Chapter Four - Emil
The gallery is full of noise, but none of it matters. Old men with too much money stand in little clusters, hands tucked behind their backs, pretending to debate the merits of Soviet oil paintings and American postwar sculpture.
There’s a string quartet tucked into one corner, every note so soft it disappears beneath the low tide of chatter and laughter. Waiters pass by with silver trays, glasses catching the light, the scent of perfume and gin layered over wet wool and expensive cologne.
I stand at the center of it, rooted like a monument. Lukyan wanted me here, so I came—suit pressed, shoes polished, jaw clenched tight.
Eyes follow me. Some pretend not to notice, but I see the flickers, the quick glances over crystal rims, the little shivers of recognition. The Sharov name travels far in rooms like this. Some people get bold, think a handshake with me is worth the risk. Most know better.
I tune them out. I’ve learned the art of boredom: how to let conversation slip by, how to nod at the right moments, and let my expression rest in careful indifference.
Still, there’s a restlessness under my skin tonight.
Maybe it’s the business in the back office, the silent deal riding on three paintings in the main gallery, or maybe it’s something I haven’t quite named.
A flicker of movement draws my focus. There, just beyond the marble bust of some dead Frenchman, slipping through a crowd of chattering wives and gallery donors.
Chestnut hair, pulled back loose, a line of tension in her shoulders that doesn’t belong here.
She isn’t wearing the kind of smile that comes easy.
There’s a clipboard clutched tight to her chest, a pair of low heels she keeps shifting on as if she wants to run.
She moves with intention, pausing to adjust a plaque, answer a question, direct a guest. Not a socialite.
Not one of the investors’ wives. She belongs to the art, not the party. For a moment, she looks up, scanning the room, and I see her eyes: sharp, curious, dark as mahogany. They catch on me and linger just a heartbeat too long before she looks away, color blooming in her cheeks.
Something about the line of her jaw feels familiar. The urge to chase that memory pulls at me, but then she’s gone, swept up by a knot of guests near the north exhibit.
I watch her disappear into the crowd. The sense of déjà vu lingers, irritating. I mentally run through the usual places: old deals, lost years, faces from my father’s world and my own. No answer comes. Lukyan would say I’m seeing ghosts.
A shadow falls over my shoulder. The gallery owner—Grayson, a nervous little man in a blue suit—sidles up, wringing his hands as if afraid I might bite.
“Mr. Sharov, so pleased you could join us,” he says, his voice oily with relief.
I nod, barely listening as he launches into a monologue about donors and commissions. “We’re honored to have you,” he continues, “and your family’s support has meant so much to the foundation. If you’d like a more personalized tour, I can arrange for one of our specialists. Actually, Isabella!”
He waves across the room. I glance up, pulse spiking with something more than boredom. The girl is back, standing by the marble bust, her face arranged in a polite smile. She’s good at it, but there’s a tension in her jaw, a flicker of something sharp behind her eyes.
She smooths her skirt with one hand, and for a moment her gaze flicks to mine.
“Isabella Rossi,” Grayson says, beaming, “our resident art historian and restoration specialist. She knows every piece in the collection.” His hand gestures from her to me. “Isabella, may I introduce Mr. Emil Sharov. He’s one of our most esteemed guests this evening.”
For a split second, her smile shatters. The blood drains from her face, leaving her pale under the lights. She recovers almost instantly, but I don’t miss it. Her eyes find mine, too wide, and then dart away, as if the name is something poisonous on her tongue.
I watch her, silent, every muscle going still. I know fear when I see it, but this is different, more like recognition, like someone looking at a painting they weren’t supposed to find in the attic. It amuses me.
“You’ve heard of my family, then?” I ask, voice low and even, watching the way she tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, the clipboard pressed tight to her side. Her hands are steady, but her fingers tap out a restless rhythm against the edge of the board.
She laughs, soft and controlled. “Russian art collectors are rather famous in my field, Mr. Sharov. You’d be surprised how often your name comes up.” She doesn’t quite meet my eyes. It’s a smooth deflection, practiced, but the nerves bleed through.
I let the silence stretch, curious now. She feels too brittle for the stage she’s forced to play on tonight. “Is that so?” I lean just a fraction closer. “What else do they say about us?”
Her lips twitch. “That you know how to spot a forgery better than most curators. That your taste is… selective.”
Grayson bobs his head, eager to fill the space.
“Isabella’s restored three of the major pieces tonight.
Quite the expert.” His gaze bounces between us, oblivious to the tension.
“Mr. Sharov’s family has an eye for these things.
Maybe you two should compare notes. After all, art is as much about history as it is about beauty. ”
She nods, murmurs something polite. Her eyes flick back to mine, and for a moment the mask slips. I see a spark of challenge, maybe even fear, but also curiosity. She knows more than she’s saying. I see it in the way her shoulders square, the way her breath comes quick and shallow.
I decide to let her go, for now. The room is full of eyes, and there’s no reason to draw more attention than necessary. Still, as Grayson drags her away toward another guest, I watch her, cataloging every detail.
Not the typical socialite. Not the typical anything.
Tonight, it seems, might not be as dull as I expected.
She leads me through the exhibit with the easy confidence of someone who knows every story behind every painting. Her voice is soft, almost careful, describing brushwork and provenance, dropping names that would impress the average patron.
I let her talk, nodding at the right places, but I’m not listening to her words. Not really.
What holds my attention is her. The shape of her mouth as she explains the meaning behind a mural that cost more than most apartments in the city. The way her hands hover just above the art, never quite touching.
When she gestures, her sleeve slips back and I see a faint scar along the inside of her wrist, old, almost faded. There’s nothing fragile about her, but there’s something distant. Untouchable. As if she’s learned to build walls taller than most men can climb.
We pause in front of a canvas splattered in burnt orange and bone white. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, eyes shining.
“This one was painted during the artist’s brief exile in Venice,” she says, “before he returned to Russia in the seventies. It’s meant to evoke homesickness.
See the sharp lines near the bottom? That’s supposed to represent a city skyline dissolving in mist.” She glances over at me, searching for some reaction.
I offer a small nod, but say nothing. The painting is lost on me. My eyes are on her, watching the careful way she controls every gesture, every word. I wonder if she knows she’s beautiful. Not in the obvious, expensive way most of the women in this room aim for, but something quieter, more honest.
Her features are all contradictions: sharp chin and soft lips, wide eyes that miss nothing but give away little.
Our shoulders brush as we move to the next piece, a fleeting spark that makes her cheeks flush pink. She steadies herself, notebook clutched in one hand, and clears her throat.
“You probably get enough of these lectures,” she says lightly, a self-deprecating tilt to her mouth. “I can be quiet if you’d rather walk the room on your own.”
I find myself wanting to answer, to say something other than the polished lines I use for business and threats. “It’s fine. I like hearing you talk.”
My words come out lower than intended, and for a moment she freezes, a flicker of surprise breaking through her composure.
She recovers quickly, lips pressing into a small, closed smile. “Then I’ll try not to bore you.”
You couldn’t if you tried, I almost say, but I bite back the words. Not my style. Not in public.
We move on. She explains the history behind a bronze sculpture, how the artist smuggled it out of Leningrad during the last days of the Soviet Union, how it nearly disappeared into a private collection in Switzerland.
I nod along, though my mind is only half on the art. The rest is busy cataloging details: the way her perfume—something faintly floral, not overpowering—lingers when she leans close to point out a flaw in the patina; the way her fingers tap the edge of her notebook whenever she’s thinking.
At one point, a couple of older men in dark suits drift close enough to hear, murmuring in Russian about the new blood running the Bratva. I feel her stiffen beside me.
She doesn’t look at them, but her grip on the notebook tightens until her knuckles go white. She knows more than she lets on, I’m certain now. Maybe it’s the Rossi name—a safe mask, or just a convenient coincidence.
When I look down, she’s watching me with a hint of wariness in her eyes, as if she expects me to break the spell and say something cruel. Instead, I ask quietly, “You’re not Russian. How did you end up here?”
She laughs, shaking her head. “Restoration is a small field, especially in New York. If you want to work, you follow the money. Most of it comes from collectors like your family.” There’s no accusation in her tone, but there’s a distance there, a line neither of us can quite cross.
I watch her lips as she talks, fascinated by the subtle tremor when she says my name, by the slight arch of her brow when she pushes for details about a painting’s provenance but never about my own. She doesn’t pry, but she doesn’t shy away, either. She’s too careful for that.