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That dream died a long time ago. And like all other dreams, it will forever slip from between my fingers like water.
I force my gaze away from the staircase and back to the painting, attempting to find solace in its chaos. But as the sunlight sneaks through the gaps in the curtain to bathe the room in a peaceful glow, my guilt and my past refuse to leave me alone.
Matvei should be here, not me.
I stole his life.
And now I’m being punished for it.
A stillnessfinally takes hold of me as the elevator door slides open. Larissa steps in, an anxious look on her face. But it’s the woman who follows behind that has me rising quickly to my feet.
Zhanna Nikolaeva.
She’s dressed like a little old lady today in a navy suit with a long skirt even though it’s ninety degrees outside. But one look at her frosty stare, and I know that this is no regular social call.
What is she doing here?
It’s rare for her to grace someone else’s home with her presence. It’s usually the other way around. Her presence is like a surreal dream that I can’t comprehend. But more accurately, it’s the start of a long nightmare.
I have a feeling I’m not going to like why she’s here.
“Zdravstvuyte,Madame Nikolaeva.” I hurry to lend her a hand. “This is an unexpected honor.”
“Oh, forget the formalities.” She steps slowly off the elevator into the living room and thumps her carved ebony cane against the floor. “I am still your godmother, Kolya. You are allowed to call mekrestnaya.”
Zhanna’s gaze is sharp as she surveys the penthouse. Her eyes move from piece to piece, but she shows no astonishment at my prized collection. I motion toward the couch, but she wanders away toward a newly acquired De Kooning.
“A person with good tasteandmoney,” she says, picking up a gilded jewelry box from the tsar’s summer palace. “A rarity in our world.”
The intensity of her stare is unnerving, but I refuse to look away.
“Please, have a seat,krestnaya.” I gesture toward the couch, and with the help of her cane, she settles down gracefully. Dressed in a simple denim shirtdress, Larissa remains standing, her posture rigid and stiff.
“You should’ve been an artist, Kolya,” Zhanna comments when she is seated. “You certainly have an eye for it.”
I narrow my eyes at her deliberate choice of words. It’s Zhanna’s most uncanny skill of them all. Somehow, she knows the exact words at the exact time to leave a deep wound that will never heal.
“Unfortunately,” I reply, “my family requires me to be something else.”
Zhanna turns a sardonic look on Larissa. “Is that right,devushka?Is what he’s become what you require?”
Larissa looks at Zhanna and then at me, unsure who she should appease. Her hesitation is her undoing, and Zhanna makes a small dismissive sound as she continues.
“I remember you as a boy when you used to visit my home with poor Tanya,” she says. “All either of us had to do was hand you a pen and paper and you sat quietly for hours, drawing. Amazing drawings. Beautiful ones.”
“It’s kind of you to remember my mother,” I reply, concealing my surprise.What is she playing at?
“And yet.” She peers at me closely, squinting her eyes as if to see me better. “Every day you become a little bit less like her and more like Gennady.”
“I’m not my father,” I reply coldly.
“Nor are you my other godson.” She raps the floor with her cane, sending a loudcrackechoing through the penthouse like a whip. “A shame about your gallery, dear. But Matvei Gennadyevich would’ve never permitted such a transgression to happen in the first place.”
Again, she manages to hurt me so effortlessly with just a few words. I would’ve much preferred that she slap me instead.
Larissa quickly cuts in, as her eyes watch my clenched fist. “Madame Nikolaeva …”
“I’m speaking to your brother, dear.” Zhanna waves Larissa away as if she were a bothersome gnat. “Not you.”
