Page 104 of Bratva Brother’s Bride

“Something about this painting has always bothered me. Dmitri never let anyone touch it.”

I glance at her as she runs her fingers along the edge of the frame. Her touch is light, though her brow furrows in concentration.

“The staff tried to straighten it once. He nearly broke a maid’s wrist.” She pauses, studying the frame. “It’s crooked. It’s always been crooked. After that, no one dared straighten it again.”

That catches my attention. Dmitri was never particularly concerned with the aesthetics of his home. He left such details to the staff and never gave them a second thought.

Except for this painting.

I stand, moving around the desk to join her. The painting is large, nearly four feet across, and heavy. When I was younger, I used to stare at it during the long hours Dmitri and I spent in this room.

“Let me see,” I say.

Together, we lift the painting off the wall. It’s heavier than I expect, the weight of the frame pulling at my shoulders as we ease it down. Vera steps back while I lean it carefully against the side of the desk.

The spot where it hung is darker than the surrounding wallpaper, the faded outline of its shape clearly visible against the rest of the wall. The pattern of the wallpaper is slightly different here, the colors more muted where years of sunlight have bleached the surrounding areas but left this patch protected.

There, set into the wall behind where the painting hung, is a safe.

I stare at it for a long moment. It’s a Volkonsky Security model. Top of the line, or it had been when our father bought it, back when Dmitri and I were boys.

I recognize it.

Dmitri must have had the damn thing moved here and installed behind the painting after I was exiled.

I remember him bragging about it when we were sixteen, drunk on vodka and his own self-importance.

“Even you couldn’t crack this one, brother. Dad had it made special. It’s unbreakable.”

I’d wanted to punch him then. I want to punch him now, except the bastard is already dead.

“Can you open it?” Vera asks. Her voice is quiet, like she’s afraid to hope.

I crouch down, studying the lock. The biometric scanner is new. Dmitri must have upgraded the safe after he took possession of it, programming the scanner to recognize his fingerprints and his alone.

That won’t help me.

But the keypad is original.

And that I remember.

I think back to that night. Years ago, before the betrayal, before everything fell apart. Dmitri sat slumped in his chair, a glass of vodka in his hand. He was feeling generous, magnanimous. He thought he was untouchable.

“You’ll never guess the code, Roman. It’s something you don’t even remember.”

Except I do remember. I remember the medallion our father gave my mother, the one she wore every day until she died. I found it in her jewelry box after the funeral. On the back was the inscription our father had engraved there in delicate script: Irina, my love. Until the end of time.

Beneath it, a date.

March 15th.

The day he gave it to her.

My hand hovers over the keypad. The numbers glow softly in the dim light of the office, waiting. I input the code: 0315.

For a moment, nothing happens. I can hear Vera’s breath catch beside me.

Then the safe beeps. The lock disengages with a heavy mechanical click, and the door swings slowly outward.