finally moves away, floating on his own cloud of curatorial bliss, a waiter glides towards us with a tray of champagne flutes.
I take one. My hand automatically grips the thin stem, not the bowl.
I'm hallucinating Svetlana's voice. Remember the lesson, Leonel.
Don't warm the drink . Violence disguised as courtesy.
I lean towards Dante, who takes a glass for himself. He holds it by the stem with great familiarity. Of course.
"All this shit," I whisper, low enough for only him to hear. "The rules, the fake smiles. It's exhausting. It's all a lie."
I raise the glass to my lips, but Dante's hand stops my wrist midway.
I watch him. He watches the hall. He watches the waiter who served us, sees who else took a drink from the same tray.
He brings his own glass to his nose, as if breathing the notes of whatever is in this glass.
He looks at the liquid, searching for any sediment or discoloration.
He waits for other guests to drink from glasses from the same tray, waits to see if anyone will drop dead.
He meets my eyes and gives a minimal nod. It's clean .
He releases my wrist. His protection is as automatic as his violence.
"Of course it's a lie. It's a game." He looks me up and down. "And you're beautiful. Use it."
The heat that rises up my neck is humiliating.
He had never said anything about my appearance before. Never. He's called me a freak, a curse, a whore, a disgrace, and I must be forgetting something, but 'beautiful' is definitely not on that list. My apathy shatters.
"You think I'm beautiful, mister?"
I want to keep going, I want to provoke him back, ask, " Beautiful enough for you to fuck me on this canapé table right here in front of everyone? " But I don't. Etiquette.
Dante's gaze drops to my mouth, and for a second, the Don of the Volkovs mask slips. I see the hunger underneath. The same hunger I feel.
"You know you're beautiful. Don't feign surprise," he says, his voice hoarse. He leans in just enough for only me to hear. "I buttoned your fucking collar because there are too many people in this hall looking at something that isn't theirs. Now drink your champagne and behave."
He pulls away. He leaves me there, melted and completely fucked in the middle of the goddamn Metropolitan Museum of Art.
I look at the glass in my hand. Champagne suddenly seems like the strongest drink in the world.
Fuck it. I love him so much it hurts.
The SUV stops in front of the mansion. I didn't get any congratulations from Svetlana for not embarrassing anyone, but I also didn't get any lectures or threats, so I consider it progress.
The ride is a list of her complaints about people: they're condescending, pretentious, mediocre, some are stupid.
She also hates social events. Dante is content to listen to her complain, saying a few things in Russian.
If I had to guess, I'd translate it as calm down. I know. Yes, they're all ridiculous.
The guard at the mansion door approaches and opens the door for Svetlana. She gets out, saying to Dante, "The Rotterdam shipment report will be on your desk at nine. I expect your comments before noon."
Dante gives her a dismissive wave. She glares at him. He doesn't get out of the car.
"Aren't you getting out?"
"I have business to attend to," he says naturally.
Svetlana grimaces. She knows there's no business other than me. "Ugh."
She still expresses disgust. Acceptance isn't endorsement. Unlike Dmitry, who once thanked me during a dinner, away from prying ears, for Dante being calmer these past few months, Svetlana still fantasizes about the right moment to murder me with her own hands.
She straightens up, smoothing her silk dress, and begins to parade towards the entrance. She gives a nod to Marco and Grigory, Dante's capos, who are smoking by the door.
Marco takes the cue and approaches. He stops at the open window as soon as the guard closes Svetlana's door.
"Boss, sorry to bother," he says. "Is the settlement with the Brighton Beach contacts still on for tomorrow?"
"It's on."
Marco's gaze then meets mine. His expression changes. Professional respect gives way to a cautious camaraderie. "Hey, kid. We're thinking of a poker game later, in the back room. To celebrate the fall of the Malakovs. Even Luca said he might play a hand. You should show up."
The inner circle of Volkov's guys now consists of a few muscular hulks and me.
I don't leave my bunker much, but sometimes we see each other.
I'm secretly teaching Marco everyone else's tells.
He's preparing to spread the most absurd fake news he can invent to justify his sudden, crushing victories on poker nights.
I promised to lose to him if he started his disinformation campaign in front of me. It's a very fair deal, if you ask me.
But before I can even think of a response, Dante says, "He's busy."
Marco gets it immediately. None of the capos talk back to Dante, let alone question him. They respect him, and above all, they are terrified of him at all times.
"Of course, boss. Good night."
Dante gestures to the driver, and the car starts to move, leaving the capos and the mansion behind.
Busy. I love it when he uses that excuse. My duties will probably involve being on my knees.
The rest of the ride to my— our —house is silent. When we arrive, the forest is dark, the concrete and glass fortress softly lit. He follows me into the suite. The door closes, and the world outside disappears.
I take off my jacket, tossing it onto a chair. I start unbuttoning my shirt.
"Tired?" Dante's voice comes from behind me.
"Social events are worse than interrogations," I reply, without turning around. "At least in interrogations, people are more honest."
I feel his presence approaching. His hands land on my waist, warm, heavy.
"You did well today," he says, his voice a low murmur near my ear. "You behaved."
I sigh. I turn to him, sliding my hands up his chest. "That's a shame," I whisper back. "The night would have been much more fun if I hadn't behaved."
"Then try not to behave now."
He leans in and kisses me, deep, slow, possessive. A kiss from someone who no longer has any doubts. A kiss from someone who is exactly where they want to be.
One hand slides up my back, his fingers tangling in my hair, pulling my head back, deepening the kiss. I melt against him, my entire being responding to a command that didn't need to be spoken.
When we pull apart, he keeps his forehead pressed against mine. His breath is hot on my skin. His eyes, dark and infinite, stare into me.
He's still fighting. I can feel it. The beast inside the cage, scratching at the bars, impatient.
But now, the cage has a keeper.
And the beast knows the way back to silence.
A path that goes through me.