Page 17 of Lethal King

“Perhaps,” I admit. “But that’s all the more reason to keep you away from me and my company.”

Mel’s shoulders drop as she slowly realizes there’s no changing my mind. But she’s not done with me yet.

“Fine. I’ll leave. But only if you let me show you your gift first.”

“Deal.”

Maksim is right. I need to get all this shit off my plate. But I can’t do it all at once. If I want to succeed, I’ll have to take this journey one step at a time until I’ve crushed the entire world beneath my feet.

“Good, because I wasn’t planning on leaving until you saw it,” Mel discloses. “Uncle Maks, help me turn it around.”

Maksim doesn’t hesitate. Juggling the cat in his left arm, he uses his right to help my little sister flip the canvas. The thing must be heavier than it looks, because it takes the aging musclehead a few deep grunts before the painting is properly situated.

It's well worth the wait.

For a moment, I’m awe-struck by what I see. And slightly confused.

I know Mel’s work well. She’s so talented at painting realistic portraits and landscapes that we used to hold family contests to see who could guess which image was her work and which was the photograph she used as inspiration.

But this is different.

This piece is far more abstract. And even though I’m immediately struck by the beauty of it, I can’t help what comes tumbling out of my mouth.

“What is it?”

That’s the wrong thing to say, and I immediately know it. But I don’t get a chance to correct myself.

“It’s you,” Mel pouts.

It only takes that simple hint to illuminate some meaning in the chaos-covered canvas. Sure enough, I can make out flashes of my wild dirty blonde hair jutting across the tarp. Two splashes of ocean blue must be my eyes. That sharp white arrow my jawline. Below that, broad contours melt into a mess of hard lines and freeform figures. Bright colors clash against one another before somehow bleeding perfectly into something new.

“It’s…”

It’s mesmerizing. I just don’t know how to describe it exactly. Art is so far from my comfort zone. Show me a complex computer program or a mysterious line of code and I’m in heaven. But this? Shit, what do I say?

“It’s alright,” Mel sighs. “You don’t have to like it.”

The chatter bubbling up from the lawn below seems to grow as I try to ignore everything except what’s in front of me.

Screw my coronation, my baby sister needs some encouragement.

"No. It’s amazing. I’m just not used to seeing this style from you.”

“I thought I'd try something different for such a special day."

“It’s perfect. Maksim, put it in the throne room on your way out. Call some men if you need help. I want my guests to see my sister’s masterpiece.”

“You really like it?” Mel asks.

“I love it,” I promise.

But I can tell she doesn’t quite believe me. I’m just a simpleton, after all—a brutish mobster with an unusual knack for technology. Nothing in my DNA suggests I could appreciate such abstract beauty. But I do. I’m just finding it impossible to describe how.

“Thanks,” Mel whispers, her shoulders rising and falling in a faint shrug.

Fuck. This day just keeps getting worse.

Just like that, my headache returns with a vengeance.