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Oskar doesn't waste any time. With a respectful nod, he hands me a delicately folded envelope. I can feel the warmth of her touch on it—a warmth that seems to reach out and seep through my very skin. But it’s not just the letter he’s holding on to.
"Sir, there's something else," Oskar says, hesitating just a fraction.
"Go on," I urge him, my tone firm yet not unkind.
"Mariya is... well, she's managing," he begins, choosing his words with care. "But there's a certain melancholy in her eyes. She's been asking about her sister."
A flood of memories washes over me. I remember that wedding all too well. The grandeur, the extravagant display of affluence and power. But amidst the splendor, a pair of eyes had captured my attention—Mariya’s, so out of place, so full of fire and defiance even then. A contrast to the gaiety around her; even then, she seemed like a caged bird longing for the open sky.
"It’s Helena, yes?" I muse aloud, connecting the dots. Helena, Mariya’s older sister, was married off to Maksym, one of our lower-ranking lieutenants. It was an alliance, as these things usually are. Though it’s been years, the memory of Mariya’s grace, her barely concealed contempt for the pomp and circumstance, is as fresh as if it were yesterday.
Oskar nods. "Yes, sir. Mariya has been inquiring if it would be possible for her to see Helena again. Even if just for a short visit."
There's an implicit question in Oskar's eyes, one that goes beyond Mariya's well-being. Should I allow it? Would I risk exposing her to potential allies or enemies outside the protective cocoon I’ve created for her?
Taking a deep breath, I tuck Mariya’s new letter into my coat pocket. My fingers graze the soft paper, the texture comforting, reminding me of the delicate balance I'm treading.
"I'll consider it," I reply, my voice contemplative. A storm of thoughts swirls in the depths of my mind.
As I step into the mansion, my thoughts drift back to that evening: the gold and silver hues of the vast ballroom, the intricate lace and beading of the dresses, the clinking of glasses, and the muffled conversations all blur into a distant haze. But one memory stands out in stark clarity, untouched by the sands of time—Mariya.
Amidst the sea of faces and the glow of chandeliers, she emerged like a vision, though she never glanced my way. Her dress, a deep shade of emerald, complemented the fiery determination in her eyes. There was a grace to her movements, a subtle rebellion in her stride that spoke of an untamed spirit. I was captivated and fascinated by her raw magnetism.
Her laughter was like a symphony, light yet tinged with melancholy, revealing glimpses of a soul much deeper than her young age might suggest. I remember watching her from afar, drawn to her like a moth to a flame, finding excuses to linger near her, to catch fragments of her conversations, hoping for even a fleeting moment of a shared gaze.
The irony isn't lost on me. Had the roles been reversed, had we met in another life, another setting free from the chains of duty and expectation, would our paths have ever converged? The idea of us devoid of the Bratva’s shadow is a tantalizing one. I wonder if I would have had the courage to approach her and whether she would’ve welcomed my advances or rejected them. Would we have danced under the starlit sky, our fingers intertwined, sharing whispered promises?
Fate, however, with its twisted sense of humor, had other plans. Instead of a tale of love freely given, our narrative was written in the ink of obligation and duty. The shackles of Bratva politics and tradition dictated our union, taking away the choice, the spontaneity, and the joy of discovery.
A heavy sigh escapes my lips. The weight of what could have been versus what is presses down on me. As much as I long to rewrite our story, I'm all too aware of the confines that surround us—both of our making and circumstances beyond our control.
Drawing myself back to the present, I unfold Mariya’s letter, searching for any sign, any hint of a bridge between our worlds. In this game of fate, perhaps there's a chance for us to find a middle ground.
I peel back the seal, feeling the textured paper slide between my fingers. Her handwriting dances across the page, each curve and line like a silent song sung to me from afar.
Dear Damien,
I’ve recently found my days filled with idle fantasies. Much to my surprise, you tend to feature heavily in them. Are you the fierce, towering figure my imagination paints, draped in shadow with danger lurking in your eyes? Perhaps you're the dashing prince I'd read about in fairy tales, with courage and kindness in equal measure.
Then there are the darker days when I find a rebellious streak rising. On those days, I imagine you as some grotesque fusion of rodent and swine, a truly comical caricature of a man. It's amusing, really. I find myself chuckling, even in my frustration.
Will I ever get to see the face behind these letters? Or should I let my imagination paint its own portrait, however flattering or absurd it might be?
Eagerly awaiting and always curious,
Mariya
I exhale slowly, taken aback by the playful candor she’s exhibited. The juxtaposition between her genuine longing and her humor is impossible to ignore. I feel a familiar warmth in my chest, a feeling that has become increasingly frequent since our letter writing began. It’s intriguing, this connection that we’re forging through words alone.
"Oskar," I call out, catching him just before he is about to leave. "Have some flowers sent to her. She mentioned them once. I think she’d appreciate it."
Oskar nods, making a mental note. "I'll see to it."
The cool night air drifts in, carrying with it the scent of rain. It feels like change is on the horizon. A good change, if I dare to hope.
As thoughts of Mariya linger, I can’t help but find myself smiling.
Chapter 7
