I didn't gasp like a country bumpkin. Actually, I was screaming inside. But this wasn't the time for screaming. I calmly pulled out my slightly worn Moleskine notebook from my bag and uncapped the pen.
This was a writer's instinct entering a new material goldmine.
"Rococo arches... massive black walnut staircase... servants' uniforms are charcoal gray..." I walked while muttering quietly, pen flying across the pages.
Nikolai caught my actions from the corner of his eye but said nothing, just slowed his pace slightly.
We passed through a long corridor hung with classical oil paintings. When we reached an enormous stained glass window depicting some religious myth in brilliant colors, I couldn't helpstopping and looking up at the light fractured into rainbow patterns.
"Incredible..." I let out a soft exclamation.
I thought with his sharp tongue, he'd definitely mock my unsophisticated yokel reaction. I was already preparing my comeback.
But Nikolai just stopped beside me and glanced at the stained glass.
"Everyone sees different things in this world, Vivienne." His voice was flat, without that superior arrogance, carrying instead a kind of weathered calm. "It's just sand that's been melted at high temperature and reshaped. Nothing special. You're the one who gives it meaning."
I froze.
I turned and looked at his cold profile with some shock. I swallowed and wrote his words verbatim in my notebook. "Just reshaped sand"—my mob Pakhan prototype occasionally dropped philosophical lines like this.
We continued forward.
At the end of the corridor was an extremely heavy double oak door with a two-headed eagle emblem as the brass handle.
Out of writerly curiosity, I instinctively reached out as I passed the door, wanting to experimentally press that exquisite-looking handle.
"That's not on the tour."
Nikolai's low voice, carrying a warning edge, came from behind me without warning.
My outstretched fingers stopped less than one inch from the handle.
"Oh, of course." I withdrew my hand nonchalantly, even naturally tucked back a stray hair by my temple, then right in front of him drew a huge question mark in my notebook.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Nikolai press his brow.
But whatever.
God knows he promised me mafia material.
No taking it back now.
When we reached the central courtyard garden, a gardener pushing a lawnmower passed by and stopped Nikolaito say something. His tool accidentally brushed Nikolai's suit sleeve, smearing a huge mud stain on it.
God.
I instinctively held my breath.
How did it go in the movies? Mob boss pulls out a gun and shoots his subordinate for dirtying his clothes?
My heart pounded from this bloody imagination.
But Nikolai didn't lose his temper at all.
He didn't even frown. He just glanced down at his ruined cuff and casually waved his hand, signaling the gardener to continue.
Sophia immediately stepped forward to help Nikolai out of his jacket, saying with practiced efficiency, "I'll fetch you a fresh jacket, sir."
