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“Welcome to the party.” Zhanna gestures toward the spectacle with her silver and ebony cane.
Dressed in a beadwork gown, she has cast off the persona of a feeble old woman for tonight. She wishes to be seen at her best, and her elegant presence commands respect among the other Bratva elite also in attendance.
“It’s amazing,” I reply in awe as we climb the steps.
The gala guests are dressed in a whirlwind of sequins, feathers, and extravagant gowns—a sensory overload of creativity and excess.
We wander the upstairs galleries, admiring rare masterpieces. Zhanna walks with purpose, insisting that we must take a look at the massive painting ofLiberty Leading the Peopleby Eugène Delacroix in a private gallery.
Only ten people are permitted to enter at a time, but Nikolai is allowed to bypass the line. The painting looms over the space, cordoned off by velvet ropes with two viewing benches in front of it.
We sit down with Zhanna between us, and she points to the figure of Liberté.
“See the woman at the center of the painting?” Zhanna asks no one in particular. “A figure of freedom, rebellion, and eventually, blood-soaked revolution.”
“Is that why you sought out this particular painting?” Nikolai questions her. “For the history lesson?”
“Partly,” she says cryptically. “It’s important for you to understand that your thoughts will impact the future, Kolya, more so than your actions.” Zhanna points her cane at the painting. “And your thoughts are too much in the past.”
“A dramatic visual to make a point,” he replies tersely. “A point that I’m well aware of.”
“Look at her.” Zhanna shakes her head. “A hero to the peopleshe’sleading but a traitor to the unseen ones that she’s leading them against.” Zhanna’s clear voice echoes in the quietroom. She places her wrinkled hand firmly on my thigh but continues to speak to Nikolai. “You should study this painting closely, Kolya.”
Nikolai stands up and walks the room, preferring the smaller works from the Romantic movement and leaving me alone to speak with Zhanna.
“You remind me of your mother,” Zhanna leans in and speaks softly. “You have the same auburn hair as her, and the dress you wore when we first met was her favorite color and style.”
My heart skips a beat as a shiver strokes my spine. I recall the night Nikolai introduced me to Zhanna and how she scrutinized me with a wide-eyed gaze.Like staring into the face of a ghost, she said.
“You knew my mother?” I ask, reaching for her hand. “What was she like?”
“I met her briefly,” she emphasizes. “But long enough for her to make an impression on me.” Zhanna stares at the painting. “It was obvious why your father risked everything to be with her.”
My fingers clench the delicate fabric of my dress as I brace myself for whatever comes next. “How did you know her?” I ask.
“We crossed paths long before she was your mother,” Zhanna replies enigmatically. “And I see her spirit in you. She was a force to be reckoned with. And I believe in time, so will you.”
As she speaks, I find myself torn between conflicting emotions—pride at the thought of being compared to my mother and guilt for not punishing her murderer. Would she approve of the choice I’ve made? I’m carrying Nikolai’s child, and by the end of the week, I will be his wife.
Would she see it as a betrayal of the sacrifice she made for me?
I glance back at the painting, the defiant figure of Liberté somehow providing a sense of maternal courage. I imagine myself as my mother protecting my child. Perhaps it’s time for me to embrace my own strength, just as my mother did. Deep in my heart, I know she never once doubted her love for my father. Or else I wouldn’t be here.
I speak quietly, but my voice carries. “Will I also share her fate?”
From the corner of my eye, I can see Nikolai’s jaw tightening. But he says nothing.
“I am not an oracle, dear. And you would do well to remember that the Bratva is also your family,” Zhanna replies, then sighs. “It’s not your fault that you were separated from us, Eden Zakharovna.”
The Bratva—notorious for ruthlessness and violence—is my blood and heritage. But so are the Lanzzare, and the thought sends a chill over my skin.
“It’s not fair,” I reply, sitting up straight. “I feel like I’m being forced to choose. That I must either side with my husband or with my parents.”
“Your father made that choice,” Zhanna says softly, her words hanging heavy between us. “And in choosing, it cost him everything. Choices can be dangerous, my dear. Especially choices between two sides that are so alike, yet so determined to find the small differences that separate them.” Her gaze returns to the painting, focusing on Liberté. “What do you think droveherchoice? And what do you think drove the choice for the corpses at her feet?”
The laughter and music fade into a murmur in the background as I try to figure out the meaning of what Zhanna says. Why does she have to be so cryptic? Why can’t she ever just say what sheclearlyknows and wants?
But her words make my eyes focus away from the subject of the painting. And for the first time since arrival, I notice the wide eyes of the men following Liberté—wide, vacant, and fearful. My own gaze travels down to her feet to the pile of corpses, specifically to the man without pants. A tuft of pubic hair peeks from behind his bent leg, and there is an air of violent indignity to the grotesque scene. Suddenly, Liberté’s pose no longer looks triumphant, and her face takes on a new emotion.
