Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 54103 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 271(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54103 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 271(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
"Sienna has forwarded a digital image of the portrait. She applied the finishing touches last night. She's made you seem very..."
My mother pauses. I mentally supply the descriptors.
Sinister. Angry. Predatory.
"Youthful," Mother concludes, surprising me. “She gave you a roguish sort of smile and a certain light in your eyes—perhaps that's how she perceives you, hmm?"
"Mother, you need to abandon this matchmaking endeavor."
"She's the one who interpreted you that way."
"I mean it. It's finished."
"Why are you determined to spoil my fun?"
I toss the baseball hard. "Yesterday, Sienna told me something devastating about her mother. Without divulging specifics, let's just say she lost a family member during the war."
Mother gasps but remains silent. She won't discuss the Bratva-mob conflict openly on the phone. But we both know how much people lost. We both recognize it provides people with legitimate reasons to despise organized crime—as if additional justification were needed.
But I'm different, aren't I? Better than Father, than Luka.
"People are complicated," Mother says after a long pause.
"This isn't. Her hatred for..." The mob. Us. "And I don't fault her for it."
"But certain situations are nuances," Mother counters.
"Why does this matter so much? You said yourself the portrait is good."
"It exceeds mere quality. It's... aspirational. Artist's dream of producing work of this caliber, and she accomplished it within an afternoon and evening."
"Is she truly that gifted?" I inquire.
"She strikes me as someone who has invested far beyond their ten thousand hours. I want her to create more."
"She informed me she’s too busy for additional commissions. You have to let it go."
"I can’t," Mother insists. "This started as a little matchmaking project, but Nico, it has transformed into something else entirely. I believe I've discovered genuine talent. I believe I've discovered... the one."
I groan, throwing the ball with increased intensity. My palm throbs. "The gallery."
"My dream gallery," she confirms.
She's always dreamed of opening a gallery of her own. But she never found 'the one'—the perfect artist with the ideal vision to headline the grand opening. She nurtures numerous such aspirations: a gallery, a fashion exhibition, mastering Russian to 'experience the great novels in their original form.' At least the latter ambition resulted in our mutual fluency before our encounters with the Bratva.
"I'll commission portraits of our family, my associates, objects, sources of inspiration... perhaps one or two additional renderings of you."
"Mother—"
"Perhaps," she interjects. "But she'll have abundant projects, so it might not occur for some time."
"She might decline altogether," I point out.
"I'll compensate her exceptionally well. She can even retain rights to the paintings and sketches if she wishes to sell prints at my event."
"It might not be about the money for her."
It might be about me specifically. The hatred. The resentment. The electricity she experienced when we touched—must have experienced, because it coursed through me like wildfire. She likely resents that attraction now, having allowed herself to feel it with a mob boss.
"You're correct. It’s not about money. It's about vision. Her painting reveals someone with extraordinary vision—with tremendous ambition. She'll embrace this opportunity because she's an artist."
"You've deduced all this from a single portrait."
"I would discern this merely by examining how she's captured the sparkle in your eyes. It's as though they contain genuine vitality."
"Whereas in reality, I'm a dead-eyed psychopath," I remark dryly.
"It's refreshing to see you happy."
"Even if only in artistic representation."
She sighs.
"If you do this, Mother, I want her to be kept safe. You understand my meaning."
Mother will use her security personnel to ensure her protection. I refuse to let her become collateral in this lifestyle. Though violence has diminished recently, we remain perpetually prepared to assert dominance when necessary.
"Yes, yes, naturally. You worry too much."
"Perhaps you're right. I worry you don't worry enough."
"So, do I have your blessing to contact her?"
"I wouldn't characterize it as my 'blessing,' but the decision belongs to her, not me."
I could add that I want to see her again, despite recognizing it may not serve either of our best interests. After our near kiss, that intimate contact, I maintained silence. We parted awkwardly, avoiding eye contact. She clearly intended to establish that nothing would develop between us, yet I sensed her desire in those fleeting glances, those momentary lapses in her defenses.
We'd share that scorching connection before she remembered—before she withdrew again. Or attempted to.
I work for a while before receiving Adrian's call.
"Hey, Nico, how you doing, my man?"
My cousin's enthusiasm sounds forced. He exhibited the same forced cheerfulness when I appointed him as my consigliere. I explained it was because we'd observed his management of my uncle's businesses following my uncle's demise. We withheld that we required closer scrutiny of him—of his loyalty.
When I informed him, he grinned and hugged me. "I thought you were going to operate solo forever."
"I believe it's time I accepted some help," I’d replied.
If he demonstrates loyalty, he'll maintain his position as my public consigliere, and I'll expand my territory. If not, then...