Chapter 45
Alexei
The Verge Gallery is packed tonight. Bodies in expensive clothes drift between the displays, their murmurs creating a constant hum beneath the soft classical music.
Waitstaff in crisp black uniforms weave through the crowd with trays of champagne and tiny bites of food, their rubber soles silent on the glossy hardwood floors.
I observe the gathering from my position near the red brick wall, calculating sight lines, escape routes, and potential threats.
Old habits.
In the center of the space, various widths of moveable panels have been erected, paintings and art of all mediums mounted on them.
Artists mingle with potential buyers. Patrons swirl through the throng.
Elbows bump and apologies are muttered as groups form and splinter apart.
Lights hang from every angle, pointing to all the important creations while I lurk in the shadows.
Across the spacious room, Aurora laughs at a comment, her head tilting back to expose the elegant line of her throat.
The emerald dress shimmers as she glides across the floor.
We had to race to get ready again after our little scene on the couch.
If this show wasn’t so important to her, I’d have kept her at home and spent the entire night worshipping every inch of her body.
But it is important. And her happiness matters.
I don’t examine that thought too closely.
For the last few hours, admirers of her art have flocked to her.
She’s magnetic, and everyone feels her allure.
Their eyes track her as she floats through the crowd, explaining her work and accepting compliments with a grace that seems impossible for someone who was so worked up just hours ago.
My fist tightens around my champagne flute.
If I’m not careful, I’ll shatter the crystal.
A silver-haired woman in a red dress stops in front of Aurora’s largest piece.
She tilts her head, squinting at the broken pieces of ceramic and glass arranged in the shape of a crown in mirrored pieces of silver and gold.
The bright shards catch the gallery lights, throwing rainbow reflections onto the wall behind the piece.
The woman raves about “found materials” and “metaphor for self-reflection” to her companion.
She’s not wrong. Aurora rebuilds damaged things until they’re whole again.
Like she’s trying to do with me.
The thought sticks in my throat like a bone, and my mind returns to the information she shared. Gio’s been watching Samantha. He threatened Aurora. He bought one of her pieces.
Gio.
His name is acid in my veins.
I’ve already made calls and set things in motion. By tomorrow night, Gio Falcone will be nothing but a cautionary tale whispered among those who know better than to cross me.
But tonight belongs to Aurora, so I contain the simmering rage and watch her shine. I’m glad to see her enjoying herself, despite her sister calling in tears to back out at the last minute. Apparently, her roommate gave her COVID.
Across the room, Aurora snags my eye. Her smile softens, a pink hue seeping into her cheeks.
That one little glance is enough to force me to discreetly adjust my pants.
My nod says what I can’t articulate. I’m here. I’m proud of you. You’re mine.
My father drifts by, stopping to chat with a cluster of women near the drink table.
He’s playing the charming silver fox, all quiet dignity and old-world courtesy.
The women eat it up, their jeweled hands touching his arm, their laughter too loud.
He brags about his daughter-in-law’s “remarkable talent” and directs their attention to a piece crafted from seashells and sea glass.
The women flock toward it, Mikhail guiding them like a shepherd. Irina appears at his side, shaking her head with fond exasperation. She murmurs in his ear, then sashays around to examine a different piece.
I know her approval matters to Aurora. They’ve developed a tentative friendship over the past two weeks, built on shared tastes in books and my stepmother’s surprising knowledge of art.
On the ride over, Aurora confessed that she’d never expected to like anyone in my family, let alone feel welcomed.
Family.
The word still feels foreign when applied to Aurora. Like a new tooth I can’t stop probing with my tongue, testing for pain. I’ve never felt this much protectiveness for a family member before. Not my half siblings.
Not even MJ.
My gaze shifts, tracking each of them through the crowd.
Valeria flits between groups like a social butterfly, her laughter genuine, her enthusiasm infectious.
As Aurora’s biggest champion, she played a hand in ensuring all the right people were invited after I got Aurora into the art show.
She and Aurora are close in age but worlds apart in experience.
Still, Valeria’s carefree spirit puts Aurora at ease.
My new bride fits in better than any of us anticipated.
In a corner, Kolya acts as sentinel, his position mirroring mine. Hands folded low, shoulders relaxed but ready. His eyes meet mine in a silent check-in. All clear. He scans the crowd again, his gaze pausing on every unfamiliar face. Searching for threats. Including the Falcones.
Vanya glides through the crowd, charming his way into conversations and extracting information with a smile and well-placed question.
Business never stops, even at an art show.
Especially at an art show, where alcohol loosens lips and the pretense of culture leads people to forget who they’re really talking to.
Already, I’ve witnessed him exchange business cards with two city officials and a tech CEO. By next week, they’ll be in Roman’s pocket without even remembering how they got there.
Near a harsh metal sculpture, Kirill remains motionless, boredom carved into his features. But I know better. He’s calculating angles, assessing weak points, and planning for contingencies that most people never consider. That’s his gift. Seeing how things break before they actually do.
I haven’t spotted Max in an hour or so, but I know he’s present too.
They’re all here. For me. For her.
For us.
My chest tightens. This is what family means in our world. Not just blood and business, but showing up. Closing ranks. Supporting each other even in endeavors we might not understand or value.
Aurora’s art isn’t just hers anymore.
A young couple pauses to inspect a small piece made of broken mirror fragments arranged in concentric circles.
The woman leans forward, entranced by how the jagged edges catch and reflect the light from different angles.
When she does, her fractured reflection changes the whole vibe of the piece.
The man checks the small card beside it before whispering to his companion.
She squeezes his arm and nods. A gallery assistant appears with a notepad in hand.
Another sale. From the interest I’ve observed tonight, it certainly won’t be the last.
Aurora strolls toward them, her hands clasped behind her back. Her smile is genuine when she introduces herself. As the starstruck couple asks questions, her eyes light up. She gestures as she speaks, hands painting invisible pictures in the air.
I drain my drink and set the empty flute on a passing tray. The urge to cross the room, to take my place by her side and claim her publicly, is overwhelming.
But this moment belongs to her. I won’t overshadow it with my presence or darkness. I won’t risk scaring away potential buyers with the menacing aura I can never fully mask.
Besides, if I allow myself to venture too close to her right now, I might act recklessly and bend her over one of these pretentious white pedestals and fuck her in front of everyone. Show them who she belongs to.
Later. After the show. After she’s enjoyed her success.
I twist the band around my ring finger. What exactly did they put in that wedding cake?
We made love right before leaving the loft, yet I’d give my right testicle to find some empty room and immediately fuck her senseless. Three hours feels like three weeks.
As soon as we get home, I’ll peel that dress from her body. Mark every inch of her skin with my mouth, my hands, my cock. Remind her that she’s mine. Or maybe I’ll fuck her in the car after—
“She’s doing well.” Roman materializes beside me, glass in hand, looking every inch the powerful Pakhan in his charcoal gray custom suit. I didn’t even hear him approach. A damning testament to my distraction level.
To casual observers, we might appear to be sharing a pleasant conversation. To me, the tight line of his jaw and cold fury in his eyes suggests otherwise.
He sips his drink while nonchalantly scanning the room. “Walk with me.”
Not a request.
I follow him to a quiet corner of the gallery, away from the crowds and noise. My uncle’s silence is more threatening than any shouted accusation.
No one comes near us.
When we stop, he pivots to face me, putting his back to the wall so he can retain a full view of the room. Always strategic, even in anger. “I’ll ask you this once, and I want a straight answer. Did you visit the Rezniks to ask about MJ?”
The question comes completely out of left field. I control my expression, but my mind spins. Who talked? I went alone and thought I covered my tracks.
“Yes.” No point in lying. Not to my uncle. The man watched me grow up and recognizes all my tells.
His eyes flash with rage. “You disobeyed a direct order. I told you to leave it alone. MJ’s death was ruled a suicide. End of fucking story.”
“It wasn’t a suicide.” The denial emerges before I can prevent it. “You know it wasn’t.”
“What I know,” Roman inches closer, “is that you’ve put everything at risk. The Rezniks are furious about your disrespect and might be planning a harsh rebuttal.”
My collar is suddenly a little too tight, the room too warm.
Der’mo.