Chapter Five - Isabella
My pulse doesn’t settle. Not even when I’m moving, not even when I pretend the Sharov name is just another entry in the guest book, another blip in a world I can’t escape.
Emil Sharov.
The name echoes through my skull, sharp and final. Now I know for certain: he’s the man in the photograph, the shadow in Enzo’s secrets, the name my uncle said with clenched teeth in the dead of night.
He stands beside me, a black-suited contradiction. There’s nothing showy about him, but he doesn’t have to try. When Emil asks about the age of the bronze or the history of a particular painting, his tone is mild, almost disinterested.
His eyes linger, assessing, calculating, as if every answer I give is being filed away for later.
I keep my smile steady. I learned that trick young. My voice is smooth when I tell him about the provenance of the DeLuca mural, the way smuggled art pieces cross more borders than diplomats ever could.
My mind is only half on the words, half on the memory of that photograph. Enzo’s careless grin, the silver ring gleaming on Emil’s hand, the way they leaned together—trusted, maybe, or trapped.
We move through the exhibit, shoulders nearly brushing, and every time Emil’s hand grazes the frame beside mine, something tightens in my chest. His presence unsettles me.
It’s not just the way he looks—cold, perfectly controlled—but the intensity beneath the surface, the sense that nothing here is truly safe.
His gaze pins me, and for a second I wonder what he sees.
Does he know who I am? Or is he just curious about the girl with the wrong name and too many questions?
I force myself to stay focused, shifting into the role I know best—polite, professional, invisible when I need to be.
Tonight, I can’t help myself. I ask, as we pause beside a landscape with brushstrokes wild as a storm, “It must be complicated, importing Russian art these days. All the new regulations. I imagine collectors need good lawyers more than good taste.”
He looks at me, lips curving in a faint, knowing smile. “Lawyers are always useful.” His voice is low, almost teasing. “Taste is harder to buy.”
I match his smile, determined not to flinch. “I suppose that depends on what you’re buying.”
He offers nothing more. His answers are all surface, just enough to show me he isn’t fooled.
I press once more, asking about the exhibition in St. Petersburg last fall, but he only shrugs.
“I didn’t make it that year.” There’s a glint of amusement in his eyes, as if he enjoys watching me dig for information he has no intention of giving.
We continue, the air between us dense with things unsaid.
My hands shake when I think no one’s looking, but my voice never wavers.
I remind myself: he’s just a man. Just another criminal in a room full of them.
Still, every time he looks at me, the memory of Enzo’s absence aches sharper in my chest.
A few minutes later, Emil’s phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, murmurs an apology, and excuses himself. He moves through the crowd with that same quiet confidence, everyone unconsciously giving him space. I watch him go, only releasing my breath once he’s nearly out of sight.
Needing a moment to collect myself, I drift toward the back of the gallery, near the offices. The corridor is quieter here, the noise of the crowd muffled by thick walls and the hum of the building’s old air-conditioning.
I let my fingers brush along the painted brick, grounding myself. I shouldn’t linger—there’s still work to do—but my mind is buzzing with questions I can’t answer.
As I turn the corner, I catch the sound of voices.
They’re low, speaking Russian. I hesitate, half hidden by the doorframe, curiosity getting the better of me.
The two men stand just outside a narrow office, one tall and ruddy-faced, the other older, his hair already thinning at the temples.
Their conversation flows easily, too fast for me to follow every word, but I catch pieces—names, numbers, a quick laugh.
“…should have seen Grayson’s face when he saw the price,” the older man says in English, then slips back into Russian.
I focus, listening hard. The younger one drops his voice. “…Bruno family, still pretending they have a seat at the table.”
The other laughs, a snort so careless it makes my stomach turn. “Let them pretend. After what happened, who would take their peace offering seriously? The girl, the nephew, it doesn’t matter.”
A chill prickles my skin. I press myself closer to the wall, hoping the shadows will swallow me whole. Their voices drop lower again, just out of reach.
Then, clear as glass, the younger man says, in English this time, “The peace offering died before the ink could dry.”
The words echo in my head, shoving aside the last shreds of doubt.
Enzo’s name is never spoken, but it hangs there—heavy, obvious, devastating. Why else would my brother have risked a meeting with a Sharov? If our families were supposed to be at war, what kind of bargain had Enzo tried to make, and who had betrayed him?
My hands tremble as I pull away from the wall. I replay the images: Enzo’s easy smile in that photograph, the way he leaned in toward Emil Sharov like they were partners—or enemies trying to become something else.
All my life, I’d been kept out of the real family business, my uncle’s world of whispered threats and old vendettas. I see it all for what it is: a war fought in shadows, alliances built on lies, and now, a brother buried with his secrets.
It has to be them. There’s no other explanation. The Sharovs killed him, or at the very least, let him die. My pulse thrums with a cold, hard certainty. The truth isn’t just out there, waiting for me to find it. It’s dangerous, and it’s close.
The rest of the evening blurs by. I slip back into the main gallery, my face arranged into the same polite smile I’ve worn since childhood. Collectors thank me for my help, Clara loops her arm through mine and whispers about the afterparty, and I nod, make excuses, pretend I’m just tired.
Underneath, everything is sharper: anger, fear, a mission that’s no longer about curiosity or even grief. It’s about justice. I want to know exactly what Emil Sharov did to Enzo, and why he still carries that silver ring.
At the end of the night, I gather my things in the staff office. My hands are steadier now. The shock has cooled into resolve.
I sign out, thank Mr. Grayson for another wonderful event, and duck outside into the crisp night. The city air feels raw, a little bitter against my cheeks, but it helps clear my head.
I glance back, just once, through the glass doors of the gallery. Emil is still there, standing half in shadow by the entrance, suit immaculate, his posture relaxed and watchful. His eyes meet mine.
Even from across the empty hall, I feel that same strange pull, the way he looks through people instead of at them. I don’t let myself look away first. I hold his gaze, daring him to blink, daring him to show any sign that he remembers Enzo, remembers me.
He doesn’t. His face is a mask of calm. Unreadable, impossible to crack. If he feels anything, he hides it well.
Finally, I turn and disappear into the cold, the click of my heels echoing over the concrete.
The gallery shrinks behind me, swallowed by city lights.
I force my breath slow, one step at a time, repeating the same promise with every stride: I won’t rest until I know the truth.
Not just about my brother’s death, but about the man who watched me with those ice-gray eyes—Emil Sharov, who, for all his control, can’t erase what happened between our families.
The city swallows me up, neon and shadows threading between my footsteps as I hurry away from the gallery.
My mind spins with fragments: Enzo’s laughter echoing down memory’s hallway, Emil’s cool gaze dissecting me across a crowded room, those careless words about a peace offering dead before the ink dried.
I know what that means now. I know, and I can never un-know it.
My fingers tighten around the strap of my bag. The night air is sharp, scraping cold into my lungs, but I hardly notice.
All I can think of is the way Emil stood there, calm and untouched, as if none of it could ever touch him. How many others has he watched walk away like this, shivering with knowledge, half afraid and half determined?
I don’t let myself slow down. Anger keeps me moving. It’s a bright, steady flame burning away the fear. I replay every word he said, every small deflection, the moments he let me get close only to close the door in my face.
He knows who I am. Maybe not my name, but he knows I’m a threat. Or maybe he just thinks I’m another bystander, too small to matter in the world of men like him.
I want to prove him wrong. I want to drag every secret out of the dark, no matter what it costs. For Enzo. For the years I spent believing the accident was just that—an accident. I won’t be lied to again.
At the end of the block, I stop under the hard blue glow of a streetlight and look back one last time.
The gallery’s doors are dark now, the party fading behind its walls.
My reflection stares back from the glass of a parked car—eyes wild, jaw set.
I don’t look like a woman running from something anymore. I look like someone running toward it.
Tonight, I became my own witness. I heard the truth, or close enough to reach for it. The Brunos and Sharovs both have blood on their hands, and I intend to find out whose blood it really is. Emil Sharov may hide behind careful words and a polished mask, but he’s not untouchable.
Not to me.