Page 42 of Mafia King’s Dangerous Vow

I catch it.

Barely.

But catching it means turning with it, and as I bring it down, the lower edge of the canvas catches on the marble surround. A soft, delicate sound follows, and a split opens through the lower corner. The paint around it crackles faintly.

I end up standing in the middle of the room with the painting in my hands and no way to undo the sound it made.

The rip is not large. Still instantly awful.

Nobody moves, which makes the tear seem louder. Mikhail sets his wineglass down on the nearest surface.

When I look at him, the amusement is completely gone.

“I’m going to hang it back up,” I say. My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “It’ll be fine.”

It is not fine.

One bracket is broken. The painting won’t settle back onto the wall. It lists, slips, catches, then tilts again.

I’m still holding the lower edge when the elevator dings softly behind us.

Footsteps.

I turn just as Aleksander walks into the apartment.

He stops.

He sees everything in the order I wish he wouldn’t.

Me.

The crooked frame.

The torn canvas.

And for the first time since I met him, Aleksander Sokolov has no face left to put over what he feels.

13

MAKE IT LIVABLE. (ALEKSANDER)

Mikhail opens his mouth, probably to take the blame.

“Out,” I say.

He moves before I finish the word. For once, he doesn’t argue. He sees the painting, sees Tamara beneath it, and chooses survival.

Tamara stands in the living room with both hands lifted slightly in front of her, like she’s afraid to touch anything else.

Her face has gone pale. The wine is gone from her expression, burned clean by shock.

Behind her, the Kandinsky hangs crooked. Near the lower edge, a tear cuts through the painted surface. Not large. Not catastrophic to anyone else. Still enough.

I know what to do with blood, threats, men reaching for weapons. I have no idea what to do with this.

Elena bought that painting three months before she died.

She was already thin by then. Too thin. Angry when I carried her too carefully. Angrier when I pretended I wasn’t scared to let go of her hand. The gallery had been private, discreet, the kind of place that didn’t put prices on walls because asking was its own disqualification. I remember her sitting in a velvet chair with a blanket over her knees, skin almost translucent, eyes still bright with that impossible stubbornness.