Chapter Eight - Emil
It’s a different world inside the gallery. Sunlight falls through tall, old windows in pale gold stripes, illuminating dust motes and glinting off polished wood.
There’s a hush to the place, a kind of peace I rarely find anywhere else in the city.
Certainly not in the clubs, the warehouses, or the corridors where men bargain over things they’ll never own.
Here, everything is deliberate—the careful arrangement of canvases, the muted echo of footsteps, the absence of threats lurking in every shadow.
I let the door swing shut behind me, the faint chime barely audible.
For a moment I stand in the entryway, letting my eyes adjust. I could almost imagine I belong here, just another patron out for a slow afternoon, if not for the weight of the gun pressing at my ribs and the old scars tightening across my knuckles.
Mr. Grayson—nervous as ever, hands fluttering—greets me near the front desk, eyes bright with the prospect of a return visit from a Sharov.
“Mr. Sharov! We’re so pleased you could join us again. May I fetch Miss Rossi? She’s working in the south wing today.”
I nod, offering a polite smile, and watch the little man hurry off. I drift among the paintings while I wait, boots silent on the polished floor. Here, violence feels impossible. The walls hold the calm in place.
When Isabella arrives, it’s almost quiet enough to hear the tap of her shoes.
She looks different in daylight: hair twisted up off her neck, stray strands curling loose, a pale blue blouse buttoned at her throat.
The effect is softer, but no less arresting.
Her face is clean, fresh; the faintest smudge of tiredness lingers beneath her eyes, but the fire is there, hidden behind composure.
“Mr. Sharov,” she greets, a calmness to her voice that wasn’t there in the club. “What brings you back today?”
I find myself wanting to say something honest, to admit I came for her and not for the paintings. Instead, I slip easily into the game. “You made a convincing guide last time,” I say, “and I realized I didn’t actually see all of the art.” My smile is polite, measured.
She nods, gesturing toward a row of landscapes at the far wall. “Then let’s do it properly this time.”
We walk together, her tone practiced and professional, giving details about each artist: backgrounds, techniques, provenance.
I nod in the right places, make a few comments about composition or color.
The truth is, I hardly hear a word. What captures me is the way she moves: graceful, certain, the careful way she positions her hands, the subtle straightening of her spine when I draw a little too close.
I let the silence stretch, then, as we pause before a painting, ask, “Did you always want to work with art?”
A flicker of something passes over her features. I see surprise, maybe, or suspicion. “For as long as I can remember,” she says. “There’s always been something comforting about order and beauty. About making sense of chaos.”
I study her, filing the words away. “You don’t strike me as someone who grew up around chaos.”
She glances at me, smile small and cool. “We all have our own kinds of chaos, Mr. Sharov.”
I let that hang, enjoying the measured cadence of her voice.
She’s careful, giving nothing away, but I catch the undertone—somewhere between defiance and wariness.
I want to see her crack, just for a moment.
“Where are you from, Isabella?” I ask, voice soft.
“You have a city accent, but not quite Manhattan.”
There’s the slightest hesitation. “New Jersey. My mother was Italian, my father—well, he wasn’t around much.” The answer is smooth, but she doesn’t quite meet my eyes.
I tilt my head, pressing gently. “I imagine it must have been difficult. New York isn’t always kind to people without a family behind them.”
She shrugs, as if it doesn’t matter, but I see the flicker of tension in her jaw. “I managed.”
We stand in silence before a portrait—a woman, all angles and darkness, staring defiantly out of the frame. Isabella steps closer, tracing the air just above the brushstrokes as she explains the artist’s method, her tone drifting almost into reverence.
When she leans in, I catch the faint scent of her perfume. It’s something floral, understated, like a memory I can’t quite place. For a moment, the cold inside me softens, the tight coil in my chest unwinding just a little.
I want to reach out, to touch her shoulder or tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, but I don’t move.
Instead, I ask, “Why art restoration? You could be curating shows, managing collectors. Why stay in the background?”
She hesitates, lips pressing together. “I like bringing things back to life. I like knowing that something damaged can still be made whole again.” For the briefest second, something raw flashes in her eyes before she shutters it behind her usual calm.
I hold her gaze, letting the silence settle between us.
There are a thousand things I want to ask about her family, her real past, what she’s hiding behind all that poise.
Instead, I let the distance linger, savoring the uncertainty.
Here, in the golden hush of the gallery, I feel closer to peace than I have in years.
When she finally steps back, the connection thins, replaced by that careful professionalism again. “Would you like to see the new exhibit?” she asks, voice clear.
I nod, and follow, thinking I could spend the whole day in this quiet sunlit place, chasing the warmth in her eyes. For now, I let her lead.
The late afternoon sunlight slants through the gallery windows, gilding Isabella’s profile in the hush that follows her last words about the painting. The quiet is full, suspended—a moment neither of us seems in any hurry to break.
I watch her, taking in the way the soft blue of her blouse brings warmth to her skin, the way her lashes cast shadows across her cheeks as she looks down, collecting her thoughts.
I’m not a patient man, but with her, the impulse to rush has faded. Instead, I want to see what happens when she’s given space to fill the silence. I find myself searching for something real, something that doesn’t belong to the world of bargains and threats.
I speak before I think to second-guess myself. “Have dinner with me, Bella.”
The nickname slips out, unplanned but right. The sound of it lingers, softer than my usual voice. My words are firm—habit, necessity—but not unkind.
Her reaction is immediate: a rush of surprise, color blooming high on her cheeks.
Her lips part in a small, startled breath, eyes widening for the briefest second before she tucks her gaze away, suddenly shy or maybe just careful.
She turns to fuss with a corner of her notebook, buying time, her fingers tracing absent patterns along the edge of the paper.
I wait, letting her gather herself. The gallery is empty except for the two of us, the silence almost intimate. I notice how she sways, just slightly, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She looks up—meets my gaze for a heartbeat, then glances aside again.
“I have work tonight,” she says at last, voice softer than before. “The new exhibit needs a final pass before opening.”
Her answer isn’t a no, and that fact alone sparks something bright inside me. She could have lied, could have given a sharper refusal. Instead, she leaves the possibility suspended in the air, and I know she feels it too.
I let a small, genuine smile touch my lips—a rare thing, a private thing.
“Another time, then.” My tone is light but carries more weight than I intend. The way her name sounds, shortened, on my tongue, is a revelation. I want to say it again.
She nods, a nervous little dip of her head, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her cheeks still hold that faint blush. “Maybe,” she manages, a ghost of amusement flickering through her composure. “When things are less hectic.”
“How about next Sunday, then?”
I can’t help the way my lips twitch in amusement.
She’s either shy, which doesn’t quite fit, or she’s cautious, which would be much more interesting.
There’s strategy in her restraint, I sense it.
She’s not a woman accustomed to being cornered or swept away.
She’s playing a part as much as I am, and the thought only intrigues me more.
It seems Isabella can’t think of a second excuse, so she nods. “Sunday, then. Sure.”
We finish the tour with a quiet politeness, our conversation returning to art, technique, the details of the upcoming show.
Something in the air has shifted. Each brush of her sleeve against mine, each sideways glance, feels loaded with meaning now.
When we reach the lobby again, Grayson is nowhere to be seen, leaving us alone in the warm hush.
Isabella stops by the front desk, her hand resting lightly atop the wood. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Sharov,” she says, her tone practiced and neutral, though her eyes flicker with something more.
I match her formality, inclining my head. “Thank you for your time, Miss Rossi.” The names taste false in my mouth; I want to call her Bella again, to keep her close for another moment.
A beat passes, too long for two people who are supposed to be strangers. She breaks it, flashing a polite smile and slipping through the office door, vanishing like a shadow against the polished glass.
I linger at the desk, fingers drumming a silent rhythm, before finally turning for the exit. My reflection stares back at me from the glass doors. Tall, dark, and unexpectedly off-balance. It’s been a long time since anyone left me standing, wanting.
The gallery door clicks shut behind me, and the city rushes in: traffic, horns, a hundred voices tangled in the spring air. I start down the steps, but her name echoes in my mind: Bella. The nickname fits her better than any title, the syllable soft and almost secret.
I walk slowly to my car, replaying every detail. The way she hesitated at my invitation, the guarded warmth behind her eyes, the way her poise slipped just enough to let something real show through.
She’s not like the women who orbit my world, drawn by money or fear or a hunger for power. She doesn’t want to impress, doesn’t want to be impressed. There’s something else in her… mystery, certainly, but also restraint, and under that, maybe even danger.
I realize, with a kind of surprise, that it’s the unpredictability that draws me. The possibility that she isn’t playing by anyone’s rules but her own. Not mine, not the city’s, not even her family’s.
For a man who’s made a life out of control, it’s that sliver of uncertainty that pulls me in, that keeps me off-balance in the most addictive way.
As I pull away from the curb, I see her silhouette through the window, lit by the last streak of daylight. She doesn’t watch me go, but I wonder if she’s thinking about me, about the invitation, about the way her name sounded in my mouth.
I drive, but the city blurs around me. My mind is crowded with her: her voice, her scent, the brush of her sleeve against mine. The women I’ve known before have always been easy to read: ambition, envy, greed, or the empty hunger for danger itself.
With Bella, I see none of those things and all of them at once. She’s careful, but I sense steel under her skin. If she’s hiding something, it’s not out of weakness. It’s out of strategy.
I know the signs. I’ve lived my life among people who conceal, who mislead, who know how to draw blood with a smile. I should be wary.
Instead, all I feel is curiosity and the stirrings of something darker, older—a hunger I’d thought I’d left behind.
Back in my office, Dimitri finds me at the window, drink untouched, staring out into the dusk.
He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment.
Instead, he flips through a folder on my desk, rattling off details about the next shipment.
I answer with half my attention, my mind drifting back to the quiet gallery, to Bella’s blush.
When he finally leaves, the silence is a comfort. I pull out my phone, scrolling aimlessly, half expecting her to appear in a message, to break the spell. She doesn’t, of course. She’s careful. She knows how to play this game.
Now, so do I.
I pour myself a fresh drink, letting the ice clink, savoring the sharp chill. The world outside the window grows darker. I think of her hands, the scent of her hair, the measured way she answered every question without giving herself away.
For a long time, I just sit, letting her name echo in the room. Bella.