Chapter 31 Lens
Lens
Mikko
Have I pushed too far? Crossed too many boundaries?
Mikko found himself not caring. Breaking into her house while she was there was risky—an idea that may come back and bite him—but he hadn’t been able to help himself.
And their kiss…
He could still smell her on his balaclava; he could still feel her soft lips pressed against his.
Shivering, he remembered the way her warm skin seared through his street clothes, making all his reasonable thoughts scatter.
His dick had been too hard the whole way home, and even though he could relieve some of the pressure with his hands, it’d never fully work.
With a sigh, Mikko unlocked the door to his penthouse, eager to disappear and have a moment to think.
His mind needed a quiet place to gather his disarrayed thoughts.
Even though she’d told him she had nothing to do with Ivan, he didn’t believe a single word that came out of her mouth. Even though he really wanted to.
“And if that’s exactly what I’m doing, what then? How far would you go for revenge?”
Her words haunted him. All this time, while he’d been trying to protect his own business and friends, maybe she was also doing the same?
The unopened manila folder with her background, her true background and not the fake one she put up, sat untouched on his kitchen island.
After everything, doubt had crept in. Stopping by the office on the way home had been easy, carrying it with him in the elevator had been easy, but now as it stared at him…
He suddenly didn’t want to know. Mikko had a sinking feeling that whatever he was about to find would shatter the illusion he formed around himself. Anika would no longer be an escape but a threat. She’d be someone he needed to eliminate.
The mere thought had anxiety crawling up the back of his throat.
His mind pored over other avenues they could take that didn’t involve bloodshed—that didn’t involve Mikko becoming like Alek.
His father had no problem eliminating threats, barely needed any information to come to a decision.
Violence had always been the answer for him.
But for Mikko…
Her skin had been oh, so warm and soft against his, her compliance admirable even when he could see how much fire was in her eyes, but it was also alarming. She was too wild to not go without a fight, so what angle was she working tonight?
Why let me win? Why let me kiss her?
He didn’t regret it. If anything he was disappointed that he hadn’t continued. It’d taken everything in him not to rip the binds from her wrists and ankles and lay her out on her own kitchen floor, fingers and tongue eager to memorize the planes of her skin—
His body reacted, semi-hard cock already stiffening beneath his pants. He could take care of his lust, this physical issue, but there was something deeper that couldn’t be satiated.
Another sigh filled the empty space around him, the city lights glimmering beyond the panes of glass. As he laid on his couch, eyes tracing the skyline’s silhouette, he thought about all the decisions leading him here—leading him so far from where he originally wanted to go.
What had begun as a random interaction had quickly turned into a dirty investigation.
One that had transformed into him feeling things he shouldn’t toward a woman who was out for blood.
His blood. But he’d always wanted to escape Romanov Real Estate, his burn out so far gone that he felt nothing when his men and business started crumbling all around him.
Instead, he only felt alive when Anika was near.
He needed to get some rest, but the adrenaline coursing through his veins made it hard.
Many nights he fell into bed, drained and letting sleep claim him before the incessant thoughts did, but tonight proved harder.
After many minutes of laying there, waiting for his mind to go blank and for the ever elusive pull of sleep to find him, Mikko gave up.
Standing, his sock clad feet carried him to the sleek stairs leading up to the loft of his residence. It was an open space overlooking his living room below. It was too small for his tastes for a bedroom, but it was perfect for one of his many hobbies. Photography.
The glass paneled railing allowed for unimpeded views while he sat at his L-shaped work desk.
Papers and crafts and models littered the surface.
It was the one area he allowed himself to be free and messy—no rules.
Minimal wall space forced him to only hang art he deemed unparalleled: pieces of his mom’s collection.
The brush strokes were sure, the whispering and soft landscapes wholly her.
Every time he saw them, he smiled. It’d been a pain in the ass to track them down after his father had sold them off nearly two decades ago, but now Mikko had limitless money and power.
When he wasn’t consumed with the mafia or his father’s incessant teachings, he let his mind wander to the aesthetics and the beauty of the surrounding world.
Painting with his mom had been one outlet, but now he enjoyed capturing people’s essence through photos. There were binders on his desk that were filled with compositions and experimental shots. Pictures of places he’d visited abroad. Anything that captivated him, he had a photo of.
As his finger trailed over the edge of a model he’d made, he knew he was avoiding the inevitable—drawing out his fate.
He should be opening Anika’s folder instead, sifting through everything it contained like his life depended on it—because it did—but one last night of daydreaming wouldn’t hurt, right?
How many times are you going to tell yourself that? he thought miserably. Other than vodka, avoidance was his coping method of choice.
Mikko was softer than most, a fact his father had drilled into him, but he shook the thoughts away.
Running his hands through his hair, the strands wild and in need of a comb, Mikko moved over to gaze at the messy pile of photos on his desk—some ranging from sunsets and landscapes, to unassuming people he’d captured on the city streets.
And beneath those, lurked ones giving physical form to the muse of his mind. Anika.
Eyes full of anger and mischief, the color of melted caramel, liquid under the heat and sure to eviscerate anyone who got too close.
Dark hair enticed him to come closer despite her poisonous bite.
Anika. Anika. Anika.
He made sure to hide them beneath the other photos, desperately trying to convince himself they were only here because of his personal investigation.
And the hidden album of more photos on his phone?
Same explanation. But now, after the night he’d spent pressed close to her—kissing her—he was starting to question it.
How bad can it be?
A dangerous thought.
As his mom always said, “Beautiful things enrapture people like us, Mikko. Others often won’t understand, but that’s okay.”
He gritted his teeth, the pit in his stomach yawning, threatening to consume every bright spot he’d held close in his heart. He wondered who he would have become had his mom managed to stay beside him. It was a haunting question keeping him up on nights like these.
And with no one to tell, Mikko often slipped into bad coping methods.
Another one being Anika.
* * *
Mikko - 24 Years Ago
“—he’s coming with me regardless if you think it’s a waste of time,” Mikko’s mom whispered from around the corner. Her voice was strong and defiant in the face of his father even as she desperately tried to keep Mikko from overhearing the conversation.
Eavesdropping was becoming one of his favorite pastimes, his ability to creep through the halls of their house and gather information slightly addicting to his childlike brain.
“He needs to be here, with me, learning the business,” Alek responded. “How else will he learn?”
“He has his whole life ahead of him, don’t rush him. He’s too young. What could you possibly have him do?”
Mikko softly smiled, forever grateful his mom spoke when he could not.
Recently, tensions had been running high, the real estate business taking off and keeping Alek busy.
Despite the success, his father was tense, looking for someone to take his frustrations out on, and Mikko always wound up being his scapegoat.
“Kids grow up fast, Eleanor. He’ll be a spiteful teen who wants nothing to do with us soon enough. And by that time, it’ll be too late.”
“You’re so dramatic. He’ll come around when he’s ready.”
“He’s ready now.”
His mom ignored him. “We’ll talk about this more later; you’re going to make us late to our class.”
At the sound of a faint kiss, Mikko knew he needed to put some distance between himself and his parent’s private conversation.
Quickly, his feet were soundless as he ran back the way he’d come from.
The corridor of their house was opulent and cold.
Art his mom had curated and collected from art directors and galleries across the world hung on the walls, their colors bleeding together as he dashed past. Skidding around a corner, out of sight, he bent over to catch his breath.
“Mikko!” she called out not knowing he was closer than she thought, “You ready to head out to our painting class?”
Straightening his clothes, he schooled his features into something unsuspecting and rounded the corner. “Hi mom, I’m ready.”
Her hair was dark and pulled back into a messy bun.
Her clothes were casual, something she could get paint on and not care about.
While she looked carefree—an artist’s spirit embodied—he didn’t miss the dark circles forming under her eyes and the shine dulling from her hair.
Mikko was beginning to wonder if his father’s money was taking a mental toll on her too.
She’d never approved of the way he’d earned it or spent his time, but he bought her whatever she wanted, especially art.
Maybe it would be enough to keep them quiet—happy.
Despite the tired look in her eyes, her features brightened when she saw him. “Perfect, we have blank canvases awaiting us. I can only imagine what my little daydreamer will create today.”
Her words erased the intuition that’d been niggling in his gut moments before.
AN HOUR LATER they sat at easels. His mom’s fine brush strokes were enviable.
“How do you make it look so easy?” he asked, tongue poking out from the corner of his mouth in concentration.
She smiled, pausing briefly to glance over at him. “Years of practice.”
“But I’m nine, that’s plenty old enough to be good at this.”
His mom’s lilting laughter warmed his heart, canceling out the frustrations lingering there. “Hardly, you’ve got so much time left ahead of you, Mikko. Don’t rush perfection.” She wiped the color smeared on her fingers onto her apron.
“But I want to be like you.” A protest from his lips.
“And you will, give it time.” It was a promise from hers.
The conversation he’d overheard earlier lingered in his mind. What if he didn’t learn fast enough? What if he couldn’t prove to his father that he was meant for more than real estate and scams? What if he was roped into the family business instead?
Even as a young kid, Mikko knew that was the last thing he wanted.
“Besides, you have an eye for this. It’s only a matter of time before it clicks.
” Turning back to her canvas, his mom continued.
It was a sunset, the orange color blazing across the horizon defiantly.
Everyone in the room was painting some version of it, the instructor at the front of the class helping lead some parts of the painting, but to him, his mom’s was the best.
She always soared above the rest.
Unable to help himself, the words burst free. “What if dad is right?”
Her spine stiffened slightly. “What do you mean, dear?”
“That I should be focusing on learning all that I can from him about the business.”
A moment of silence as she feathered in a rich pink color onto her piece. “Someone’s been eavesdropping I see.” She glanced over at him knowingly.
“I know…I shouldn’t have, but dad’s always arguing.”
“He’s going through a rough patch right now. Stress impacts everyone differently, and for your father…well, he has a tendency to expect everyone to play pretend like him.”
Reaching over, her paint flecked hand squeezed Mikko’s shoulder.
“Besides, you know how he is, he’s never been able to understand the world like us, dear.
We see it from a different lens—as a place to be explored and revered.
But your father,” she sighed, and Mikko couldn’t tell if it was in exhaustion or remembrance, “he sees the world in black and white, logic overruling everything else.
He forgets the small things that make up life—make it beautiful.
“Never lose that, Mikko. It’s what makes you special.”
“I won’t.” He picked up his brush again, motivation reinvigorated.
Little did he know that would become a lie, that his promise would falter in the face of his father’s anger. Everything his mom worked for would crumble, the city forgetting what kind of woman she’d been.
And never would he have guessed the same hands she painted with would wither away to bone, motor skills gone from the chemotherapy, and her brilliant shining light snuffed out like a candle blown out from a cold wind.