by A. Zavarelli
The brown paper folder in his hands commands my attention, and I know that this is it. He has the answers I have sought for a lifetime. Yet I can’t bring myself to open it now.
“She’s dead, isn’t she?”
Mischa hesitates, then nods. “I don’t suppose you will consider that as closure.”
“No.”
“Then I urge you to act now, Kolyan, before things get any more complicated than they already are. I think you should not put it off another day.”
“How did you get this information?” I ask.
His eyes drift away from mine. “I had some help from Alexei.”
I’m tempted to punch him square in the face, and Mischa knows it.
“He already knew,” Mischa says. “And he was the one to approach me. In fact, he was the one who did most of the work. I am only the delivery boy because he’d rather not deal with you himself.”
I snatch the file from the table and stand. There is nothing left to say. Mischa can request my word as much as he’d like, but I won’t give it. Not until I know what this means for me.
Or Nakya.
Something I’ve learned about Nikolai is that he holds onto an insult with steel reinforced teeth. We’ve scarcely spoken a word in over two weeks, and I know it’s because of my comment about Dante.
It shouldn’t bother me, considering he marked me like a dog and left a proverbial arrow in my heart. I don’t want Dante, but I like to throw him in Nikolai’s face because it’s the only weapon that seems to penetrate his invisible forcefield.
I really didn’t have a good reason for doing it, but I was angry. Everything in my life is spinning out of control, and I can’t find my balance. The longer I stay here, playing whatever role he sees fit, the more difficult it becomes to see myself in any other reality. I’m at his mercy, and he won’t give me the lies I need to hear.
I want him to tell me that he won’t marry Ana. I want him to say that I’m not broken anymore, and everything is going to be okay. But his truth is bitter and loving him is too. The thief stole my heart, only to hold it in the palm of his hand, extorting my affections when it suits him.
Too often, I have found myself wandering the house at night, awaiting his return. My restless soul won’t let me sleep, and my mind won’t give up wondering where he is. Tonight is no different. Anguish nags at me as I stare out the window and trace the constellations with my finger. He hasn’t taken me in two weeks. I would be a fool to believe he hasn’t been with anyone else. It’s the mafia way, and this is the fate I’m cursed to live, whether it’s with Nikolai or with Dante.
I close my eyes and wish for sleep, but it evades me in the same way the sun chases the moon. It’s either dark, or it’s light, and there is no eclipse on the horizon.
I take to wandering the house again. Nikolai’s room is empty, and I indulge my habit by touching his things. His clothes, his jacket, his cap. They smell like him, and his bed does too. Sweet tobacco and cloves. I curl into his pillow and breathe him in. I wonder if he ever feels as tormented as I do. I wonder if he ever lays here at night and thinks about coming to my room to steal me away again.
In answer, a melancholy tune echoes from above like a soundtrack to my madness.
At first, I think it’s my imagination. But the tune plays on, and when I look up at the ceiling, I can almost feel his energy luring me there.
I’ve never been up to the third floor. Nonna told me it was off limits, and I didn’t care to find out why. But at this late hour, I can’t think of a single reason to obey. I slip from the bed and walk quietly to the landing. I’ve only ever gone down the stairs before, and it feels dangerous to be climbing up instead.
When I encounter a door at the top, my adventure ends abruptly. It’s a solid door. Different from the others in the house. It looks heavy and secure, and I know there’s no way I’m getting through, but I also know this must be where Nikolai keeps his secrets. I want to collect his secrets like he has collected my tears. I want to dissect the intimate details of the man who haunts me day and night. But there’s a barrier in the way.
My shoulders sag, and I’m prepared to take leave with my disappointment until I see the small sliver of light reflecting off the floor.
It’s cracked. Just barely, but it’s cracked.
I press my fingertips against the door, but it doesn’t budge until I put my entire body’s weight against it, creating a gap wide enough to slip through. My pulse jumps as my feet move forward. It could be the last bad decision I ever make, but desperation leaves me greedy for answers. And when I reach the threshold of what can only be described as a vault, I finally have them.
Two things hit me at once. The confounding realization and subsequent relief that Nikolai is not out with Ana or anyone else, and that he is, in fact, here. Shirtless and paint splattered in nothing more than a pair of well-worn jeans that hang loosely from his hips.
There is a suspended moment of time I’m gifted to soak it all in. He’s humming along to the music, deep vibrations rumbling from his chest as his hand moves quickly and expertly over the canvas in front of him. At least a dozen others surround him, and I feel like I’m in a dream when I see them.
Dancers. They are all dancers.
And they are all me.
It’s too much for my mind to process. What I’m witnessing isn’t what I know him to be. He is mafiya. A thief. Not an artist. But my judgment can’t argue with realism. I confined him to a box inside my mind, and he hasn’t just stepped outside it, he’s blown it entirely apart.
He created these pieces. He conceived and designed and toiled over these works.
I expected to find so many other things. Death. Torture chambers. Violence. Money and guns. But not art. I can’t fathom it. Right now, I don’t want to. I want to pretend I never saw it. It’s the only way to protect myself. But the chance is lost when Nikolai turns and catches me watching him.
I’m prepared to flee, but one command from him halts me.
“Stop.”
I freeze.
His eyes hold me hostage. “What do you mean to do by sneaking around?”
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s not an answer.” He discards the brush in his hand against the easel. “Tell me what you were looking for.”
His face and his heart are closed. Shielded. He does not trust me. I don’t trust him either, but we don’t need trust to destroy ourselves.
“I was looking for you.” I tap my toes against the cold floor, wishing I could create a sinkhole to escape his scrutiny.
The music plays on, the only sound between us. The tune is classical and beautiful and not something I would expect from Nikolai. But then again, he has proven me to be a fool when it comes to my expectations.
He makes the first move, stalking me like a jungle cat.
“Why would you be looking for me?” He forces my chin up with his hand. “Have you come to make another declaration of your love for Dante? Or perhaps a worthless plea to return home to your loving father?”
His words are laced with undisguised bitterness, and a ray of hope shines brightly inside of me.
“I’ve come to do neither,” I tell him. “I’ve come because …”
I can’t say the words. I’m not ready to admit how impoverished I feel without him. I’m definitely not ready to confess that I purged my depraved needs by thinking of him while I touch myself.
I cave into myself and look up at him. My values have taught me that it’s not my place to be forward with a man. But right now, it’s the only thing I want to do. When I reach up with an unsteady hand, he doesn’t move. He’s rigid and unresponsive, but the cold war fractures when my fingertips touch his face.
His eyes fall shut, and he narrows the distance between us by dragging me against his body. His engorged cock lays heavy against my belly, already ripe with want. My lips find his, and I’m ready to let myself be lost in his skin. But there is still one thought plaguing my mind.
“Have you been with others?”
Nikolai locks me in his arms to prevent me from pulling away. His eyes are softer than they were only a minute ago, but not any less beautiful.
“Would it matter?” He toys with the strap of my silk chemise. “I thought you were merely biding your time until your return home.”
“It does matter.” My heart pulses wildly. “I want your everything while I have it. Wait until I’m gone, and then you can—”
“Nakya.” He sucks my bottom lip between his teeth, forcing my mouth open. The ensuing kiss is violent and possessive, but entirely too short.
“I don’t want anyone else,” he breathes. “Why would I when I have you?”
His words are genuine, but I still have my doubts. And I’m certain he is tired of giving me assurances he has no need to give. He could take me either way. He could do whatever he likes. His loyalty is not owed to me. But regardless, it’s what I see in his eyes when he whispers his next words.
“You gave yourself to me, my sweet. And it is not a difficult task to give you my loyalty in return. I have no reason to lie when I tell you that you have poisoned me against any other woman.”
“So keep me then,” I plead. “Keep me and make me yours, Nika. Carve your star into my skin and never let me go.”
He kisses me, and it isn’t a promise, but an admission. He wants to keep me, but he won’t make a promise he’ll be forced to break. As much as I need those words right now, I need him more.
We come together in a slow burn. Hot, sticky hands undress each other and explore the canvases of our bodies. He cups me between my legs and kisses my throat. “Whose pussy is this?”
“Yours.”
He groans and dips his fingers inside me, toying with me while he sucks on the flesh above my collarbone. “Tell me you’re mine.”
He wants it. Needs it. He’s been begging for it. And I’m done playing games.
“I’m yours.”
Our naked bodies collide and tumble to the floor. He enters me with a sigh, and I squeeze around him. He’s on top of me and inside me, fucking me drunkenly as he struggles to maintain the connection between our eyes. But he isn’t just fucking me this time.
He’s making love.
I nurture his affections, peppering him with kisses. Whispering words meant only for his ears. I beg him never to stop. I beg him over and over to keep me. He begs me over and over to tell me again that I’m his.
We shatter, and we nap, and we wake up, only to do it all over again.
My fingers hover centimeters away from the painting, breath absent from my lungs. It’s beautiful and horrific. A violation. An obsession. An open window to my psyche. And I can’t look away.
Nikolai wipes away a tear I didn’t even realize I’d shed before he sweeps my hair over my shoulder and kisses my neck from behind. “Tell me what you are thinking, zvezda.”
“Why?” I whisper.
Why did he choose to paint the worst moment of my life? And how did he get inside my head? How did he know me so intimately at that moment? The shattering loss that rendered me immobile. The deep, violent despair. Every emotion is so tangible that it feels more like a memory than a painting. Fall from Grace, he calls it.
“How could I not?” he answers. “It’s not every day that you witness the fall of an angel.”
I sob, and he holds me. It’s ridiculous that I’m so emotional over a piece of art, but it’s so much more than that. It’s the realization that, from the beginning, he has seen me. He has known me.
The truth is painted on as many canvases as I can see. Each one is different, but in many ways, they are the same. They are all me.
“I can’t believe you made these,” I say. “I can’t believe your talent.”
“It’s not so difficult when you have a beautiful muse.”
He allows me time to process each piece. Until every detail has soaked into my brain and become a part of me. And then we find ourselves on the floor again, touching and kissing, but too spent to take it any further than that.
Side by side, we stare up at the ceiling, his palm skating the curve of my hip as he lights a cigarette.
“You should quit,” I tell him.
“I will.” He exhales. “Eventually.”
I smile and shake my head. “Isn’t it bad for the art?”
“Very,” he answers. “But now there will be a small part of me in your paintings. A signature, if you will.”
My paintings. He says it as if they belong to me, but I know they won’t be coming with me when I go. I imagine them a hundred years from now, gathering dust in a collection somewhere. What will people think when they look at them? Will they know that girl even existed, or believe her to be a figment of the artist’s imagination?
“What else do you paint?” I ask.
“Forgeries, mostly,” Nikolai answers casually. “But they are not all paint. Some are other mediums.”
“So that’s why this room is so heavily locked down?”
He smiles. “I am a thief, zvezda. As such, I’ve been known to steal a few valuable pieces now and then.”
I’m surprised to find how much I don’t care about his admission. He is honest about himself, at least. And in my mind, I like the idea of being bad with him. I reach for the cigarette and swipe it from his hand. He turns to me, curious, watching as I bring it to my lips.
His lips tilt at the corners when I inhale just a tiny bit and start to cough. “That’s really good,” I sputter.
He laughs, and his eyes are the lightest I’ve ever seen them when they move over my face. “My little doll wants to be wild?”
I nod.
“First of all, you’re holding it like a joint.” He repositions the cigarette between my fingers. “Now inhale, but only a little bit. Let it cool before you inhale.”
I do what he says, and it goes a little smoother this time.
“We won’t be making a habit of this,” he says as fair warning. “But for now, stay just like that.”
I watch him curiously as he rises and takes to another blank canvas, repositioning it so that he can see me. When his intentions occur to me, it makes me nervous.
“Pretend I’m not here,” he says.
It’s an unmanageable task, considering he’s naked. But I find it easier to watch him than to worry about my fears. The way his thighs clench as he tucks a paint brush between his fingers. When his arm sweeps over the canvas, his ass flexes too. I take another inhale, and he pauses to come fix the sheet that’s half covering me. Pulling out my leg and revealing the curve of my hip, he gathers it just beneath my breasts. Now it’s draped over me almost like a toga, and he’s back to his canvas.
He dips his brush into the paint, mixing colors and using techniques that show a skilled hand as he works. It’s a new obsession to watch him this way. The concentration on his face. The artist at work. I can’t look away, and I never want it to end. But inevitably, it does.
He takes a step back, examining his work before he looks at me.
“Are you going to show me?”
He stalks back to our makeshift bed, mounting me with a hard dick that pokes into my belly. We kiss, and he takes me again.
When he comes, his face collapses on my breasts, and I stroke his hair.
“What will you call it?” I ask sleepily.
“Inamorata,” he says.
“I see that you’ve brought the Valentini girl with you this evening.”
Viktor has cornered me on my return from the washroom, and his mood has soured now that the celebrations are winding down.
“Alexei asked me to bring her. It seems his wife is quite fond of her, and he thinks they might do well to become friends.”
“Then she should be here with Mischa,” Viktor says. “It does not look right, you bringing her here like this. In fact, I have tired of this whole charade. My Ana is waiting for your proposal, and I am ready to announce your intentions with her.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell
him. “It was not my intention to disrespect either of you. I thought we had an understanding—”
“Time is up,” Viktor growls. “Do you want to marry my daughter or not?”
I need a cigarette. Or ten. Any answer I may give him won’t be satisfactory. Either way, the consequences will mean paying with my life. It’s either death if refuse, or death if I give in. A life without Nakya is not a life I can imagine. I’m not ready to let her go, which is why my mother’s file still sits unread in my vault at home.
“I would like more time to get to know Ana,” I say. “So that we are both certain it’s the right decision.”
Viktor scoffs. “What else is there to know? She is beautiful, and she was bred for this life. She’ll be loyal and faithful. And most importantly, she is Russian.”
His words serve a purpose. He wants me to know that Ana is everything he thinks Tanaka isn’t. The words of a hypocrite, considering we are here to celebrate the pregnancy of Alexei’s wife. She is not Russian, nor does she have any of the traits that Viktor expects in a wife. But he has given Alexei his blessing. It would seem his good will is not equally distributed after all.
“Ana is very young,” I remark. “I only worry that she will rush into this and regret it later. I want to be certain of her decision.”
Viktor doesn’t answer. Alexei has discovered us lurking in the hall, and he’s coming our way.
“Are the celebrations over so soon?” he asks.
Viktor forces a smile for his benefit. “Of course not. We were just discussing some business, but I assure you, the celebrations will continue.”
Alexei nods, and Viktor slaps him on the shoulder. “You’re going to make an excellent father. Let’s go see about a cigar, shall we?”
Before they leave, Viktor issues his final ultimatum. “One month. No more, Kol’ka. You will have your answers, or you won’t. But either way, you will wed my daughter.”
