41. Kirill
Kirill
“Breach. Breach!”
“Incoming!”
“Pakhan, take cover!”
My guards warning me of someone charging into the studio, spins me around. Drawing my gun, I brace myself. There’s nowhere to take fucking cover.
Then I see…Sandrine. Running toward me.
What the fuck?
How did she get here? Who is chasing her? Then I see my guards. My guards are chasing her.
“Stand down!” I roar, and everyone freezes. “Sandrine, what are you doing here?”
She’s under the sign that reads SANDRINE VOLKOV STUDIO, staring at it, looking confused.
“Kirill?” She says my name on a choked sob.
I march that way and make eye contact with my guards. “Get back.”
They retreat, and my mind is still catching up.
“Sandrine, how did you get here? Where the fuck is your guard?”
“Home. I drove myself.” She looks over my shoulder. “Who is that woman?”
My brain skips over Sandrine saying she drove herself here the minute she says that woman. Then it all clicks.
Aw, fuck.
I sheath my gun in my sidearm holster. “Sandrine, look at me, baby.”
Her watery eyes find mine. “Who is she?”
“My name is Nell Beechum,” the woman who I made the near-fatal mistake of meeting on the sly says.
“She’s an art dealer, Sandrine.” I put my arm around my wife. “She flew in from New York to meet you. Of course, I had to vet her first. I thought this would be the best place. See her natural reaction.”
“It’s an honor, Mrs. Volkov,” Nell speaks up. “I followed your work five years ago.”
“An art dealer?” Sandrine says, sounding so confused.
“Talk to her.” I lean down and kiss her cheek. “You got this, moya zhena.”
I step aside to give Sandrine space. Her drive to be a force in the art world is still inside her. Like being a mother was. And a wife. A wife to a dangerous man who couldn’t always be gentle.
“Kirill explained what happened. Your accident. I’m so sorry,” Nell says, circling the room, studying Sandrine’s canvases. “I was ready to sign you five years ago when you were an apprentice with Amon Fritz. Had the meeting all set up. Then you disappeared.”
“Amon…” Sandrine whispers. “I saw his book in your library, Kirill.”
“You wanted to work with him. I made that happen. He helped you grow,” I say, and leave out how I had to be talked out of killing him when I found out he handed over all her paintings to her father after she went missing.
“Your memories were stolen,” Nell says. “Not your ability. I’ve seen your recent sketches.”
“You showed her my sketches?” Sandrine asks me, her face even.
“Of course,” I explain. “You said you wanted to paint. I didn’t think you meant fingerpaints with Violet. I wasn’t so blind that I didn’t see how your talent was on the verge of exploding. Plus, painting calmed you. And made you the person you are. I want to give that back to you.”
“You’re lucky to have such a supportive husband,” Nell adds. “I’m here because I’m hosting a showcase for emerging artists next month in New York. I’m expecting a big turnout. Critics, collectors, influencers, the whole circus.”
Sandrine’s mouth falls open. “You want me?”
“Yes, you.” Nell grins. “You’re a risk. But a good one.”
“I haven’t painted anything new in years.” She exhales. “Not on canvas.”
“I’d like to show these.” She points to three landscapes.
“My… My paintings are here,” Sandrine says, recognizing the collection I showed her weeks ago.
“Yes, baby,” I confirm.
“Paint me one new piece,” Nell says. “We can feature it on social media. Brand New. Never Before Seen.” She flashes her hands as if her words were on a banner.
Sandrine blinks. “I don’t have social media. Not anymore.”
Nell takes out her phone and steps toward my wife. “I found this old Instagram account. Log into it tonight and add a few posts about the show. I’ll send the banners. Influencers will tag you. Critics and collectors will look you up.”
Sandrine laughs weakly. “I don’t remember anything about Instagram.”
“Let your daughter run it.”
“She’s five,” I object, folding my arms. “I’ll hire my wife an assistant.”
I don’t want my daughter anywhere near social media.
“I… I don’t know.” Sandrine steps back, looking overwhelmed.
“Artists are sharks. You have to keep moving, or you die.” Nell steps toward Sandrine, showing both power and persuasion.
“You’re back from the dead. Don’t die on us again.
I’ll leave this packet on your desk out front.
My card is inside. Reach out to me with any questions.
No pressure, but I’m holding the spot for you. I don’t want anyone else.”
Nell leaves with a nod to me, which I return.
When she’s gone, Sandrine wanders deeper into the studio. “Kirill! What did you do?”
This is a place that belongs to her. Only her. Not even me.
“This is your building.” I kiss her hand. “It belongs to you. Only you. It’s in your name. I had always planned to build you a studio of your own. I just never got the chance.” My voice cracks, and I cover it up.
“Kirill…” She breathes.
I guide her farther inside. “Come look.”
Windows show a narrow branch of the river rushing between stone embankments. Downstream, water churns through an old concrete spillway, creating a steady roar that drowns out the sounds of the city. Sounds that Sandrine can no longer separate in her head.
Even though it’s far from Iron Keep. She has guards, and I’ve installed security cameras that cost more than most people’s houses.
With freshly milled wooden floors, the whole space is drenched in sunlight from the pitched glass cathedral ceiling above, with massive industrial beams. Shelves line a brick wall to the left, filled with matching ceramic containers overflowing with brushes, painter’s tools, oils, and turpentine.
Below that are sketchbooks, pencils, charcoal, and colored wax sticks.
Empty canvases of different sizes sit on several easels. Rows of other blank ones are on the shelves. All to be used at her whim. One splash of paint to test, or a full-on masterpiece.
I watch my wife walk slowly toward one canvas, her fingertips hovering above the paint but not touching.
I move closer behind her. “You said years ago your own studio would make you look more professional.”
“I was only nineteen, you must have laughed at me.” She holds her coat closed.
“No.” I grip her shoulders. “Never.”
Her eyes shine as she looks around again. “Kirill… I don’t deserve this.”
“Yes, you do.”
I have to accept that perhaps Sandrine had a moment of weakness from all the stress of being a young mother and went home to her father for a rest, a break.
She might have needed a shoulder to cry on because she didn’t think I would be sympathetic to her emotional issues at the time. Perhaps the real her was dying inside, and I didn’t see it. And because of my failure to recognize her needs, everything died.
This is the real her again. I recognize it. I smell it on her skin.
“And look…” I bring her to another wall of Violet’s finger paintings framed in an uneven pattern. “I collected all the ones with your signature color.”
“She’s my mini-me,” Sandrine coos. “Even though she looks more like you.”
“I see you in so much of her.” And I don’t say how it bothered me for so many years.
Now it adds to the joy of Sandrine being home. My daughter has her mother. And I have my wife.
She hurls herself at me and throws her arms around my neck. “Thank you.”
My hands slide to her waist, pulling her in. “For what?”
“For believing in me.” She kisses me.
I grip the back of her hair. “Now do you want to explain to me how you got here?”
“I, um. I drove.” She shrugs. “You were right. I knew how.”
“And how did you get past my guards?” Before she can answer, I see my driver standing in the vestibule, holding a hat.
I swear under my breath, not even knowing where to begin, and who to kill first.
“Don’t be mad.” She reaches up and threads her fingers into my hair.
I grip her hair in response and kiss her. “You like me like this, moya zhena? Rough with passion?”
“I do.” She turns back to all the supplies and moves her hands across the brushes. “So, I can come here any time to paint.”
“Anytime.”
She looks down at her watch. “Violet. I left her with the nanny.”
Admittedly, I only meant to meet Nell here on my own, explain Sandrine was home, show her the paintings, and arrange for them to meet if Nell wanted to sign her.
I lead her through the studio. Rome wasn’t built in a day. This is the first step for the full restoration of who she was. Not just her name.
“You know…” She takes my hand. “Driving here, I had that strange déjà vu feeling.”
That gives me a shred of hope that she’ll eventually remember what happened the night of her accident.
“We made love in this parking lot quite often,” I tell her. “You loved it here, said the sound of the water soothed you.”
“Do you know what soothes me now?” she says, turning in my arms.
“What, dorogaya?”
“Hearing you and Violet.” She kisses me. “Let’s go home.”
Smiling, I take the keys from her. “I’m driving.”