Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Nico
We move like dancers as she pivots within my embrace. Her curvaceous form presses against mine, her resilient, defiant heart pounding erratically. I can feel both her softness and her determination through her clothing. I long to embrace her. To possess her. To heal her wounds.
But she can’t know the truth. I can’t risk exposure. I am Don first, lover... never.
Except with her, apparently.
She presses against my torso. For a second, she clutches me, as if preparing to initiate a kiss. I inch toward her. My hand settles on her hip, eliciting a gasp from her... But then she forcefully distances herself.
"I'm serious, stop," she demands, raising her hand emphatically.
I retreat a step. My body rages with desire. Everything burns. I hadn't intended such intensity, but this sensation remains entirely unfamiliar, beyond my control. She runs pencil-smudged fingers through her hair. There’s something provocative about her gesture. I recognize her desire. It matches my own.
I'm behaving like a savage. Like a Don. Taking as other powerful men take. If she surrenders to me here, could I ever trust her actions to reflect genuine desire?
That realization jolts me back to the present. I distance myself to maintain clarity, to think with something beyond the primal desire straining against my pants. Yet simultaneously, my heart aches for her—for her mother, for her profound loss.
"Thank you," she says when I sit, momentarily flustered but quickly regaining focus. I admire that quality in her. "Let's just pretend none of that happened. I'm a stranger artist, and you're a stranger hedge fund manager. Deal? Great—good."
I remain motionless for the next several minutes. I can offer her this small courtesy, at least, if I can’t provide the truth she so deserves.
"Your mom isn't thinking of commissioning any more portraits, is she?" Sienna asks after a while.
"I'm not sure," I reply, minimizing my mouth's movement.
"It's just—I might be occupied for the next few weeks. So, this will probably be my final assignment with her."
This disappoints me more profoundly than it should. It's probably for the best, though. Perhaps it means I can finally regain some self-control. I'm captivated by everything about her—physically, intellectually, her life experiences, her thought processes, and her personal history. I yearn to understand how she's navigated solitude since losing her mother, to learn about her art, to discover what drives her.
But my initial assessment remains valid. She despises the mob. She despises me. I could attempt to change her mind, deliver some eloquent speech about my redeeming qualities.
For what purpose? She's better without me in her life.
She's better protected, even if that protection comes with her hatred.
* * *
The following day, I converse with my mother via speakerphone while standing at my office window. I toss a baseball from hand to hand, contemplating what it would be like to manage my chaotic thoughts with the precision of the Texas Rangers—no panic, no extraneous noise, just calm, methodical execution like their finest performances.
"Sienna has forwarded a digital image of the portrait. She applied the finishing touches last night. She's made you seem very..."
My mother pauses. I mentally supply the descriptors.
Sinister. Angry. Predatory .
"Youthful," Mother concludes, surprising me. “She gave you a roguish sort of smile and a certain light in your eyes—perhaps that's how she perceives you, hmm?"
"Mother, you need to abandon this matchmaking endeavor."
" She's the one who interpreted you that way."
"I mean it. It's finished."
"Why are you determined to spoil my fun?"
I toss the baseball hard. "Yesterday, Sienna told me something devastating about her mother. Without divulging specifics, let's just say she lost a family member during the war."
Mother gasps but remains silent. She won't discuss the Bratva-mob conflict openly on the phone. But we both know how much people lost. We both recognize it provides people with legitimate reasons to despise organized crime—as if additional justification were needed.
But I'm different, aren't I? Better than Father, than Luka.
"People are complicated," Mother says after a long pause.
"This isn't. Her hatred for..." The mob. Us. "And I don't fault her for it."
"But certain situations are nuances," Mother counters.
"Why does this matter so much? You said yourself the portrait is good."
"It exceeds mere quality. It's... aspirational. Artist's dream of producing work of this caliber, and she accomplished it within an afternoon and evening."
"Is she truly that gifted?" I inquire.
"She strikes me as someone who has invested far beyond their ten thousand hours. I want her to create more."
"She informed me she’s too busy for additional commissions. You have to let it go."
"I can’t," Mother insists. "This started as a little matchmaking project, but Nico, it has transformed into something else entirely. I believe I've discovered genuine talent. I believe I've discovered... the one."
I groan, throwing the ball with increased intensity. My palm throbs. "The gallery."
"My dream gallery," she confirms.
She's always dreamed of opening a gallery of her own. But she never found 'the one'—the perfect artist with the ideal vision to headline the grand opening. She nurtures numerous such aspirations: a gallery, a fashion exhibition, mastering Russian to 'experience the great novels in their original form.' At least the latter ambition resulted in our mutual fluency before our encounters with the Bratva.
"I'll commission portraits of our family, my associates, objects, sources of inspiration... perhaps one or two additional renderings of you."
"Mother—"
" Perhaps ," she interjects. "But she'll have abundant projects, so it might not occur for some time."
"She might decline altogether," I point out.
"I'll compensate her exceptionally well. She can even retain rights to the paintings and sketches if she wishes to sell prints at my event."
"It might not be about the money for her."
It might be about me specifically. The hatred. The resentment. The electricity she experienced when we touched—must have experienced, because it coursed through me like wildfire. She likely resents that attraction now, having allowed herself to feel it with a mob boss.
"You're correct. It’s not about money. It's about vision. Her painting reveals someone with extraordinary vision—with tremendous ambition. She'll embrace this opportunity because she's an artist."
"You've deduced all this from a single portrait."
"I would discern this merely by examining how she's captured the sparkle in your eyes. It's as though they contain genuine vitality."
"Whereas in reality, I'm a dead-eyed psychopath," I remark dryly.
"It's refreshing to see you happy."
"Even if only in artistic representation."
She sighs.
"If you do this, Mother, I want her to be kept safe. You understand my meaning."
Mother will use her security personnel to ensure her protection. I refuse to let her become collateral in this lifestyle. Though violence has diminished recently, we remain perpetually prepared to assert dominance when necessary.
"Yes, yes, naturally. You worry too much."
"Perhaps you're right. I worry you don't worry enough."
"So, do I have your blessing to contact her?"
"I wouldn't characterize it as my 'blessing,' but the decision belongs to her, not me."
I could add that I want to see her again, despite recognizing it may not serve either of our best interests. After our near kiss, that intimate contact, I maintained silence. We parted awkwardly, avoiding eye contact. She clearly intended to establish that nothing would develop between us, yet I sensed her desire in those fleeting glances, those momentary lapses in her defenses.
We'd share that scorching connection before she remembered—before she withdrew again. Or attempted to.
I work for a while before receiving Adrian's call.
"Hey, Nico, how you doing, my man?"
My cousin's enthusiasm sounds forced. He exhibited the same forced cheerfulness when I appointed him as my consigliere. I explained it was because we'd observed his management of my uncle's businesses following my uncle's demise. We withheld that we required closer scrutiny of him—of his loyalty.
When I informed him, he grinned and hugged me. "I thought you were going to operate solo forever."
"I believe it's time I accepted some help," I’d replied.
If he demonstrates loyalty, he'll maintain his position as my public consigliere, and I'll expand my territory. If not, then...
I prefer not to contemplate that outcome. Adrian irritates me, but I've known he was a kid. Yet this lifestyle shows no mercy. Sienna understands that reality.
"Nico?"
"I'm here."
"Viktor is prepared to meet at the Vine."
"When?"
Adrian hesitates. "Now."
"So, he expects me to come running," I observe.
"I know. It's inappropriate. Want me to tell him to go fuck himself?"
There's my cousin again, making everything sound forced.
"No. This is a minor concession to prevent something worse. I'll arrive shortly."
Of all the games risking bloodshed, posturing ranks as the worst. It yields nothing substantial. When a man has to prove himself, his only options are to fight or die. That's when his true character emerges. All the petty power dynamics and political maneuvering require a cool mind. A calculating mind. Like my legitimate profession, the underworld operates on facts and figures.
I meet Adrian and Viktor at the Vine. Viktor's solitary presence, without Bratva reinforcement, is a positive sign. We take our customary booth away from the windows in the room's corner. Call us cautious.
Viktor remains sober—another favorable indication. He shakes my hand with a surprisingly gentle smile. In certain instances, the slender man appears almost avuncular... nearly making me forget his true nature. Almost. Adrian fidgets restlessly beside me.
"Thank you for meeting," Viktor says in Russian.
"Why don't we converse in English so Adrian can participate?"
Adrian never mastered Russian. Maybe that contradicts my suspicions about his loyalty. Perhaps he is trustworthy. Or perhaps he's simply lazy and unconcerned, since the Bratva speaks English.
"Or perhaps you prefer he remain uninformed," I suggest when Viktor sits silently.
"What I wish to request... it is sensitive. If you reject this proposal, it will make me look very foolish. We both understand that humiliation, in our profession, necessitates retaliation."
He's correct. Posturing differs from outright disrespect. Certain affronts can be overlooked. But excessive power plays risk undermining a Don's authority, encouraging ambitious young pups to think they can take down the big bad wolf. That's when a man shows his teeth.
"Continue..."
"We're encountering difficulties with warehouse permits. This has persisted for some time. However, I'm willing to disregard the permit issues if you'll attend a party, I'm hosting... with Anya as your companion. Your official date. You'll arrive together. Have photographs taken with her. Treat her exceptionally well; ensure she experiences an unforgettable evening."
I nearly ask him to repeat himself. This arrangement seems suspiciously good… Surely, I can endure one evening with Anya? I've known her for years without any attraction developing. Meeting Sienna has only emphasized that absence of chemistry.
But could I feign interest for a single night? To resolve Viktor's warehouse complaints? It’s my duty to do anything that makes the city safer.
"Just one date?" I confirm. "You won't spring additional conditions later?"
"Just one date," he affirms.
I nearly explain that I'm participating solely as part of our agreement, that there’s no chance I’ll feel anything real. But what purpose would that serve？
"Do we have an arrangement?" he asks, extending his hand.
I think of Sienna. For a brief, irrational moment, I wish I could take her instead. Then I shake his hand.