Page 43 of Mafia King’s Dangerous Vow

“That one,” she’d said.

I’d told her it was too loud.

She’d smiled. “Exactly.”

Then she made them record the provenance as a gift from her to me, because Elena had always understood the cruelty of objects outliving people.

“You need beauty in your life, Aleks.”

I promised her I would keep it where I could see it.

I kept that promise.

Until now.

“Aleksander.”

Tamara says my name. I look at her. She swallows. “I’m sorry.”

I know she is. That’s the difficult part.

If she were careless, I would know what to do with this. If she were cruel, if she’d done it to wound me, if she’d looked at the damage and shrugged the way people in our world shrug when something irreplaceable breaks—but she looks horrified. She keeps checking the torn corner, then me, as if measuring the shape of what she damaged.

“I was trying to straighten it,” she says. “The bracket slipped. I grabbed for it, and it hit the marble. I didn’t—” She stops. “I didn’t know.”

No. Of course she didn’t.

That doesn’t make the tear disappear.

I step closer to the painting, not her. The damage is containable. A conservator can stabilize it, maybe repair most of it. The canvas is not ruined.

That does not help.

“I’ll fix it,” she says quickly. “I’ll find someone. I know restoration specialists. I can call⁠—”

“Stop.”

She does.

I lift a hand toward the frame, then lower it. My fingers stop an inch short. I don’t trust myself to touch it yet.

“It was a gift,” I say. “From Elena.”

Something in her face tells me Mikhail already gave her the name.

“My wife,” I add. “My late wife.”

Tamara doesn’t move.

“I’m sorry,” she says again, but softer now. The reflex gone out of it. More grief.

I turn away from the painting.

She is still standing there in my living room, wearing the expression of someone who has accidentally stepped into a room full of bones.

“You didn’t know,” I say.

“No.” Her eyes shine, but she doesn’t cry. “But I should’ve been more careful.”