All of us threw back our shots, knowing it was rude in Russian culture not to down your offering in one swallow. Biba handed the bottle to his soldier, then led us out of the conference room. As I walked in line back down the hallway, I glanced inside one of the open offices and stuttered to a stop. On the floor, leaned against a row of metal filing cabinets, was a painting of three skulls.
It was identical to the piece I watched Sofia painting.
What were the chances? Zero.
A hand shot out, grabbing the doorknob and pulling the door closed. One of Biba’s soldiers narrowed his eyes at me. “I believe you were leaving,” he snapped in warning.
“My apologies,” I offered, turning to catch up with the others.
I only half listened as we said our farewells, then went our separate ways. I started my car and began to drive with no destination in mind.
It couldn’t be. It had to be a coincidence.
The image of Sofia’s panicked face when I told her I’d watched her paint came to mind, and my temples began to throb. Why on earth would Sofia’s painting be at a Russian chop shop? What the fuck had I missed in her life while I’d been gone?
She had known about her family mafia connections all her life, so what other secrets did she have? The fucking Russians? Those assholes were insane. What could she possibly be thinking by associating with them?
My mind was utterly blown.
I needed to figure out what the hell was going on, and I need to know now.
Chapter 18
Sofia
Then
“I’m so ready to get out of my parents’ house. Two whole years until I graduate … I’m never going to make it,” I told Michael in a huff. We had come outside for our lunch on an unusually warm spring day, making ourselves comfortable in a patch of sun on campus grounds.
“Yeah, well, my dad found me this weekend,” he said, pulling a blade of grass and slowly tearing it into pieces.
“He found you? What do you mean he found you? Were you hidden?”
He peered up at me through his thick lashes and smirked. “Sort of. We told everyone my parents had just divorced when I moved out here, but that wasn’t the case. My parents were never married. My dad is a dangerous man. He’s part of the Russian mob, the bratva.”
Despite the warmth of the sun, goose bumps rose along the length of my arms. “Are you joking with me?” My mood had gone so severe, Michael perked up at attention.
His eyes narrowed as he searched my face. “I’m not joking, Sof. I shouldn’t even have told you, but it’s not like I have anyone else to talk to about it.”
“You were on the run from him?”
“Not exactly. If that was the case, we probably would have moved a hell of a lot farther away. A few years ago, my dad made it known he wanted me to follow in his footsteps, and my mom freaked. She made a plan, got us fake papers, and moved us out here. All of her family is in New York, so she didn’t want to go far, but she hoped to keep my dad away from me.”
“Papers—like a new identity? Is your name even Michael?” I gaped, having trouble comprehending what he was telling me. What were the chances the guy who had become my closest friend over the past year was connected to the Russian mob? The Italian and Russian factions didn’t exactly mix, as far as I could tell. I had yet to run into any Russian speakers in my neighborhood of Staten Island.
Michael grinned deviously. “Technically, it’s Mikhail Savin—my mom calls me Misha. Garin is a short form of my grandfather’s name, Gerasim.”
As if telling me his favorite food or his plans for the weekend, Michael had volunteered a deeply personal secret. I was floored. Never in all my years had anyone opened up to me with something so important, trusting me with such sensitive information.
“My dad is an Italia Mafia boss,” I blurted without any hesitation. My eyes grew wide as I realized what I’d done. There was no taking the words back. All those years of keeping the secret to myself, and I let the bomb drop without a second thought. I was completely dumbfounded.
Michael stared at me, then threw back his head in a fit of laughter.
“You’re laughing? I’m not joking!” I hissed at him, slapping his leg.
“I know, that’s why it’s so funny. I could tell you were different than the other paper doll cutouts here, but I had no idea we were such kindred spirits.”
I couldn’t help but grin at his amusement and shake my head. “So glad I have a partner in the Fucked-Up Family Club—or should I say comrade?”
“Oh! Sofia’s got jokes!” he teased, still smiling broadly. “You can use whatever word you want, but I don’t speak Russian.”
“Guess that makes sense—I don’t speak Italian. I take it your mom is Russian?”
“Yeah, but she was born here. So was my dad.”
“Tell me about him,” I said, growing more somber. “What does it mean that he’s found you?”
Michael shrugged, attempting to look nonchalant, but I could sense his unease. “He was pissed at my mom, but he’s not a terrible guy. He’s not going to hurt her or anything. He’s insisting I spend some weekends with him in the city, so I’m not sure exactly what it means. He was never super involved in my life, and I certainly never had contact with his bratva dealings. Your guess is as good as mine.”
“But you’re going to still live here, though, right?” The thought of him leaving terrified me. Not because he’d kept the bullies at bay, but because he was the only person who saw me—saw the real me.
“I’m not going anywhere, Sof. No worries.” He gazed at me, almost sadly. “Mafia, huh. One obstacle after another,” he muttered to himself.
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing, just talking to myself.” He smiled, but I could still see that sadness lurking in his eyes. “Your Nico, did he know about your family?” he asked quietly. It was one of only a handful of times he’d ever brought up Nico in the year we’d been friends, and the mention caught me off guard.
“Ah … no. No one knows. In fact, my family doesn’t know that I know.” My gaze dropped to the ground where I studied the dirt on my shoe.
He was silent, so I dared a peek up. Michael’s eyes were bulging round. “You serious? They didn’t tell you? How on earth did you figure it out?”
“It’s a long story, but my brother was killed when I was young. My parents lied about what had happened. After that, I watched and learned. It wasn’t all that hard when you actually pay attention.”
A sly smile spread across his face. “Atta girl. No pulling the wool over Sofia’s eyes.”
I chuckled, appreciating his ability to lighten the mood. That was how it always was with Michael—effortless. Our friendship came naturally, and even heavy subjects never felt all that burdensome. I wished I could allow him to slip into that hole Nico had left in my heart, but it had been barricaded shut.
I couldn’t do it.
I feared only one man would ever fit into the misshaped organ in my chest, and that man was gone. Fortunately, Michael never took our friendship that route. I wasn’t sure if he sensed my reluctance or if it was for other reasons, but I certainly wasn’t going to bring up the subject and ask. I was just glad I had him in my life and didn’t want to do anything to disrupt that.
***
For two more years, Michael and I maintained our easy friendship. Just to be safe, we kept our relationship under wraps. He didn’t come to my parents’ house and didn’t mention me on trips into the city with his father. The dynamic worked for us, and it wasn’t until the end of our senior year that things unexpectedly changed.
I was lined up to start at Columbia in the fall, and Michael was debating whether to go to work for his father. His mom hated the idea, but she couldn’t do anything about it. The prospect of the bratva hadn’t bothered me all that much. Watching my family all those years, I knew he could live an essentially normal life whether he was in the bratva or out. I was just glad he talked to me about it and included me in
his life, even the darker parts.
As seniors, we were exempt from our last round of finals, so the administration had planned to take us on one last field trip into the city to visit the Met, otherwise known as the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I’d been countless times in my life, but I always enjoyed going. Between the sheer size of the place and the traveling exhibits, there was always something new to see.
The buses were scheduled to leave first thing that Friday morning, but Michael was late to our homeroom class. I texted him, pissed he was going to miss the trip, but never got a response. It wasn’t until we were lining up to get on the bus that he came running over.
“Where the hell have you been?” I fussed at him, punching him in his chest.
Michael winced and stepped back, his shoulders curving in protectively. “Fuck, Sof, that hurt.”
“What are you talking about? I barely touched you. What’s going on?” I might as well have just slapped a bug away, so there was no way it should have hurt.
He recovered quickly, smirking. “I’ll tell you once we’re on the bus.” He motioned for me to hurry on board and then followed me.
I found a seat in the back and waited until the bus began to move before insisting on some answers. “Spill.”
“Demanding today, aren’t we?” Grinning, he turned his body to cage me in against the window, then unbuttoned his uniform dress shirt. Beneath, a gauzy white bandage was adhered to his chest. He slowly peeled back the tape, revealing an intricate tattoo of an angel inked over his entire left pectoral. The angel’s wings curved around her protectively as she sat naked on the ground, her face shielded by her arms.
“It’s absolutely stunning,” I breathed, in awe of the delicate artistry used to create such a beautiful rendering on human skin. Then I remember how I’d punched him. “Oh my God,” I gasped, hands flying to my mouth. “I’m so sorry I hit you! I had no idea.”
“It’s fine, Sof. Look, it’s not even bleeding or anything.”
I studied the tattoo, taking in each fine line and the intricate detail. “Did you just get it last night?”
He nodded sheepishly. “It’s symbolic of being a part of the bratva—a commitment to thievery.”
“Is it official? You joined?” I gaped at him, stunned he would take that step without saying something to me first.
“Not quite,” he said, resetting the patch over his healing skin. “No matter if I officially join their ranks, the bratva will always be a part of my life because of my father.”
I nodded in perfect understanding. When something like that touched your life, there was no escaping it. Whether in small ways like fearing the police, or in a more concrete fashion like hoarding money and carrying weapons. The mentality of a criminal bled into your subconscious, changing the way you thought.
“Did you show your mom?” She hated that he was involved with the bratva in any way.
His lips thinned, eyes hardening. “No. I know what her response will be, and I don’t feel like fighting with her. That’s just about all we do anymore. I hate it. I know she wants the best for me, but I just don’t see myself in an office job working an eight-to-five for the rest of my life. That’s just not me.”
“You could play piano or do something else legitimate that isn’t a standard job. That way you and your mom could both be happy.”
“I could,” he conceded, eyes drifting out the window. “There’s still time to decide what I’m doing long-term. Despite my mom’s beliefs otherwise, my dad isn’t forcing me into anything.”
“I wish I could say the same. I’m not sure what four years at college is going to do for me when all I want to do is paint for a living, but Dad doesn’t see it that way. He’s adamant that I attend college. At least he’s letting me study art rather than forcing me to get some boring business degree.”
“Hey, it’s four more years that you get to dick around before you have to be an adult. I think that sounds like a sweet gig.”
I raised a brow at him. “The same could be said for you. Why don’t you go to school with me? Your grades are plenty good to get in.”
“And pay them ungodly amounts of money just to sit in a classroom?” He gaped at me. “Hell, no.”
“But there’s no problem with me doing that?”
“Not when your dad wants to give them the money. It’s not like he doesn’t have the spare cash.”
“Is that why you haven’t planned to go to college? Is it the money?” His mom didn’t have much money, but surely, his dad would help him go if it was important to him.
“Nah, it’s just not me. I don’t want to go, so there’s no reason to throw the money away. But if you hit up any good college parties, you be sure to give me a call.” He waggled his brows, making me snort with laughter.
We talked about our plans for the final weeks of school until the bus pulled up to the enormous stone museum. As seniors, we were given the leeway to wander the building on our own under strict instruction to return at the designated time. I dragged Michael off toward the modern and contemporary art wing—my favorite portion of the museum. The current exhibit was ultra-contemporary abstract art.
Not what I’d been hoping for.
Taking a detour, I led Michael to the adjacent collection of 19th and early 20th century European art, paying special attention to the post-impressionism pieces. They had a beautiful work by van Gogh called Cypresses that I took in for several long minutes.
“I’ve seen your work. You paint just as well as any of these people,” muttered Michael with his eyes glued to his phone. Not as in tune to the art world, he had been busier playing a game on his phone than enjoying the exhibits.
“That’s the plan. I want to sell my art for a living someday, but it’s not an easy field to get into. Most of these artists died in poverty, their work only appreciated after their death,” I mused, still lost in the swirling brushstrokes of van Gogh’s piece.
“If they’re so famous and too dead to enjoy it, you should just put their name on your work. It’s not like schmucks on the street would know the difference.” His head was down, oblivious of the impact his words had made until he glanced up and saw my wide eyes. “It was a joke, Sofia.”
“My parents will be in the city tomorrow. I need you to come over so I can show you something.”
Michael’s eyes narrowed a fraction, and the corners of his lips twitched up. “What have you been hiding, naughty girl?”
“I’m not hiding anything! I just want to show you something. Don’t be absurd.” I grabbed his sleeve and tugged him on to the next exhibit, which was our general pattern for the rest of the day.
The following morning, I ushered Michael through the side door at my house, hoping no one would look at the security cameras stationed around our property. It was the first time he’d been to my house, and it was odd having him there.
“Great place. Very Mediterranean. Guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“Yeah, yeah. Follow me.” I led him back to my studio, which was a mess of art supplies and canvases. As it was isolated at the far end of the house and a total disaster area, no one ventured back there but me. It was my sanctuary. I loved everything about the well-lit space.
I flipped through a pile of canvases leaned against the wall, pulling out the one I was looking for and placing it on an unoccupied easel. Michael and I both stared at the piece—the depiction of a European farming community situated beneath a mountain. Before he said a word, I handed him a rolled-up poster I pulled from beneath my supply table.
Unrolling it, he held the poster up, peering closely at the image, then back at my canvas. He searched and analyzed, comparing the two pieces. “This is remarkable,” he said on a breath, never taking his eyes from his task. Finally, he lowered the poster and turned to me, his face as impassive as I’d ever seen it. “Sofia, I need to know why you showed me this.”
I chewed on my lip, uncertain what I wanted to say. I hadn’t been totally sure why I’d showed him what
I’d done. Pride? To some extent. But it was also invigorating. There was a thrill in knowing I’d so masterfully copied a great work of art. “At the museum, you said I should put their names on my art. What if … I did? What if I made copies of famous artwork?”
“I think you’d be a very talented, very rich young woman, but is that what you really want?”
“One day, I was at a museum and had the same revelation you had yesterday. I can paint just as well as these other people. I came home with my poster and painted. Copying the detail, using aging techniques and specialized paints—it was the most exhilarating thing I’d ever done. I want to sell my own original pieces as well, but the thrill of creating this—I can’t imagine topping it. I’d already been thinking about what piece I could do next.”
“Are you saying, if I could find a buyer, you’d be interested in selling this work as an original Cézanne? There would be consequences if it were ever traced back to you. Surely, you understand that.” He searched my features warily, trying to judge my willingness of conviction.
“The appealing part of it—the challenge—isn’t in simply painting the piece. The satisfaction comes from successfully passing it off as the original. What’s the point if it just sits in my closet? I want to know that I’ve created the ultimate forgery able to fool anyone who looks at it.” My voice thrummed with excitement. “It’s just like you said. This world becomes a part of us. The secrets and lies are in our blood. As much as I hate that my family has kept their secrets from me, I can’t help but delight in having secrets of my own. Call me a hypocrite, I don’t really care.” I smiled at Michael, who happened to be one of those very secrets.
He took in the glint in my eye and smiled mischievously. “In that case, I think this could be the start of a beautiful arrangement. I’ll talk to my father and see who he knows.”
Never Truth Amazon Page 15
